-Only Two-


You NEED a TV, my parents said, and then went out and bought an expensive one against my wishes.

It was the third set offered, and the third rejected. It's now occupying the space where their green-deficient television set used to be, in the kitchen. I hope they enjoy it, and soon forgive me.

How much fun it would have been, to maintain my principles in full and reject all television. But I'm feeling magnanimous in victory. I'd like to give the appearance of compromise, even if they are completely wrong.

After a suitable bargaining period, I agreed to take a smaller television set. This must disappoint the help at the old folks home, who as far as I know were the only ones to watch it. My surviving grandfather certainly hasn’t used it ever since he stopped sitting up or unclenching his eyes.

The set was small enough to carry up the garret stairs unaided. I put it on the bureau, plugged in the antennae, and ran the auto-programming function.

Would you believe I only get the Home Shopping Network and PBS?

I'm laughing helplessly as I turn the screen to face the wall like a naughty child.

-Joy was Candle Three, and it Burned Out-

Seasonal depression is enough to drive many of us into the deepest solitude we can find. Just ask KingMob.

This is all part of western civilization - the lament that followed the desperate revels for the favor of past gods and spirits; the balm against notions of oblivion.

Saturnalia has been supplanted, assimilated and co-opted many times over. But the death of the sun still affects us as it did them. We still don’t know enough about ourselves to control freezing-cold feelings.

Of course, what better way to counter western ignorance than with western wisdom? Experience the Allopathy!

-Less than one-half of one percent-

Imagine a party with 30+ baby-boomers, each packing and quaffing some variety of yellow tail wine. Somewhere on the same table is a bottle of Ariel’s dealcoholized wine. The goal of the experiment is to determine if people will read labels once the bottles with the recognizable yellow tail Kangaroo labels run dry.

Yes, there are a few extra variables here to diminish the authority of the experiment. The state of intoxication plays a role, and so does the number of partygoers in a given conversation circle. All in all, it’s a great mess of an experiment, an insult to the scientific method. No control group – it’s a party, for chrissakes.

But the risks make it all worthwhile. Imagine the most obnoxious souse on the lot threat-talking over everyone else as he/she fills a cup with Ariel Red, long practice and abuse opening the gullet for a long pull.. Only to spit it back out on the host’s rug/couch/dog with a startled curse.

The scientist might feel somewhat responsible for the mess. But who are the partygoers really going to blame?

-Christmas Eve Funeral-

My grandfather died today.

Three grandparents went into slow declines, taking years to die; the surviving grandfather appears to be doing the same thing.

I don't know what it would be like to lose them suddenly, and I suppose I won't.

Dr. M's Entry

-Make Passes-

As per the comment section below, there is an urgent task before us:

We must come up with a new term that refers to the revolutionary beautification process of taking off one's glasses.

I'm not talking about the kind of removal that makes peoples' mouths turn up at the edges. Not the "hey, you were attractive before, but now you're really something, kiddo" Nay, this is the kind of transformation that calls for a crescendo of trumpets as the hooks rise from the indentations on the ear. The object of Spectacled One's affection catches his or her breath as the lenses fall away and the shy ingénue's uncertain lips uncompress, and suddenly this pure and effortless beauty blazes - blazes! - at the audience, making US all fall back in wonder. "Why didn't we see it before?" we ask ourselves, "she's BEAUTIFUL."

Of course we saw it before. This was parodied so well in a movie I did not see; "Not Another Teen Movie" by Chyler Leigh. I wanted to include a picture of Leigh-pre-transformation, but could not find a good shot among the IMDB holdings. Then I went to Google's Image search. Oh, foolish, foolish man.

Maybe some dowdy, bespectacled pictures lurk among those sites, I really don't know. You see, the names of the sites suggest these are not things I can safely look up at work, unless I want to answer a lot of questions later. See for yourself.

But don't be gone too long. Don't get distracted!

We need that term. I am putting all of my reference skills to work on it.

In the meantime, check out this Salon article on the subject.

-Next in Line-


I am reworking my 'professional' site; there will likely be a Clairvoyance later.
In the meantime, many thanks to Lisa Whiteman, one of several photographers to capture the High Line.

-Museum-


Ghada and I used our student identifications to gain access to the Art and Natural History Museum in town. We spent the next three hours dodging school groups, pushing diorama buttons, and affecting the proper art-appreciation rictus.

At one point, we tried to get ahead of these student groups to get to a screening of the Machu Picchu film. Unfortunately, the students and their grown handlers had the same idea, and the two of us were carried along the narrow hall like two sticks in a deluge of floodwaters.

As we were so moved, we noticed cases of stuffed birds lining the walls. After the film we devoted more attention to this collection, which included some favorites from childhood: ospreys, sandpipers, great-horned owls. Each new raptor could elicit instant admiration or disgust, based on some instinctual measure of attractiveness.

'I like what you've done with your feathers, Peregrine Falcon. Symetrical beak, good use of dark colors and aerodynamic shapes."

"Ugh. Vulture. Carrion-eater. Scaly-head."

Feels harsh enough when they're dead behind the glass. Imagine the thoughtless nastiness that goes into the instant trials people reserve for human birds of feather.

-Trouble Getting Here-

The band made it, most of them. The bass guitarist, himself a sub riding with a another band, did not.
The first act tried to help, staying on stage as long as possible, and finally loaning a single snare drum and cymbal to the "abbreviated" band's otherwise unequipped drummer.

The boys are clearly crestfallen, nevertheless. Their audience is small, and dwindling. So now, as they set up, I look at their sad faces and wonder how well they can wing it.

After all, that's what this situation is; taking the pieces - if there are any - and putting them together, drawing on that innermost resources of personal charisma and moxie to make good on the performance you'd promised despite the interference of outside forces.

Every theatre company should have "Waiting for Godot" in reserve, rehearsed for the day the light cue computer fails, and only the house lights operate. Every presenter should have an alternative to powerpoint, in case the building loses electricity.

They're on.

"Radon Home Test Kit" had better work - the sullen barmaid leaning on the counter behind me trashes band number one, and they sounded good to my ears. "Radon Home Test Kit" garners a five-second applause; despite my loyalty to my friend, I find myself wishing someone with a growl sang their songs.

They finish with "Holland 1945" from Neutral Milk Hotel, complete with trombone. The second band is here by now. They approve of this choice, and the barmaid grudgingly claps as well. It is not a complete success, perhaps, but at least their trip ended on a high note.

At this point I try to remember when I last showed up to support a friend's band. To my knowledge, this is the first time.

Remarkable.

-Spoken Plague-

Many people are reeling from the latest flu virus. I felt perfectly fine until I called my mother and discovered that she had contracted it. Less then three hours later my throat had cobwebs in it.

Hypochondriac? No, this is the same guy who disdained to be given the meningitis vaccine because he didn't trust any trend that herded people like so much sheep.

It's similar to the Andromeda Strain, where the sickness couldn't kill the guy who knew he'd caught it, because it made him nervous, and scared. That particular bug didn't do its dirty work when the heart rate elevated and the adrenaline pumped faster, so too does this flu only catch hold in me when my major projects have ended.

Or when I'm chatting on the phone about the plague itself.

-d'rather-


Suppose I wax poetic on the winter storm. Would that help distract me?
It is a sad state of affairs when all you have to distract you from one piece of work is another.
I do not consider this work; I am refering to a different assignment, long and lugubrious as the other, but still doable.

Anyway, I'd rather not wax poetic on a storm I cannot see.

I'd rather read "Gin" or the "My Father had a Daughter." That's why I came to a computer lab away from home, to keep me away from the objects that surely would destroy my work ethic. Posting at the end of a night's work here does appeal to me - I did so with regularity last spring, or left e-mails in friends boxes. I still have access to a few, like this one:

My Gods, the view from this hall is simply fantastic! You would think the sewers had been emptied of all their mole-peoples this very night. From my place in the 24-hour computer lab, I feel I can best determine the route I shall have to take to navigate the turbulent streets, unhappy denizens and all. Alas, I shall have to make that journey shortly. Let it be said that tremendous deeds have occured up here this night. I have changed my legal topic drastically, and will present my findings breathlessly - albeit nervously - to my law professors in a matter of hours. They are permitted to disagree, of course. And through my research I have learned that I am permitted a "temporary insanity" plea if I kill them on 72+ waking hours. Huzzah!

I suppose I'd really rather be writing like that.

-Tumbleweed of Fur-

In anticipation of my parent's visit, I have cleaned the attic that has been my home since the late summer. They will not be staying here tonight, or visiting for long, but I thought it might be prudent to clean the place somewhat to reassure that false impression they have of my maturity. Dishes, clothes, papers. Easy enough.

The carpet. Yikes.

My landlord has told me on more than one occasion that I am not supposed to have a pet. I counter by pointing out problems with the building that threaten our safety. There is a certain amount of give-and-take between landlords and tenants in this part of town.

Still, the familiar's fur is particularly long, and she has the run of the place, such as it is. Fur can be found on the desk, the bookshelf, and unfortunately, on the stray dinner plate left out too long.

My vacuum died a month ago, and the two of us were growing accustomed to the seemingly animate piles of fuzz. The vents send them up into the air and all around like that plastic bag the neighbor films in American Beauty. This is about as touching, but it's still garbage. I've been seizing the largest to fall into my line of vision and relocating them to the trashcan. A safer habitat.

With the folks coming, I had to be more ruthless. I borrowed an ancient vacuum so loud the percussionists below quit their act, and probably ran for open doorways. Once this was finished, I remembered how much I liked the place when it was clean. Made me linger before scampering off to work again; the feline will probably drop some more before I return.

-Incognito Communicado-

As I said on the 29th of November, Joseph Epstein's work got me thinking about the intellectual snobbery people like me tend to suffer, or inflict. I've thought about it as much as I can, current events and errands permitting, and got a new insight when Vainglorious ascended the garret stairs to borrow a black magic marker.

It turns out she is developing the Arachne dance performance for tomorrow, and needed to mark her "web," a strategically cut bedsheet. On my way out I knocked and asked if I could see what she had planned - feeling somewhat attached to this particular endeavor since I helped in the research process. After some fidgeting, prop fixing, and coy refusals on her part, and outright begging on the part of her apartment mate and myself, we convinced her to run the sequence as much as she could.

She did her best to sabotage the performance. She put herself down, informed us that she would not continue, said we were making her nervous.

It was still lovely.

When she explains the choices and emotions behind it, she uses an adolescent shorthand. She sounds like an MTV chatroom.
But the dance is high communication. It serves as a warning to anyone silently fuming over poor oratory, or misapplied grammar.