Amazon Is Onto Me

I like books. I own quite a few. At least seven! Hard to believe, I know. And in addition to my physical, paper and paste library, I have an ever growing digital library on my Kindle.

I should also mention that I’m frugal. For example, that Kindle I mentioned? It’s not actually a physical device, but a free app downloaded onto my iPad. (To be fair, does anyone own an actual Kindle anymore? Do they post on MySpace about all the great books they’ve read?) So while I’m always looking for things to add to my library, I will not spend great amounts of money to do so.

Amazon makes it easy, though. Every day, I check my Kindle ‘Wish List,” and I sort the list by price, from lowest to highest. Generally, the books range in price from about $8 - $14, but there are frequent markdowns. Whenever a book on the list drops below $5, I go ahead and snatch it up. Every couple of weeks, I get a book for, like, $1.99.

Lately, though, I’ve noticed something strange. The same book shows up at the top of the list as the lowest-priced book of the day. That’s not unusual: Once a book hits its low price of, say, $7.99, it will stay there for a while, and unless and until something drops below it, it will remain at the same position. In this case, though, the price of the book has been changing every day, but very slightly, and within the range of $6.22 - $6.87. And while I admit to feeling a certain temptation on the day the book hit $6.66, I am sticking to my sub $5 principles.

I can’t help but think, though, that Amazon has tumbled to my strategy, and they’re engaged in a psychological probe, trying to tweak the price ever so slightly to see when I might take the plunge. Seeing the algorithm in action as it tries to suss out the exact level of my stinginess is unnerving.

Look, Bezos, I’ll make a deal with you: Drop some juicy “Apprentice” outtakes on the internet, and I’ll spring for the extra buck.

The Word of Dog

There’s a sheepadoodle in Washington State that knows how to talk. I had no idea that such a thing existed. I mean, what the hell is a sheepadoodle?

OK, acceptable.

But as for the whole “talking” thing, I remain unimpressed. 

To be clear, the dog in question, “Bunny” (if that is her real name), is not some sort of real-world Scooby Doo. She communicates by pushing buttons—buttons that have words printed on them, allowing her to create rudimentary phrases at a slightly higher developmental level than that displayed by the former President of the United States.

To be sure, this is intriguing, and it’s somewhat entertaining when Bunny seems to be using her button collection to express displeasure at her owner’s lack of alacrity in taking her for walks. At the same time, having to set up a rather unwieldy Louisiana-shaped mat with about fifty buttons in order to allow a dog to  express such complex thoughts as “Feed me” seems like a bit more trouble than it’s worth.

Dogs (and for that matter cats, guinea pigs, parrots, and any number of other domesticated animals) have no need for fancy technological support to communicate with humans. They have us wrapped around their paws all on their own power.

Still Not as Gross as Brussels Sprouts

Cicadas are the new sushi. Bun Lai, a chef in New Haven, Connecticut, has developed several recipes centered on the cicada, that most reclusive of insects, known for their ear-splitting noise, as well as the fact that they emerge to swarm over parts of the East Coast but once every 17 years.

So three things:

Number one, yuck.

Number two, see number one.

Number three, did we mention that cicadas only show up every 17 years? Basing a restaurant menu on cicadas, then, seems like a flawed business model, no matter how “delicious” one purports them to be. And one shudders to think what a chef uses as a cicada substitute. ‘Cause let’s face it, when it comes to insects, the East Coast is the furthest thing from a food desert. Indeed, I suspect the kitchen of even the most upscale restaurant hosts whole pantries full of. . .shall we say, ingredients. . . for an enterprising chef.

So, y’know, enjoy your cicada frittatas all you like, if that’s your thing. But come 2022, I’d think twice before chowing down on that Brood X Burger.

No Walk in the Park

I was just reading a review of a couple of books about walking. The theme of both books was the idea of walking as a boost to creativity—literary creativity in particular.

Maybe I need to walk more.

I used to walk a lot, really. When I lived in New York, I followed a principle of only walking—as opposed to hopping the bus or subway—when traveling within a borough. Of course, I couldn’t follow this rule exclusively: Time was often a consideration, as was company. While I might not have thought much about walking from, say, Jackson Heights to Forest Hills, my dinner companions might look askance.

Still, when time was not of the essence, I wouldn’t think twice about employing feet as mode of transportation. When I was working at Hunter College (68th and Lexington) and rehearsing in Alphabet City, I walked every evening, rain or shine. When I was living in Jackson Heights and working at LaGuardia Community College, I would walk to and fro, five days a week. 

I’m not claiming these as examples of great physical exertion. In both cases, we’re talking about walks of three to five miles. But, still, good for the heart, good for the legs, and ostensibly generative of all kinds of creative output. 

Still, the great American novel remains unwritten.

I think the problem might be that, while I’ve never minded—and frequently enjoyed—walking, I’ve never really cared for going for a walk. Whenever someone invites me to go for a walk, my first question is, “To where?” Walking is not an end in itself. I need a destination—even a completely arbitrary one—before setting off.

And maybe that’s what’s blocking the creative juices. Because I suspect that those Romantic poets and Parisian flaneurs were far more comfortable with the idea of letting their minds wander along with their feet. If you’re not concentrating on a destination, with its attendant choices about pathways and street surfaces, you have more mental space for creative contemplation.

Maybe someday I’ll learn to just enjoy the journey and thereby find myself at a strange and wondrous endpoint.

Barnaby Jones Doesn’t Smoke

I like my voice remote. To get to Netflix, I just press the voice-command button and say, “Netflix.” You know, instead of opening the menu, scrolling over to Apps, opening THAT menu, scrolling over to the Netflix icon and selecting it. Like an animal! No, the voice remote is a wondrous innovation.

Sometimes, though, I wonder about it. Like, when I say “Netflix,” and I get the message, “To get to a show faster, say something like ‘“Quincy” on Netflix.’”

[DIGRESSION: And if you’re not impressed by those embedded quotation marks, you are just NOT paying attention! EOD]

“Quincy”? 

I mean, I’m currently bouncing between “Supernatural” and “Penny Dreadful.” I’ve recently watched things like “The Queen’s Gambit” and “Community.” What kind of f—ed up algorithm looks at that and says, “Yup, ‘Quincy’ it is!”?

[DIGRESSION: Seriously, are you not impressed with my punctuation game today? EOD]

Speaking of “Penny Dreadful” and “Supernatural” (and any number of other shows): When I start an episode, I get the standard “rating message,” warning me of all the moral and psychological depravity to which the show might expose me. Standard warning for “Penny Dreadful”: Violence, sex, nudity, gore, smoking.

I know smoking is bad and all, but does it really require a trigger warning?

Checking In

I know I’ve been AWOL the last couple of days. Just kind of exhausted from work. But I know that the last time I disappeared for a while I disappeared for a WHILE, so I wanted to just check in and let you all know—all three of you—that I’m not planning on abandoning the blog again. I just need to be inspired... and maybe get a little more sleep.

But since you’re probably craving some kind of random observation, I will mention this: Whenever I start a new post, the first letter of the post is always automatically indented one space. I don’t understand why. And of course it doesn’t matter, and I could just ignore it. . . But of course I can’t just ignore it! Have you met me? Nothing triggers incipient OCD like random unexplained typographical irregularities!

Is Blogger just messing with me? Pissed off by my extended leave of absence? Blogger! I’m back! Give me a break! Sheesh!

Grover Could Conceivably Refer to Cleveland

 It occurred to me that any “Kermits” born since around 1975 or so were probably named after the frog.

I mean, seriously, if you were on “Match Game,” and the final Super Match was “Kermit _____,” all three answers would be “the Frog.”

And yeah, I just hit you with a “Match Game” reference! That’s just how cool I am!