Examinations of the Practicality of Objectivism & Other Writings
I am a college-educated young man. This is an entirely self-indulgent blog that you will possibly find very interesting. I briefly considered titling this thing "Honest to Blog?," but I figured that would be far too contemporary. Seeing it the first few times would be kind of charming, but it would just get really obnoxious soon after. My hopes for writing this is to eventually have people pay me to read it, or to write it. Either/or.
"Connoisseur" is too strong, but I do consider myself an admirer of food. I hold it in reverence, appreciating its nutritional, gastronomical, and flavorful worth.
And as it were, I have an ongoing fascination with extravagantly high-priced "super-foods." I have sampled a few, like saffron, which is the most expensive spice in the world. Relatively speaking, it's worth more than gold. Depending on the market -- and depending on how hungry people are, I suppose -- prices range anywhere from $50 - $80 an ounce. A lot of that cost is a consequence of harvesting, a labor intensive job that takes something incalculable like 80,000 flower stigmas needed to produce one paltry pound. From pictures I have seen, overworked and undereducated workers hand-pluck these flowers in far off, foreign fields that are strikingly verdant; similarly, saffron-infused paella is equally vibrant, a distinctive hue of yellow that almost glows. Overall, the taste is a little subtle (which doesn't necessarily carry a negative connotation), but sometimes borders on the muted (which carries a decidedly more negative connotation). Perhaps my palette isn't as refined as I like to think it is, but I worry that saffron might be little more than fancy food-coloring. I'm sure I would miss it if it were gone, I just don't know if I would miss it dearly. In the case of paella, I think the make-or-break factors are the freshness of the seafood, or adding just enough chicken stock, or not overcooking or undercooking the rice. It seems like saffron might be a very expensive afterthought, but I'm happy to know what it tastes like.
I've also had caviar, most likely the poster child of high-end, "designer" food. It carries an authority, a reputation. Caviar is rich; it lives in a gated community, it pays for tennis lessons, it has an excellent 401k plan, it sends its children to private school, it attends black tie events that raises money for orphans in Africa. Again, harvesting is a process: breed and nurture the sturgeon in specialized farms, closely monitor their pregnancy, gut them when they're ready to burst, then package their babies. Depending on what quality you try -- I'm assuming everything I've eaten ranges from average to slightly below -- there may or may not be an overtly fishy taste. More than anything, it'll taste salty; not unpleasantly so, but salty. The appeal, I think, is not so much the taste but the texture and mouth feel. I've heard some people liken it to little balls of Jell-O, which isn't quite right. Caviar has a little more resiliency than that, it fights back a bit. So tiny beads of tapioca would be a more appropriate comparison. They kind of pop in your mouth, which is a little fun, using your tongue to push them against the roof of your mouth. It's not as life-changing as some food elitists make it out to be, but like the saffron, I feel all the better having eaten it.
While in Japan, I've treated myself to Kobe beef. It's the fabled cut of meat from Waygu cattle. Intricately marbled with fat, its exceptionally juicy and unctuous. Ranchers achieve this higher quality of beef via its unorthodox method of raising the animal: they serve them sake and beer; feed them only top notch grain; brush their fur to a beautiful sheen; and give them daily massages that, presumably, lessen stiffness and muscle tension, resulting in tender steaks. At $300/lb, I'm not necessarily sure it's that much better than our good old fashioned domestic cows here in the States, but it is delicious...almost creamy. I had the tenderloin cut into thick medalions; it was cooked rare, the surface of the meat just barely licked by the flames of the grill. It lay on top of a bed of greens and underneath a sauce that I can't exactly recall. It was a great culinary experience, but I think the geographical experience of actually being in Japan was of more importance to me.
I've never tried Foie gras, but I know all about it. A duck (or goose) is kept in a tiny wire cage as a long metal tube is thrust down its throat, force-feeding it cornmeal several times a day. The bird continues to eat and eat until its liver becomes fatty and diseased, swelling over 10 times its normal size. The duck (or goose) is then put out of its bloated misery, slain for its engorged liver. This reminds me of the 3rd circle of Hell in Dante's Inferno. Because of their sins of a lifetime of over-gorging, the gluttons serve their punishment here, forced to eat mud and dirt for the rest of their damned existence. Somehow I think the duck's (or geese's) suffering is less poetic (and more cruel), but that wouldn't necessarily keep me from eating it.
But more than anything -- absolutely more than anything -- I want to try a truffle. They are fungi and they are precious. Pigs are used to hunt them, sniffing along the terrain in the mossy, foggy forests of Italy and France -- I can practically smell the heavy dew in the air. It all sounds so mystical and mythological. They seem so other-worldly, like something not of this time nor this dimension. I can imagine Hobbits feasting on them during their journey to Mount Doom, giving them the required nourishment to destroy Sauron's ring. It's the only food I can think of that is actually scoured for. I know food that is killed, produced, grown, and harvested, but definitely not scoured. They're worth $500 a pound. They often shave it into risotto, or on top of pasta. They look like little black clumps of coal that are the size of a clenched fist, ranging from the size of an infant's to an adult's. I want to know what all the hype is about, but interestingly, all online searches tend to be equally vague and inconclusive. According to Yahoo! Answers, the taste of truffles are "hard to define," "an acquired taste," and "unique," but I think that's kind of a cop out. It's like a non-answer. It's the type of response that leads me to believe these are people who don't know how to fully articulate their thoughts or, more likely, they've never actually tried a truffle and are just full of it. Most things taste like things -- fish tastes light and delicate, onion taste sweet and earthy, honey dew tastes clean and nectarous, Cheetos taste processed and artificial. So what do truffles taste like? I've heard some TV chefs describe it as a flavor similar to mushroom, which makes enough sense considering they're both fungus. And make no mistake, I love mushrooms. Regular white button, portobello, baby portabella, chantrelles, oyster, straw, cremini, morels -- they're delicious. But even if truffles tasted like the most intense, most exquisite mushroom ever, I still have a hard time believing that they're as good as we've been led to believe. Perhaps its legend precedes its flavor. I must eat it, though.
The Spring semester has started, so I'm busy again. My blog updates will be infrequent, but they will happen. I'm still making witty societal observations on a fairly regular basis, I just don't have enough time to immediately write them out.
It would be appreciated if you tried to wait it out.
The Miami Dolphins are in the playoffs for the first time since I was a sophomore in high school. From then until now, that's a driver's test; prom; graduation; buying a car; finding oneself; re-inventing oneself; going to college, switching majors; watching seasons 1-3 of Arrested Development; earning a Bachelor's degree; teaching college. That's not quite a lifetime, but it is a youth. My adolescence, young adulthood, and then full-blown adulthood have been spent waiting for my hometown team to make the playoffs again. It's astonishing to quantify it that way, really taking inventory of all the lost time. Sixteen to twenty-four -- this is generally considered to be life's best years. And, somehow, the Dolphins were not a part of my best years at all. This is made even more extraordinary as it seems like even the most hopeless and woebegone teams accidentally make the playoffs from time to time. I grew up, but the Dolphins remained stagnant. And even that's being kind; to be more accurate, they regressed. I improved as a person during this time span -- becoming smarter, more experienced, more worldly -- but the Dolphins became smaller, slower, less talented. I was going one way, they were going the other. They won a single, solitary game last season, and that was only because we managed to be slightly less incompetent than the opposition on that given day. We had become inconceivably bad for an immeasurable amount of time.
And this is why I'm so happy now.
The Miami Dolphins ended the season at 11-5, won the AFC East division, and are hosting a playoff game against the Baltimore Ravens this Sunday. This is our first postseason appearance since 2002.
It's a euphoric happiness, bordering on lightheaded giddiness. I almost want to squeal -- not so much like a pig, maybe more like a girl. There's less reason to brood; things are well. It's not that all of my other worries and concerns are forgotten, they've just been put off for a later time. I feel great and I am thankful.
There are a lot of contributing factors to this season's turnaround:
On the defensive line, Nose Tackle Jason Ferguson has provided everything we needed from him: size, strength, and immobility. Rookies bookends Kendall Langford and Philip Merling look like the future. Randy Starks has been a plesant free agent surprise.
In the middle of the field, Matt Roth has been a pleasant surprise switching from an overmatched Defensive End to a suddenly-solid Outside Linebacker. Joey Porter has been a maniac all season; if DeMarcus Ware and James Harrison didn't exist, he would be the NFL's Defensive Player of the Year. Channing Crowder has been adaquete; he doesn't create any game-changing plays and he often takes the wrong angle on running plays, but I sense that his leadership skills and locker room presence are invalauble to the well being of this team.
In our secondary, Will Allen and Andre Goodman have absolutely blanketed the field, covering and swatting and batting and intercepting anything their general vicinity. Renaldo Hill still has hands of stone and couldn't catch a cold, but he's a very cerebral player, always aware of everything that's going on around him. And I don't even have to look up the stats since I'm sure Yeremiah Bell still leads the team in tackles. Going into the season, most agreed that this was our absolute worst group. They looked clueless. But they managed to get their acts together, transforming not just into a good-enough unit but a formidable group of Defensive Backs.
On the offensive line, 1st overall pick Jake Long hasn't always been dominant, but he has been dependably steady. Justin Smiley was the perfect veteran anchor. Vernon Carey hasn't manhandled the opponent the way he could or should have, but he's proven to be a quality Right Tackle.
In our backfield, Ronnie Brown and Ricky Williams are arguably the best Running Back duos in the entire league. They should have ended the season with more yards and touchdowns, but their combination of size, speed, and strength are nearly unmatched.
Among our Wide Receivers, they haven't been All-World, but they've been boundlessly better than anyone could have imagined. Ted Ginn Jr., with all of that blinding foot speed, is starting to catch on. Before getting hurt, Greg Camarillo had been an inspiration. He has almost no phyiscal talent to speak of, yet gets by on sheer will. Davone Bess has been an absolute revelation -- sure hands, quick feet, expert route-running. We're very lucky to have him. Even Brandon London, he of the long arms and long legs, looks like a future contributor.
Between our Tight Ends, Anthony Fasano and David Martin, we have two big, strong, athletic targets. They can block, run, attributes -- you can often find at least two of these attributes in a tight end, but rarely all three.
And under center, of course, is Chad Pennington. He's been the best quarterback in Miami since Dan Marino...and Marino retired a long decade ago. Getting over his oft-reported lack of arm strength, he's otherwise flawless. Pin-point accuracy, protects the ball, high level of awareness, strong leadership abilities, good teammate -- just about flawless.
And all of this excitement over tomorrow's game is yet another reminder, in a long list of similar reminders, of a particularly interesting facet of my personality: deep down, I'm kind of a Jock-Bro. Now, I don't maintain all of the typical character traits; I don't wear backwards baseball caps, I don't lift weights and drink protein shakes, I don't pay classmates to do my homework, I don't make a habit of using the synonyms "brew" for beer or "bros" for friends, and I don't date-rape people. But all of that notwithstanding, I love sports. It's one of my favorite things. I enjoy watching them and playing them. All off the top of my head, I know who won the the 1997 NCAA Men's Basketball championship (Arizona), what school Ki-Jana Carter attended (Penn State), the 7th leading scorer in NBA history (Hakeem Olajuwon), and Rick Mirer's Seattle Seahawks jersey number (#3). Organized competition, to me, serves as one of the main objectives of life. Everything always boils down to winning and losing. Beating my peers -- and not just beating, but publically and thouroughly shaming them -- is a prevailing reason I get up in the morning, and for those who don't share that sentiment, I wonder exactly what motivates them to even bother with anything.
So obviously, I have some of that Jock-Bro disposition in me. I have the potential. Maybe in another lifetime, or maybe even in this lifetime, if a few things had developed differently. If I didn't learn to love reading so much, if I were less analytical and more instinctual, or if I would've grown a little taller, maybe I would be a completely different person today. I don't think I would actually be a professional athlete (as that would be a stretch for even the most active imagination), but who knows, it's within the realm of possibility that I could've turned out to be someone who likes tailgating, pep rallies, and Hollister. One of those people. Y'know, unlikeable.
"Connoisseur" is a bit strong, but I do consider myself an admirer of food. I hold it in reverence, appreciating its nutritional, gastronomical, and flavorful worth.
And as it were, I have an ongoing fascination with extravagantly high-priced "super-foods." I have sampled a few, like saffron, which is the most expensive spice in the world. Relatively speaking, it's worth more than gold. Depending on the market -- and depending on how hungry people are, I suppose -- prices range anywhere from $50 - $80 an ounce. A lot of that cost is a consequence of harvesting, a labor intensive job that takes something incalculable like 80,000 flower stigmas needed to produce one paltry pound. From pictures I have seen, overworked and undereducated workers hand-pluck these flowers in far off, foreign fields that are strikingly verdant; similarly, saffron-infused paella is equally vibrant, a distinctive hue of yellow that almost glows. Overall, the taste is a little subtle (which doesn't necessarily carry a negative connotation), but sometimes borders on the muted (which carries a decidedly more negative connotation). Perhaps my palette isn't as refined as I like to think it is, but I worry that saffron might be little more than fancy food-coloring. I'm sure I would miss it if it were gone, I just don't know if I would miss it dearly. In the case of paella, I think the make-or-break factors are the freshness of the seafood, or adding just enough chicken stock, or not overcooking or undercooking the rice. It seems like saffron might be a very expensive afterthought, but I'm happy to know what it tastes like.
I've also had caviar, most likely the poster child of high-end, "designer" food. It carries an authority, a reputation. Caviar is rich; it lives in a gated community, it pays for tennis lessons, it has an excellent 401k plan, it sends its children to private school, it attends black tie events that raises money for orphans in Africa. Again, harvesting is a process: breed and nurture the sturgeon in specialized farms, closely monitor their pregnancy, gut them when they're ready to burst, then package their babies. Depending on what quality you try -- I'm assuming everything I've eaten ranges from average to slightly below -- there may or may not be an overtly fishy taste. More than anything, it'll taste salty; not unpleasantly so, but salty. The appeal, I think, is not so much the taste but the texture and mouth feel. I've heard some people liken it to little balls of Jell-O, which isn't quite right. Caviar has a little more resiliency than that, it fights back a bit. So tiny beads of tapioca would be a more appropriate comparison. They kind of pop in your mouth, which is a little fun, using your tongue to push them against the roof of your mouth. It's not as life-changing as some TV chefs make it out to be, but like the saffron, I feel all the better having eaten it.
I've never tried Foie gras, but I know all about it. A duck (or goose) is kept in a tiny wire cage as a long metal tube thrust down its throat, force-feeding it cornmeal several times a day. The bird continues to eat and eat until its liver becomes fatty and diseased, swelling over 10 times its normal size. The duck (or goose) is then put out of its bloated misery, gutted for its engorged liver. This reminds me of the 3rd circle of Hell in Dante's Inferno. Because of their sins of a lifetime of over-gorging, the gluttons serve their punishment here, forced to eat mud and dirt for the rest of their damned existence. Somehow I think the duck's (or geese's) suffering is less poetic (and more cruel), but that wouldn't necessarily keep me from eating it.
But more than anything -- absolutely more than anything -- I want to try a truffle. They are fungi and they are precious. Pigs are used to hunt them, sniffing along the terrain in the mossy, foggy forests of Italy and France. It all sounds so mystical and mythological. They seem so other-worldly; I can practically smell the heavy dew in the air. I can imagine Hobbits feasting on them during their journey to Mount Doom, giving them the required nourishment to destroy Sauron's ring. It's the only food I can think of that is actually scoured for. I know food that is killed, produced, grown, and harvested, but definitely not scoured. They're worth $500 a pound. They often shave it into risotto, or on top of pasta. They look like little black clumps of coal that are the size of a clenched fist, ranging from the size of an infant's to an adult's. I want to know what all the hype is about, but interestingly, all online searches tend to be equally vague and inconclusive. According to Yahoo! Answers, the taste of truffles are "hard to define," "an acquired taste," and "unique," but I think that's kind of a cop out. It's like a non-answer. It's the type of response that leads me to believe these are people who don't know how to fully articulate their thoughts or, more likely, they've never actually tried it and are just full of it. Most things taste like things -- fish tastes light and delicate, onion taste sweet and earthy, honey dew tastes clean and nectarous, Cheetos taste processed and artificial. So what do truffles taste like? I've heard some TV chefs describe it as a flavor similar to mushroom, which makes enough sense considering they're both fungus. And make no mistake, I love mushrooms. Regular white button, portobello, baby portabella, chantrelles, oyster, straw, cremini, morels -- they're delicious. But even if truffles tasted like the most intense, most exquisite mushroom ever, I still have a hard time believing that they're as good as we've been led to believe. Perhaps its legend precedes its flavor. I must eat it, though.
I know I'm not alone in my appreciation of infomercials. There's something spellbinding about them. The allure is beyond comprehension, lacking any kind of logical or sensible explanation. Perhaps it's curiosity, or boredom, or maybe even a slight bit of masochism -- whatever the reason, we feel obligated to watch.
The quality of acting is poor, of course, but it's as if it's purposely poor. It's like they went far out of their way to be awful. I don't know, perhaps it's shrewd salesmanship. Maybe acting that is so offensively bad makes us, the unsuspecting consumer, feel sympathy for the company and buy their product out of pity. And there are recurring infomercial actors, too. Pitchmen. People who corporate suits have hand-picked to represent their product, anointed to be the face of their company. They've become ingrained in our collective social consciousness; there's Billy Mays (with his immaculate beard) and Oxy Clean; Chef Tony and his specialty knives that can cut through dry wall just as easily as they can slice a tomato (although admittedly I don't see him around anymore...I hope he hasn't retired); and that guy with the pock marks, I forgot his name, and the airtight vacuum-sealed bags. They are television's professional shills.
I was always a poor math student, but with four "easy" payment installments, I think it's safe to say that it isn't going to be exactly cheap. Whatever the base price may be (let's just say, $14.99), after you multiply it by four, it's going to obviously add up. And they always make a big deal about price-slashing. They'll hedge their bets by starting really high -- "You won't pay $400 for this item...not $300...not $200...not $150...heck, not even $100" -- continuing to sequentially lower the price, dropping down in descending order. All of this is a nice gesture, I guess, but I don't think I'd want to blow $400 bucks all in one shot anyway. At least not over the phone, and not on a piece of junk.
The before-and-after scenes are ridiculous, but it's an endearing kind of ridiculous. I feel the eternal pessimist wastes his time complaining about them and the eternal optimist embraces and enjoys them. In cases like these, the glass is definitely half full. It's fun watching people struggle with the simplest, most mundane tasks. Opening a jar of pickles, wiping up spilled milk, chopping an onion -- all of sudden, they've become the hardest things in the world to do. And what's more, they'll always do them the exact opposite way you're supposed to do them. Instead of twisting the pickle jar's lid clockwise, they'll wrestle with it, as if trying to hold a live, wriggling fish at bay; instead of effeciently dabbing at the puddle of milk, they'll hold a sheet of paper towel between their thumb and pointer finger, daintily dragging it through the mess; and instead of chopping the onion, they'll jab and thrust at it, like a swashbuckler. It's amazing. The clips only last for a split second, but they always stand out as one of the highlights of the entire infomercial. I don't consider it an insult to my intelligence at all -- I consider it entertainment. And if their cinematography has taught me anything, it's that monochrome signifies conflict and hardship, while technicolor signifies a much easier and fulfilling life (that's assuming you own their product, naturally).
There's a misconception that infomercials only air really late at night (or really early in the morning, depending on which way you look at it), but that's not entirely true. Whenever we think of infomercials, we automatically think of 4:00 AM. But things have slowly changed. Truth is, infomercials come on at all times of the day. They're broadcast during the weekday when everyone is supposed to be at work. They're broadcast during those lazy Sunday afternoons, before or after a crappy basic cable TV movie (usually Tremors 2). In fact, if you scour your channels hard enough, you may even find one playing during prime time. So the point is, you don't necessarily have to be an insomniac to watch people selling stuff.
Specificity is always good, so here are a few of my favorite infomercials:
Ronco Rotisserie
So essentially, it's just a glorified Easy Bake Oven, right?
Spinning meat is mesmerizing. Spinning makes you hungry; spinning makes you want to eat.
The "flavor injector" is unappetizing. The concept is reasonable enough -- I can understand wanting to make something juicier and tastier -- but hypodermic needles conjures mental images of the doctor's office, HIV, and heroin. It doesn't really make me think of dinner. And it's hilarious when he injects the whole cloves of garlic into the rib roast...I love garlic, but it kind of defeats the purpose of seasoning when the garlic stays in one centralized area.
Set it...and forget it.
The salmon with sprigs of dill and slices of lemon looks pretty good.
Ron Popeil has created a lot of gadgets over the course of his career (the Chop-O-Matic, the Pocket Fisherman, Spray-On Hair, etc., etc.) but no one ever calls him an "inventor." And when you think about it, basically no one is ever considered an "inventor" these days. At least not an inventor in the same vein as Thomas Edison, Nikola Tesla, or Benjamin Franklin. Nowadays, if you create something, you're usually classified as an "entrepreneur" or a "business magnate." For instance, Bill Gates invented Microsoft, but no one really calls him an "inventor." It's a word that doesn't really fit into our everyday lexicon anymore; it's grown outdated, anachronistic. And that's unfair because for stupid and useless as his creations may be, they're still "inventions" in every sense of the word.
ShamWow
This is one of my new favorites.
The headset microphone seems completely unnecessary.
His bulging, frantic eyes suggest rampant cocaine abuse, or a stroke.
This puts me in the mood to punch coca-cola out of a swatch of shag carpeting.
I understand that its an abbreviation for "shammy," but I can still appreciate the poetic value of using "sham" right in the product name. It's nearly as blatant as calling it the FraudWow, or Rip-OffWow.
I'm almost positive I don't spend $20/month on paper towels, but now that he's brought it up, it does make me wonder...
This guy is the rockstar of infomercials. He is the new generation.
Magic Bullet
I guess I can see how this would be useful, but it's still just a small blender. And in that case, I can just use my ordinary blender.
Could they have picked a less sexually-suggestive product name, maybe? The double entendre couldn't have possibly been unintentional. Maybe for their next informercial they'll advertise the Dildo Toaster.
Zesty salsa in less than 5 seconds? This is truly a wonderous technological age we live in.
The host's accent makes me feel a little more inclined to buy it. It's very soothing. It almost makes me forget that he's ripping me off.
This does put me in the mood for a smoothie, maybe mango.
I always get so involved in the storyline. Are Mick and Mimi married, or are they just living together? Why are all these people at their house so early in the morning...did they all sleep over? Does Berman have a drinking problem? With the casual way she's just bumming around the house in a night gown and a cigarette, Hazel and the hosts most have a very familiar, longtime friendship. Are Mimi and the other blonde haired girl supposed to be sisters? They look related. If they are, I bet Mimi holds low key resentment and hostility towards her sister for being younger and slightly prettier. She doesn't necessarily hate her, she's just jealous. She badmouths her in private, but maintains a cheery disposition for the sake of public appearances. All liquored up, Mimi wanted to finally tell her sister off at her wedding reception (which was a beautiful affair, by the way), but Mick stepped in and kept her from embarassing herself. Sadly, Mimi is unable to bear children, so when she finds out her sister is pregnant, she'll be devastated. At least, this is how I envision the script in my head.
Walkfit Shoe Insole
This is the 2nd recording of this infomercial, and the host has really lost a lot of weight. Good for him.
I have very flat feet, so I always watch this so longingly. I get jealous of the shots of all the happy people dancing and shopping and bowling without any pain. After only a short while of walking and standing, my legs are already fatigued. And after a little while longer, they start throbbing. I really need some arch support in my shoes.
This is the same girl from the Magic Bullet commercials.
Snuggie
Yes, they look stupid. And yes, they make you look like you're a member of some weird cult or religious sect. But I have to admit that I would kind of want one. I don't know if I'd necessarily go out of my way to purchase one, but if someone offered to me as a gift, I would eagerly accept it. It's practical. It's useful. And I imagine it's comfortable. After you get over how goofy they are, it's hard to deny its usefulness. If you like blankets, then I think you would also like Snuggies.
But yeah, again, they do look obscenely stupid. They're just wearing a backwards robe, Kriss Kross-style. I would never wear them out to "a sporting events." I would never wear them "in the dorm." I would never wear them anywhere that I might be seen by the opposite sex. Only inside the house, with the blinds shut, and preferably shrouded in the night's darkness. And even then I would still feel embarassed.
I'm pumped because I recently discovered that Phil's Comic Book Shop on Atlantic is still open for business. I had no idea because I hadn't been down that way in a while. Everyone loves Tate's on University (and rightfully so, it's a cool store), but I like Phil's just as much. It's a tiny place, about the size of a broom closest when compared to the sprawling floorspace of Tate's. If all you want are comics -- and not toys, or anime, or goofy little knick knacks -- then this is a great place to shop because it's all they sell.
I'll buy a couple trade paperbacks and graphic novels every once and a while, but I haven't bought any actual comic books in years. Since I've been out of the loop for so long, I don't really know what's going on. But I was so happy that the store was still around that I felt obligated to buy something.
In X-Men Legacy #219, the Juggernaut becomes a super-villain again after, apparently, being a member of the X-Men for a while. I had no idea he had reformed, but I guess the idea of him being a temprorary hero is sort of cool. This issue was boring, though. It was just him and Professor X talking the whole time. And of course, the key to beating Juggernaut is rip his helmet off and attack him telepathically.
Amazing Spider-Man #579 featured the Shocker, and I've always liked him. He's just a second-string villain and poses little threat, but he has a great character design and makes for a good visual on the page. With that yellow, criss-crossed diamond pattern costume, it looks like he's wearing a very plush quilt. This issue is written by Mark Waid, who had a really good run with Captain America and the Fantastic Four back in the late 90s / early 00s.
Amazing Spider-Man #580 is written by Roger Stern, one of my favorite comic writers. I remember him writing a lot of good Avengers stuff. It has some good fight scenes, but it's with a villain I've never heard of: the Blank. He's completely opaque without any distinguishing facial features and is surrounded by a protective force field. Sounds like of like a rip-off of the X-Men villain Unus the Untouchable.
Amazing Spider-Man #581 was confusing because apparently Harry Osborn has come back to life. I have the original issue where he dies as the Green Goblin, but I guess they've brought him back. Other than all the confusing backstory stuff that I had trouble following, the entire issue was really non-eventful without any fight scenes or action sequences. And it included the Molten Man, who I never really thought much of as a villain. Dan Slott wrote this issue, and even though I've never read of his previous work I have heard some good things about him.
I liked all three of the different artists -- Marcos Martin, Lee Weeks, and Mike McKone -- in each of these three issues. They have a very sleek and streamlined style, everything looking very compact and aerodynamic. I feel that's the way Spider-Man should be drawn. I've seen a lot of other renditions of him looking huge and bulky, with broad shoulder and bulging muscles. That's not how Spider-Man should look at all. He should be really thin and wispy and flexible lanky. He shouldn't look like a weight lifter at all. It should actually be the exact opposite: his stature, posture, and physique should look creepy and inhuman, very Daddy Long Legs-ish. And all of the poses -- jumping, crawling, flipping, somersaulting -- were so smooth and fluid. That's really important to me in a Spider-Man comic, a penciller who knows how to properly choreograph an action sequence.
I also picked up a really old back issue, Uncanny X-Men #243. It had an awesome cover: a giant Mr. Sinister holding out the X-Men in his palm over a pit of flames, all of them dangling and hanging on this fingertips. The print date on the inside cover reads April 1989. It was nice to see Longshot again, who never gets enough airtime.
It'll never happen because of the social stigma attached to them, but comic books really do deserve more respect and renown as an artistic medium. They're visuals and verse, together. The perfect balance of two incredible things.
Comics are expensive these days. I remember a lot of them were $.99 when I was a kid, but now most of them are $3.00. I'm seriously thinking about getting a subscription. I'll be able to save a full $1 for a year's worth of issues.
A musty, moldy smell of old paper permeated the entire shop. With all of those boxes of back issues piled high upon one another, there's literally decades of rot in the air. All of that ground up pulp, that fading ink, paper that had gotten wet and then dried -- it's almost claustrophobic. It's a smell that only an avid reader could love. It's the smell of literacy.
Right on cue, I walked in to hear two customers talking about Lost and Heroes. Now, I don't have anything specifically against either of these shows -- I used to watch Lost and I've never seen an episode of Heroes, but I imagine I'd like it enough -- but I could barely conceal my condescending sneer as I eavesdropped on their conversation. Comic book nerds are so admirably and obliviously awkward (for the sake of reference, I do like comics and I do think of myself as a nerd, but not necessarily a comic book nerd). Perhaps more than anything, I've noticed their very distinct speech patterns. They're all very loud speakers. Not the hyper-macho, aggressive kind of loud you'll hear from a jock-bro or frat-bro at a bar. And not the annoying, inconsiderate kind of loud that you'll hear from a rude Soccer Mom on her cell phone while getting checked out in the express lane. This is much different, a loud that is completely unaware and unconcerned with of its surroundings. Kind of a like a social cluelessness. It's booming and cacophonous, lacking any sense of tact, grace, or shame. But in their defense, it's actually respectable in that they can discuss the most unattractive and unflattering topics without hesitation. I like to think that I'm pretty comfortable in my own skin, but even I would admit that talking out loud about how the 2nd generation of All-New, All-Different X-Men were assembled in order to rescue the original X-Men from the mutant island of Krakoa (and be assured, I can go on and out about this) would make me feel more than a little self-conscious.
And because of all the critical acclaim it's received, I'm gonna check out Ed Brubaker's Captain America and Daredevil next.
I wish Flintstones chewable vitamins were still a staple of my daily diet. They were like SweeTarts, or Smarties, fortified with just enough iron and riboflavin. Basically, they were healthy candy.
I considered it cruel and unusual punishment that I could only take one per day; using my ingenious, Kindergarten-honed sense of logic, I figured more of a good thing was invariably and unequivocally better.
I'm aware that, in addition to the expected characters, they also make them in the shape of the Great Gazoo now; I don't remember if they had those back when I was young or if they added him to the line-up after the fact.
I vividly remember the catchy jingle they played during the commercials: "Ten million strong...and groooowing."
Now they offer two distinct options, the latter not being available to me as a child: chewable vitamins and gummi vitamins; I maintain the notion that current generations always have it better than the generations that preceded them.
The Flintstones helped push a lot of product; their faces adorn boxes of Cocoa and Fruity Pebbles, beloved household items. But it makes me wonder, why didn't any of their other contemporaries get any endorsement deals? Did some advertising agency conduct a scientific study that proved the Jetsons couldn't sell merchandise? Did Snagglepuss not have the necessary clout to carry his own brand of breakfast cereal?
It seems so obvious now -- just push down and twist at the same time -- but those child-proof bottle caps really did what they were supposed to. They were impenetrable.
Growing up, I spent a lot of time watching Nickelodeon's Double Dare.
I remember enjoying it vicariously because I knew my family and I would never be contestants on the show. And it's not because we weren't a loving family; there wasn't anything especially dysfunctional or abusive about our relationship. But we just weren't that kind of family. I couldn't imagine all of us ever putting on matching uniforms, answering trivia questions, and performing stunts on national television -- at least not together. I don't think I'd have a problem playing with another stand-in family provided by the network (I could easily live a temporary lie for a 30-minute game show), but playing with my own would have just been weird.
My Mom would have absolutely refused to get messy, so considering the slime-based nature of the show, that would have immediately presented itself as a problem. My younger sister was really small as a kid, with tiny little hands and underdeveloped upper body strength (probably a byproduct of being five years old), so she didn't have the ideal physique for running, jumping, and grabbing. And my Dad had an uncanny ability to make me feel nervous and inadequate during anything remotely physical by just standing there (this issue would resurface again in the near future during Little League games), so I'd probably forget how to perform simple motor skills like walking from one point to another point, or how to use my opposable thumbs to grip things. I'd always see the families on TV jumping around, hugging and supporting one another, playfully hitting each other in the face with pie tins filled with shaving cream -- and I couldn't see us doing that. Again, there was nothing wrong with my family; we're actually very typical. We just weren't that way. We didn't have that dynamic, that rapport. I cringe thinking about how uncomfortable the car ride home would be if we didn't win.
If you didn't know the answer to a trivia question (or if you were employing some strategy and wanted to make the other team think you didn't know the answer) you can dare them. Then, if the opposing team also didn't know the answer (of if they wanted to call you out on your obvious bluff), they could double dare you. That's when you had to make a decision -- you either had to answer the question or accept a Physical Challenge. And I liked the Physical Challenges fine, they were like a precursor for messier, funnier things to come (read: the Obstacle Course). But looking back on it now, it's funny how the objective of so many of those challenges involved putting brightly colored liquid (usually green or orange) into big measuring cups. That was almost always the case: put this stuff into that thing and keep doing it until you fill it up to the red line. There were slight variations of course -- sometimes you had to sit on liquid-filled balloons, sometimes you wore a juicer on your head and you had to "juice" liquid-soaked balls -- but it was all more or less the same. Basically, it seemed like if you had the required eye-hand coordination to pour yourself a glass of milk, you could easily win.
Marc Summers was born to be a TV host. I couldn't picture him doing anything else with his life. He had the right combination of charisma, inoffensive All-American looks, and just enough cheese-factor to satiate the nation's old fashioned, conventional suburban viewership. I remember how he always used to wear a sports coat, necktie, blue jeans, and white sneakers with white tube socks. He was just really good at holding a microphone, looking into a camera, and saying things. And he's really prolific, too. It's not like he's a one-hit wonder; he also went on to host What Would You Do? (this was when the TV genre of pie-throwing was at its peak) and is currently hosting the Food Network's Unwrapped (it's nice to know how BBQ Fritos are made). He's just great at what he does.
The best part of the show, of course, was the 60-second Obstacle Course at the end of each episode. I spent a lot of time studying this challenge, closely comparing how one family fares to another. I took mental note of each tendency and pattern that formed: a strong start was imperative; if a contestant spent in excess of, say, twelve or more seconds on the very first obstacle, I knew their prospects were dim. Physical fitness played a role; maybe not a major role, but the father with a slight beer belly or the mother with the extra-wide hips were at a disadvantage. Because the ultimate goal of each obstacle was to capture the flag, there was a lot of reaching and grabbing and stretching and extending. The longer, leaner families usually responded well to this, as their sleek and slender arms were able to cover a lot more ground and reach the flag milliseconds faster than other, squatter families. And cardiovascular health was naturally a point of concern. Granted, the course was only a minute long, but stamina and endurance were important. I'm sure running around a TV studio and knocking down giant bowling pins would leave many people gasping for air.
I soon realized that aside from a few exceptions, the obstacles generally fit into four basic categories:
1) The "Gimmies" - These were the blatantly easy challenges that the producers strategically placed to make sure that families at least had a fighting chance of winning. They're essentially automatic. The objective was simple: get from Point A to Point B. The contestant would start at one location, travel a distance of about ten feet, and then grab the awaiting flag. These included the "Drawbridge" (you had to push your way through the big red drawbridge), the "Sunspension Bridge" (you can find these in any park on any playground), the "Doggy Door" (just had to crawl through on your hands and knees), and any variation of having to wade through a waist-high pool of water (the pool was often decorated as a swamp with fake sawgrass, fog machine, and inflatable alligators). These were all boring, but they served a purpose. Without them, they'd definitely have to extend the time limit.
2) The Slightly More Difficult "Gimmies" - These were fundamentally the same obstacle, only a little harder. You still only had to get from Point A to Point B, but these demanded at least the slightest bit of athleticism. You actually had to traverse across something or negotiate your way through something, like the "Ant Farm" (it was a giant ant farm and you had to snake and wriggle your way through the tunnels), the "Sushi Roll" (they were big pipes shaped like California rolls and you had to crawl through them on your belly), "In One Ear" (enter through one ear, squeeze through the wax, and come out the other ear), and the "Sundae Slide" (climb up a ramp, ride the twisty slide down to the bottom, land in a giant ice cream sundae, reach up for the flag. Now, because the ramp was greased with faux chocolate syrup, the key to this obstacle was to put your feet on the outside edges of the ramp; too many contestant tried running right up the ramp and slipping back down).
3) The Pull-This-String or Stomp-This-Button - These included "Bats in the Belfry" (there were three hanging bells to choose from; two of them dropped down only rubber bats and confetti, the third dropped down rubber bats, confetti, and the flag), "Soda Jerk" (there were three flavors of soda and you had to stomp on the right button; the soda would spray down from above and one of them would include the flag), and "Gak Gesier" (this was more straightforward; just hit the button, watch the big machine shoot out green gak from the top, and then collect the flag wherever it lands). The trick here was to just pull all three string or stomp all three buttons successively, one after the other. Too many people wasted time pulling the string, checking the ground if anything fell; pulling the second string, checking the ground; pulling the third string, picking up the flag. Obviously one of them has to be the right one, so make the odds work in your favor and pick them all at the same time.
4) The Messily Hidden Flag - The fourth most ubiquitous obstacle was searching for a hidden flag, usually in a big slice of pizza, or a big pile of waffles, or big peanut butter & jelly sandwich. They ususally called this "The Blue Plate Special." The folly of many a contestant is a hesitatation or reticence in approaching the giant representation of food. It was frustrating to watch people nervously poke at the very corner of the sandwich, or listlessly lift one of the pieces of waffle. As if they were afraid of getting dirty or something...go ahead and attack it. The flag obviously isn't going to be sitting daintily front and center, so dig under that cheese and pepperoni like a madman. Just tear shit up and worry about the repercussions later. This was often the death knell for contestants; if they're wasting over a quarter of their allotted time messing around with this challenge, they weren't going to win.
And then I guess you could also count a fifth unofficial category: The Miscellaneous. These were the obstacles that didn't quite fit into any of these categories, or perhaps fit into all of them simultaneously. For example, the "Gumball Machine" (jump down into a ball pit and come out the other end), "the Lift" (this involved two contestants sitting on a seesaw, with the one going up grabbing the flag overhead), and the "1-ton Hamster Wheel" (jump into a giant hamster wheel and keep running until you made the boxing glove holding the flag drop down).
I haven't flipped past Nickelodeon in a while, but I don't think they have game shows like this anymore. No Double Dare, or Legends of the Hidden Temple, or Wild and Crazy Kids, or Guts. There's no present-day equivalent. I assume it has something to do with how sedentary we've grown as a society. And even if TV producers did try to pitch a similar game show today, most kids are probably too fat to compete on it anyway. Bummer.
I'm mindful of what I eat -- no fast food or soda, lots of fresh fruit and vegetables. And I maintain physical activity -- this reminds me, I need to change the flat tire on my bike. So, I think it's safe to say I'm a relatively healthy person.
And I have no particular interest in killing anything, so I think I can say I'm more or less a mentally stable person.
But with both these things established, I can also say with complete confidence that guns and cigarettes are two of the coolest things on Earth. And I dare anyone to convince me otherwise.
For someone who's as constantly and consciously self-aware of my image as I am, it's a surprise I've never started smoking. A lit cigarette hanging precariously from your lips, red-orange embers burning at its tip, smoke billowing from your face -- it's a captivating aesthetic. It makes nobodies look like somebodies, makes ordinary people look extra ordinary, and makes beautiful people look devastatingly unapproachable. Complete disregard for one's own mortality earns a begrudging sense of awe.
You couldn't buy a better accessory than a pack of smokes. It helps complete the brooding and pensive look, if that's what you're aiming for. During social interaction, I never know what to do with my hands or my mouth, so this seems like the most logical habit to pick up. It's by far the trendiest thing you can find at a gas station. Cigarettes create an awesome silhouette when cast against asphalt, preferably before the sun gets too high in the sky. This has nothing to do with feeling good (I've heard enough about emphysema to surmise that it's unpleasant) and everything to do with looking good.
And I'm not a violent person. I'm not one of those psycho gun enthusiasts that attend national conventions and dress entirely in camouflage. Hunting is completely unappealing to me, firing ranges seem uncomfortably loud, and I don't ever want to find myself in a kill-or-be-killed situation. But I have to admit, guns are cool, too. They make you look tough without having to do anything other than being seen with one. The fact that you're more likely to shoot a family member than an intruder notwithstanding, I'd probably want a Glock.
They're empowering in a phallic sort of way, like that feeling of manliness when you're holding your own hard on, or maybe a guitar. They have an awesome nickname, "firearm"; it makes me fantasize that I have a flamethrower for a limb that shoots fire whenever I flex my bicep. I believe most people (or at least most people with small children in the household) keep their guns locked away and out of sight, but I'd display it on my dresser like a Little League trophy, propped up at a dramatic 45 degree angle, maybe shine a low-wattage spotlight down on it. I'm not even interested in ever firing it, I just want to brandish it and use it as a pointer. I'd wear one of those holsters that strap around your shoulder, the ones you see overworked, underslept TV detectives wearing, usually over an unpressed long sleeve button-down shirt that's rolled up to the elbows.
Now I want to make this clear: death and murder and homicide are NOT admirable things. Anyone who thinks they are needs to grow up...and in the most extreme of cases, receive psychiatric counseling for their obvious socipathic tendencies. Guns are scary, powerful, and dangerous, but they just LOOK like really cool toys. It's hard not to want to play with it.
Atmosphere's "Guns and Cigarettes" is a great song, and by no small coincidence.
I turned 24 years old last month, but I'm convinced I'm still young. And that's because I've figured out the measuring stick for youth:
Of all the consciously-hip, vaguely-artistic, indie-inclined films that have come out in recent years and struck a chord with the general public, I was already familiar with the bands that made up the backbone of their soundtracks.
The songs that encapsulate Garden State, Juno, and Nick & Norah's Infinite Playlist were uploaded onto my iTunes library before I ever bought my ticket. There was always that one (maybe two) defining song that played during the crux of the storyline, and I've already heard it before. Zach Braff, Natalie Portman, Ellen Page, and the kid who played George Michael Bluth all made valiant efforts to introduce me to some new music, but I beat them to the punch. The Shins? Yeah, Oh, Inverted World and Chutes Too Narrow both came out when I was still in high school. The Moldy Peaches? A friend of mine included them in a mix for me a while back. Vampire Weekend and the Submarines? My subscription of SPIN magazine tipped me off to them well in advance.
Not saying that I don't like these bands or that I'm somehow above them -- well, maybe the Moldy Peaches because "Anyone Else But You" has become absolutely insufferable. I mean, have you heard the bizarre re-write for that Atlantis resort commercial? Something about "riding dolphins." Horrifying. -- but I'd be lying if I didn't admit there is a sense of reassurance I get from remaining ahead of the music curve. "If I've heard of them, they may be good; if I've never heard of them, they must suck" has been my (very narcissistic) mantra since the about the age of 17. And, seven years later, I'm proud to say that this is still mostly true. But once another Next Big Thing comes around and I'm completely unfamiliar with it (or worse yet, actually threatened by it), I'll know that my time has come. It's a fine line between being up-to-date and past-your-prime. If I'm the only person in the theater who can't sing along to the lyrics of the catchy song playing during a new trailer, I'm in trouble.
Brian Wilson was so blown away by Rubber Soul that he immediately started work on Pet Sounds.
Everyone needs a direct adversary to humble you, a rival to push you beyond your limits, a muse to inspire oneself to brilliance.
So my personal Rubber Soul -- or Pet Sounds, whichever. We can figure out exactly who's who later -- is my friend Angelica's blog Culturally Subverting Bedtime Stories. It's a fantastic blog, one of the few that I follow on a regular basis. And there's nothing mean-spirited about this...I consider it a very healthy, cordial competition. But I can't deny that I track her progress with personal interest, out of the corner of my eye, making sure she hasn't yet surpassed me; and if she has, hopefully I haven't fallen too far behind. I feel absolutely compelled to write with each new blog entry she posts and each new blog entry I don't post.
She writes more than me now. Her most recent work is from the 10th, just a couple of days ago. My most recent work is from the 28th...of September. I'm lagging. Without habitual updates, the blog as a medium is rendered ineffective.
Her blog title is more clever than mine. There's a charming ambiguity and duality to its meaning: the bedtime stories she tells are subversive to the conventions of the culture that we live in; or maybe it's the other way around, she's subverting the bedtime stories themselves, completely undermining everything we thought we knew about "Goldilocks and the Three Bears." My blog title isn't quite as inclusive, as I don't think "Objectivism" means much to those who aren't familiar with the work of Ayn Rand.
Her blog includes a nice balance between text and multimedia. On my front page, I only have two YouTube vidoes up, while she has about seven times that. Hers is just more visually stimulating. I should take better advantage of people's inherent fondness for moving pictures.
We have a lot in common with a lot of intersecting interests. We typically aim for the same online demographic. This just gives me added incentive to keep writing because it's only a matter of time before she writes something that I would have, or that I would want to.
So read her blog. And then read mine. I might even have something new posted.
I can handle break ups. It's presumptuous to think that all relationships are meant to last ad infinitum. They exist and then they cease. It's nothing to kill yourself over. There's actually a lot of good that comes from this cyclical process, as it constantly allows us to meet new people (and see new naked body parts). So it's not so much the end of relationships that bother me, it's all the work that goes into beginning them.
I've realized I'm a hack of a stand-up comic, with just enough jokes to last a 30-minute set.
I have the same anecdotes, the same "spontaneous" observations, the same political insights that I repeat every time I take a new girl out to dinner. I've gotten better at delivering them, I suppose. After so many times, I've got my timing down just right, where to pause for dramatic or comedic effect. I know exactly which words to emphasize, the syllables to stress and unstress. I even have the gestures memorized, holding my arms outstretched when I want to signify quantity, lightly tapping my finger on the table for emphasis.
But it's a lot of work for a little bit of sex and companionship. We're not even going to be on speaking terms in X amount of months anyway -- or maybe X amount of weeks, depending on how quickly we get sick of each other -- so I'm not always convinced it's worth the effort. And even worse, it makes me feel like a phony. It makes me feel unoriginal and uninspired. Repeating the same stories ("I met a cast member of the Real World this one time. Wanna guess who it was? I'll give you a hint, he/she was on the New Orleans season...") makes me feel like I have nothing new to say. And as a humanities graduate, this is especially troubling. Creativity, imagination, artistry -- these traits are supposed to be my currency. As a pseudo-writer, coming up with new stories should be easy for me.
Marty McFly should have disappeared the second he pushed his father out of the way of his grandfather's car. His parents never meet, he's never born, and he ceases to exist. That should have been the end of the movie. I've heard people argue that the reason why he didn't disappear at that exact moment is because the last possible chance for him to survive was the Enchantment Under the Sea dance, so similar to a jug of milk, there's a sort of figurative expiration date on his existence. But I don't entirely buy this explanation because if we're being this flexible with the time continuum, it fails to account for the possibility, distant as it may be, that his parents may meet and marry at a later date. And of course, lets not forget the most glaring loophole here: if Marty does cease to exist, then that means he never travels back in time, which means he never interferes with his parents meeting each other, which means he is eventually born, which means he does in fact exist.
Traveling back in time is a logical and logistical impossibility. Any potential time traveler will be doomed to an eternity of living and re-living the same fate in a perpetual cycle. I'm sure someone like Stephen Hawking could check and confirm my math.
But those self-lacing Nike's he wore in Back to the Future II were fresh as hell.
People are predictable. Kids like me -- and by "kids like me," I of course mean young adults of vaguely-indie, vaguely-artsy, vaguely-pretentious persuasions -- all like the same things. This is the first installment in what I expect will be a regular series that examines the things that we like-minded people enjoy. For example, I present:
The Hi-C Ecto Cooler.
Anyone in and around my demographic can fully appreciate its cultural importance. It was a greedy, money-hungry attempt to cash in on the popularity of Ghostbusters, slapping a bastardized image of Slimer on the package to push product -- but these kind of politics didn't matter at the age of 8.
The cafeteria hierarchy of juice boxes said a lot about a person, and not only of their value as a beverage connoisseur, but also of their value as an individual.
Minute Maid and Juicy Juice were nice, safe choices, if not a little boring. Students who drank this tended to not have any strong opinion on anything one way or the other.
Kool-aid fulfilled an essential dietary need for young children: fruit juice that didn't include any actual fruit in it. Ice cream sandwiches didn't grow from the Earth; ergo, anything that did grow from the Earth must be its exact, diametrical opposite and couldn't possibly be good.
Soda was only drank by bullies (and, perhaps, future diabetics). It was best to steer clear of these kids. And interestingly, it was the soda-drinkers who never had guardians come on Open House night, or for PTA meetings, or for parent-teacher conferences. I realize now, looking back in retrospect, anyone who brought Mountain Dew to school invariably came from a broken home, most likely one with a history of domestic abuse. This is established fact, I'm sure.
Capri Sun and Squeeze-Its were ultra-hip because, technically, they weren't juice boxes at all. One was a pouch and the other was a plastic bottle, respectively. It was the most cutting-edge of lunchbox technology. This proved you to be a radical, counterculture free-thinker. You very literally thought outside the box. But your hipster points were automatically deducted if you had to have a teacher help you open your Capri Sun (the tip was to make the initial puncture quick and decisive; any waffling on your part resulted in a dulled point at the tip of your straw).
And if you drank Mott's, you were a bitch-ass Momma's boy.
But nothing outranked Ecto Coolers. It tasted good. It had a beloved, recognizable fictional character on the front. It took two great things -- refreshments and Ghostbusters -- and combined them; even at that young age, we understood the appeal of killing two birds with one stone. It didn't necessarily guarantee cool, but it certainly solidified it.
These days, it's reached ultimate cult status. It's one of those rare cultural phenomenons that transcend racial, gender, musical, and political divides. Upon mere mention, it invokes immediate nostalgia. It is universally loved. It's become something of a social fail-safe; anytime you're at a party or on a date or hanging out with friends (assuming we're dealing with 20-something year olds here) and the conversations hits an uncomfortable lull, you can ask "Hey, remember when everyone used to drink Ecto Coolers?" This will undoubtedly spark at least another half hour of spirited discourse.
I don't much drink sugary drinks these days, but if it were still around, I'd make an exception.
I like to think I have a fairly eclectic taste in music.
I enjoy the indie hip-hop of Atmosphere; the pitch-perfect vocals of Whitney Houston; the gangsta rap of N.W.A.; the soft, sentimental plucking of James Taylor; the electronic remixing of MSTRKRFT; the undefinable genre-bending of Beck.
But in the end, my one true, audible love is two guitars, a bass, and a drum kit. Regardless of whatever form it takes, be it indie or emo or college or surf or prog or grunge or pop-punk or nerd or post-hardcore, this is my musical preference -- it's what we all would colloquially call "rock and roll."
What I've always found interesting, though, is how ridiculous a term it is. Rock and Roll. Or even worse, Rock N' Roll. It just sounds silly. I don't often utter those particular words in that particular order...at least not unironically. Whenever making polite small talk to a person I've just met, I always seem to be confronted with the incredibly complex question of "what do you listen to?" I'll take a moment to collect my thoughts and proceed to give some long-winded answer, mentioning specific bands that I'm fond of, as well as the specific movements and sub-genres and styles and record labels they belong to. But I'll never actually answer "rock and roll" (on a side note, "rock and roll" is the second least-hip, least-informed answer you can give in this situation; the first being "everything," because as we know, anyone who listens to "everything" doesn't listen to anything good).
Rock and roll. The problem is, it's such a disingenuous phrase. Like a phrase that's trying too hard, somehow. It looks and sounds foolish. I can barely say it out loud without grimacing, without laughing, without feeling the corners of my mouth instinctively pull into an arrogant sneer. I'm not entirely sure why this is. Who knows, maybe I've just reached the point of no return as a music fan, the point when my own snobbish elitism will never allow me to enjoy anything ever again.
I think this can all be best summed up, best articulated, by Billy Joel. The other day,"It's Still Rock and Roll To Me" came up on my iPod, and that's exactly what I'm talking about. First, the song sucks. Second, and most importantly, Billy Joel doesn't have an edgy, rebellious bone in his body. I mean, he wrote "Uptown Girl." He's safe and radio-friendly and inoffensive (however, this isn't to say I don't like Joel at all, because "Piano Man" is one of the greatest sing-along songs ever). So it's just so perfectly and conveniently ironic that he wrote a song that tried to justify how his music actually is rock and roll (which it isn't) and that he felt the need to specifically mention it in the title (which is never a good thing). It's along the same lines of, if you have to say that you're cool, then you're probably not cool...or something like that. Anyway, the term "rock and roll" has become a joke, a caricature of its former self. Linguistically, it's evolved into something very different than its origin. It's one of those words, similar to rad or boss or word or true, that are said ironically by people who actually have a clue, and unironically by everyone else.
And I don't think I've ever used the phrase "rocking out" (as in, "I'm rocking out!") either. At least not sincerely.
Disclaimer: Chuck Berry wrote the song "Rock and Roll Music" and Ryan Adams titled an album "Rock 'N Roll" spelled backwards, but I actually don't have a problem with either. Go figure.
Clue: In the last week of the John Tyler administration, this republic was offered statehood.
Answer: Texas
I know absolutely nothing else about former President John Tyler, but I have a ton of family in Houston and San Antonio, so I did get this right.
9/4
Category: Historic Journals
Clue: On January 18, 1972, he arrived at a tent near the Pole and found "a record of five Norwegians having been there."
Answer: Robert Scott
I had no idea. Upon a quick Wikipedia search to fill in my apparent gap in knowledge, it appears that Scott and the rest of his expedition crew perished on their way back home to Britain due to extreme exhaustion and exposure to cold -- serves them right for stumping me.
9/5
Category: Alliances
Clue: The Quadruple Alliance began in 1813 against this country; in 1818, it let this country in and became the Quintuple Alliance.
Answer: France
In the Final Jeopardy! round, they give contestants (and viewers) 30 seconds to answer. I would think, even if I couldn't come up with the correct answer (which was the case here), that half a minute should be enough time for me to pick a country, any country, as at least a wild guess. Instead, I spent those 30 seconds dumbfounded.
9/8
Category: The Vatican
Clue: A statue of this man is being erected inside the Vatican's walls near where he was locked up in 1633.
Answer: Galileo.
Haha, it's nice to hear that the Catholic Church is finally willing to honor Galileo after they imprisoned him for the remainder of his life for proposing something as ridiculous as the Earth revolving around the Sun.
And I didn't actually know the answer to this one, so I'll deflect this minor detail with two bits of vaguely-related but otherwise completely tangential useless trivia: 1) Vatican City is smaller than the state of Rhode Island and 2) Galileo was the only current day, "pop culture" celebrity that John Milton referenced by name in his epic poem Paradise Lost.
9/10
Category: Brand Names
Clue: To feature its "Strong Enough To Stand On" product, in 1964 Schwayder Bros., Inc. changed its name to this.
Answer: Samsonite.
I love buying stuff, so I thought I'd get this one, no problem. But I guessed Krazy Glue. And has anyone ever bought luggage at the airport? I mean, they have the boutiques and they sell them there, so there must be a market for it...
9/11
Category: Lines from 19th Century Novels
Clue: "My two natures had memory in common, but all other faculties were most unequally shared between them."
Answer: The Strange Case of Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde
Very easy. "Two natures" was a dead giveaway. And I've noticed there seems to be a small misconception among the general populace regarding Mr. Hyde -- many people are under the impression (maybe because of film adaptations, maybe because they've never read the novella) that Mr. Hyde was some monstrous, towering Incredible Hulk-like creature. But actually, he was smaller in stature than Dr. Jekyll -- very short and stumpy.
9/12
Category: Royalty
Clue: It's the name of today's longest-ruling family in Europe, in power for most of the last 711 years.
Answer: Grimaldi.
Again, did not know. All that could come to mind was Prince Charles and the Queen Mum. My self-esteem and sense of self-worth is slowly diminishing. And in case it ever comes up during a dinner party or any other social gathering, "regicide" is the execution of a King (or whoever is in charge of whichever monarchy) after a conviction of wrong doing.
Clue: Plutarch's chapter on Romulus quotes this much later man as saying, "I love treason but hate a traitor."
Answer: Julius Caesar
This was easy. Ancient times --> Romulus --> Rome --> "traitor" --> Caesar. It's a pretty obvious, straightforward deduction. Two of the contestants thought it was Cicero, which I suppose is a decent guess if you're just taking a wild stab at any important Roman names that come to mind. They both got the nationality right, at least.
And most people who think they hate anchovies don't realize that it's an ingredient in authentic Caesar salad dressing. Raw eggs, too.
9/1
Category: Inventors
Clue: In 1894, in his West Orange lab, Thomas Edison shot this sport, the first ever sporting event ever filmed.
Answer: Boxing match
In 9th grade Film Class, the first stuff we learned at the beginning of the year -- long before we got around to watching any actual movies -- was the historical and technical side of film-making: Eastman Kodak, celluloid, the Kinetograph and Kinetoscope, blah blah blah. And of course, Thomas Edison. It was actually a really fun class taught by a teacher was very passionate about the subject, so I've since retained that little bit of useless trivia. That, and the early, grainy footage of the guy with the rad handlebar mustache sneezing in front of the camera.
Also, according to everthing I've read and heard, Edison was an asshole -- an aloof, cut-throat, backstabbing, idea-thieving, self-aggrandizing asshole. Not that any of it is a bad thing, I'm just saying.
This is an unscientific ranking of ghouls, from best to worst:
1) Zombies - For everyone in and around my general demographic, this is the universal favorite. In whatever form it takes, either the serious (Night of the Living Dead, 28 Days Later, Dawn of the Dead), the satirical (Shaun of the Dead, The Zombie Survival Guide), or somewhere inbetween, (Dead Alive, Re-Animator), people have a strong fondness for the rotting, flesh-eating Undead. I suppose there might be some deep-rooted, psychological reason for this (it wouldn't be Freudian though, because he believed we would actually be terrified to see a return of the dead; so maybe it'd be Jungian), perhaps due to some painful longing to see lost loved ones again...but I'm not positive about that. What I do know, however, is that Zombies look really cool. And that's probably the biggest and simplest reason why we like them so much. They're all rad-looking, with sunken eyes, gangrenous skin, and tattered clothing (it's funny how Zombies are hardly ever naked; they always still have like 1/2 of a shirt left, or 1/3 of a pair of pants). As far as physical appearances go, they're hard to beat. And that's probably why it's the perennial last-second, default Halloween costume. It's incredibly easy -- a small-sized, long-sleeved cowboy shirt; frayed, 29-waist cut-off jeans; a little bit of make-up; a vacant stare and, there you have it, Zombie Indie Kid.
2) Werewolf (aka the Wolfman) -- We all love a good martyr, and Werewolves are the reigning marytyr kings of the Monster World. They don't transform into unholy half-wolf/half-human creatures because they want to; it's because they're cursed to. It's not like they disembowel people of their own volition (that would make them cold-blooded murders, and generally unlikable), it's just that pesky full moon's fault. Their condition, their Werewolfdom, was thrust upon them -- assuming of course that you subscribe to the gypsy, Eastern European folklore popularized by Hollywood: victim is simply in the wrong place at the wrong time, getting bit by a pre-existing Werewolf -- a burden that they're forced to live with, the pall of it all hanging heavy on their conscience and their heart. For real, we eat that maudlin shit up for breakfast. We love our tragic figures. We love anyone who shoulders the load of an unfair destiny. We sympathize and empathize (as much as you can empathize with someone turning into a mythical wolf-like creature, at least) with their supernatural plight. And this is because it represents the grievances we have with the physical maladies and deformities we have in our own lives. We can relate with everything that plagues us -- the big, fat nose; the gaping underbite; the multiple sclerosis; the searing foot pain caused by fallen arches; the cleft palate; the speech impediement; the hunched curviture of the spine...we have so much in common. Life has dealt us all some unfair hands, but don't despair -- the Wolfman understands us.
3) Ghosts -- I don't even know if I believe in an afterlife. And for the sake of argument, supposing that there is, I'm probably just as likely to be reincarnated as a tree or an elephant or a dental hygienist as I am to become a floating, wailing, transparent specter (and for the record, if I ever did become a spirit, I wouldn't want to be a lame, nondescript-looking Casper kind of ghost; I would want to be like the ghost of Jacob Marley in Dickens' A Christmas Carol, carrying around all of those noisy, heavy chains as an eternal punishment for being such a misanthrope...it's very Sisyphean). But my cynicism and disbelief notwithstanding, I love a good ghost story. The eerier and creepier, the better. Like the lady who haunts room 219 at the local hotel because she hung herself from the shower head; or the little girl (wearing a typical Victorian-era Sunday dress, naturally) that died of tuberculosis and can be regularly seen playing hopscotch in the backyard garden of her childhood home; or the wandering hitchhiker who still appears on the shoulder of a lonely highway, accidentally struck and killed by a wayward driver on a particularly dark and rainy and slippery night. It's all bullshit. The people who insist on seeing these kind of things also happen to be the same kind of people who believe in it. Of course there are always the ones who try qualifying their stories with "Oh man, I was never the type to believe in ghosts, but there was this one time..." But if you asked them, honestly, if they believed in an afterlife or God or Christianity as a whole before their supposed sighting, they will almost always sheepishly answer, yes. In other words, they're predisposed to see ghosts. If I jump into the middle of the ocean expecting to see sharks, I'm probably gonna see something that kind of, sort of, looks like a shark. That's just how your mind is hard-wired to work. But despite my status as a relative non-believer (and I say "relative" to hedge my bets; hopefully if I remain noncommittal enough, Jesus will cut me a break and still let me into Heaven should I be wrong haha), I still find ghost stories completely fascinating. It speaks to my curious, macabre side. A really good ghost story will always make me hesitant to go the bathroom at night by myself.
4) Vampires - Kids who read copious amounts of Anne Rice novels (I'll give them Interview with the Vampire, but that's about it) are weird and ugly, but for the most part, vampires are still generally cool. But lets make a distinction here; frankly, the Hollywood version of Count Dracula -- the thin, pasty effeminate man, mincing and prancing around in a satin cape, sucking people off -- is actually kind of gay. But Vlad the Impaler, the real-life, historical figure that likely inspired Bram Stoker's novel? He was one of the baddest men ever. I stop and drop everything I'm doing whenever a documentary of his airs on the History Channel. Vlad was no joke, his favorite form of torture being impalement. Anyone who crossed his authority was sentenced to having a wooden stake driven through their body, starting at the anus and then slowly tearing its way through the their mouth. Being the kind soul that he was, Vlad was sure not too sharpen the stake too much, as to not give his victim the benefit of a quick, merciful death. He was known to watch these impalings while eating dinner, feasting on their spilled blood in a golden chalice. He probably thought it gave him supernatural power, bestowing him the strength of his fallen victim or something out-there like that. What a crazy, vampiric, maginificent psychopath that Vlad was.
5) Wendigo - This is underrated, under-appreciated darkhorse rounds out my Top 5. According to Native American mythology, anyone who consumes human flesh can suffer the mystical transformation into a Wendigo. For the Algonguin tribe of the Canadian wilderness, this myth was mostly a cautionary tale to deter people from murder and breaking taboos (the taboo in this case being canabalism). But much like the Werewolf, the Wendigo can also become a very sympathetic, tragic figure. There have also been stories of men getting lost in the woods, usually becoming incapacitated somehow, perhaps by badly spraining an ankle, falling down a deep ravine, or getting a foot caught in a bear trap. Either way, the man is completely immobilized and is unable to return to the confines of civilization. Days will pass by; soon, it'll be a week. He sustains himself on nearby berries and bugs, collecting rain water the best he can with overturned leaves. But the air is getting colder and his body is growing weaker. Someone will eventually find him, but he realizes that if he doesn't act in the mean time, he will die. So with his pocket knife in hand, he decides his only hope is eating some of his own flesh...and then, Wendigo. You feel for him because he's being punished for the natural human emotion of survival. You're horrified by the idea, but you can also identify with him because if placed in the same situation, you might actually do the same (not me though, as I'd probably just give up and die).
And these are the other monsters that didn't make the cut:
Mummies - They're like the dumber, lamer version of our standard non-Egyptian Zombie, all those stupid strips of bandages hanging everywhere. No one's afraid of being chased by King Tut. If anything, I'd be more scared of the curse that comes along with disturbing a Mummy's tomb than the actual Mummy itself. And no, I haven't seen a single one of those Brendan Fraser movies.
Dr. Frankenstein's Monster -- The ramifications of playing God, of creating life out of which there previously was no life, and then shunning that creation when it doesn't turn out to be exactly what you expected makes for a phenomenal psychological thriller (thank you Mary Shelley), but it really doesn't scare me. That scene when the Monster, desperate for human contact, finally decides to reveal himself to the family he had been watching from afar and that he had fallen in love with, only to have them recoil in horror when they see how hideous he is...that breaks my heart, but it doesn't exactly chill my bones. Oh, and if you want to sound like a pretentious bigshot know-it-all, be sure to correct anyone (smugly, of course) whenever they refer to the Monster as "Frankenstein" -- that is incorrect. The doctor who created it was named Victor Frankenstein, but the Monster itself had no name.
Bigfoot/Yetti/Abominable Snowman; Loch Ness Monster -- These fit under the same category; they're "monsters" in the same sense that Leprechauns, or the Tooth Fairy, or the Easter Bunny are "monsters." So yeah, they aren't monsters at all. There are people who actually hunt these make-believe, figments of imagination...and they all need real jobs.
And as it were, I have an ongoing fascination with extravagantly high-priced "super-foods." I have sampled a few, like saffron, which is the most expensive spice in the world. Relatively speaking, it's worth more than gold. Depending on the market -- and depending on how hungry people are, I suppose -- prices range anywhere from $50 - $80 an ounce. A lot of that cost is a consequence of harvesting, a labor intensive job that takes something incalculable like 80,000 flower stigmas needed to produce one paltry pound. From pictures I have seen, overworked and undereducated workers hand-pluck these flowers in far off, foreign fields that are strikingly verdant; similarly, saffron-infused paella is equally vibrant, a distinctive hue of yellow that almost glows. Overall, the taste is a little subtle (which doesn't necessarily carry a negative connotation), but sometimes borders on the muted (which carries a decidedly more negative connotation). Perhaps my palette isn't as refined as I like to think it is, but I worry that saffron might be little more than fancy food-coloring. I'm sure I would miss it if it were gone, I just don't know if I would miss it dearly. In the case of paella, I think the make-or-break factors are the freshness of the seafood, or adding just enough chicken stock, or not overcooking or undercooking the rice. It seems like saffron might be a very expensive afterthought, but I'm happy to know what it tastes like.
I've also had caviar, most likely the poster child of high-end, "designer" food. It carries an authority, a reputation. Caviar is rich; it lives in a gated community, it pays for tennis lessons, it has an excellent 401k plan, it sends its children to private school, it attends black tie events that raises money for orphans in Africa. Again, harvesting is a process: breed and nurture the sturgeon in specialized farms, closely monitor their pregnancy, gut them when they're ready to burst, then package their babies. Depending on what quality you try -- I'm assuming everything I've eaten ranges from average to slightly below -- there may or may not be an overtly fishy taste. More than anything, it'll taste salty; not unpleasantly so, but salty. The appeal, I think, is not so much the taste but the texture and mouth feel. I've heard some people liken it to little balls of Jell-O, which isn't quite right. Caviar has a little more resiliency than that, it fights back a bit. So tiny beads of tapioca would be a more appropriate comparison. They kind of pop in your mouth, which is a little fun, using your tongue to push them against the roof of your mouth. It's not as life-changing as some food elitists make it out to be, but like the saffron, I feel all the better having eaten it.
While in Japan, I've treated myself to Kobe beef. It's the fabled cut of meat from Waygu cattle. Intricately marbled with fat, its exceptionally juicy and unctuous. Ranchers achieve this higher quality of beef via its unorthodox method of raising the animal: they serve them sake and beer; feed them only top notch grain; brush their fur to a beautiful sheen; and give them daily massages that, presumably, lessen stiffness and muscle tension, resulting in tender steaks. At $300/lb, I'm not necessarily sure it's that much better than our good old fashioned domestic cows here in the States, but it is delicious...almost creamy. I had the tenderloin cut into thick medalions; it was cooked rare, the surface of the meat just barely licked by the flames of the grill. It lay on top of a bed of greens and underneath a sauce that I can't exactly recall. It was a great culinary experience, but I think the geographical experience of actually being in Japan was of more importance to me.
I've never tried Foie gras, but I know all about it. A duck (or goose) is kept in a tiny wire cage as a long metal tube is thrust down its throat, force-feeding it cornmeal several times a day. The bird continues to eat and eat until its liver becomes fatty and diseased, swelling over 10 times its normal size. The duck (or goose) is then put out of its bloated misery, slain for its engorged liver. This reminds me of the 3rd circle of Hell in Dante's Inferno. Because of their sins of a lifetime of over-gorging, the gluttons serve their punishment here, forced to eat mud and dirt for the rest of their damned existence. Somehow I think the duck's (or geese's) suffering is less poetic (and more cruel), but that wouldn't necessarily keep me from eating it.
But more than anything -- absolutely more than anything -- I want to try a truffle. They are fungi and they are precious. Pigs are used to hunt them, sniffing along the terrain in the mossy, foggy forests of Italy and France -- I can practically smell the heavy dew in the air. It all sounds so mystical and mythological. They seem so other-worldly, like something not of this time nor this dimension. I can imagine Hobbits feasting on them during their journey to Mount Doom, giving them the required nourishment to destroy Sauron's ring. It's the only food I can think of that is actually scoured for. I know food that is killed, produced, grown, and harvested, but definitely not scoured. They're worth $500 a pound. They often shave it into risotto, or on top of pasta. They look like little black clumps of coal that are the size of a clenched fist, ranging from the size of an infant's to an adult's. I want to know what all the hype is about, but interestingly, all online searches tend to be equally vague and inconclusive. According to Yahoo! Answers, the taste of truffles are "hard to define," "an acquired taste," and "unique," but I think that's kind of a cop out. It's like a non-answer. It's the type of response that leads me to believe these are people who don't know how to fully articulate their thoughts or, more likely, they've never actually tried a truffle and are just full of it. Most things taste like things -- fish tastes light and delicate, onion taste sweet and earthy, honey dew tastes clean and nectarous, Cheetos taste processed and artificial. So what do truffles taste like? I've heard some TV chefs describe it as a flavor similar to mushroom, which makes enough sense considering they're both fungus. And make no mistake, I love mushrooms. Regular white button, portobello, baby portabella, chantrelles, oyster, straw, cremini, morels -- they're delicious. But even if truffles tasted like the most intense, most exquisite mushroom ever, I still have a hard time believing that they're as good as we've been led to believe. Perhaps its legend precedes its flavor. I must eat it, though.
