The Doctor Is In

The Solipsist would like to give a shout-out to "Doctor Who."  The series has been around in various incarnations and with various leading men since the 1960s.  YNSHC grew up with the Tom Baker version; its current incarnation stars David Tennant as the eponymous hero.  It can currently be seen at various times on either the Sci-Fi Network or BBC America.

For those not familiar with the show, "Doctor Who" is about the last of the Time Lords, a more or less immortal race of time-traveling beings (well, since he's the last of them, they're presumably not THAT immortal).  Our hero, it should be noted, is not actually NAMED "Doctor Who"; he is simply "The Doctor"--his actual name is shrouded in mystery.  He travels about in a TARDIS (Time and Relative Dimensions in Space) Machine, which is cleverly disguised as an old British Police Box (a phone booth).  It's bigger on the inside, though--roughly the size of the bridge on the Enterprise, and that's just the part we can see.  He travels the universe with a variety of human (and other) companions--most of whom are attractive young women.  The women invariably develop debilitating crushes on the Doctor, but it's not clear that the relationships ever go beyond the chaste.  But the relationships are not really the point: The show is a pure adventure, as the Doctor uses his galaxy-sized intelligence and a surfeit of technobabble to dispatch threats to life across the universe, always with a minimum of violence and bloodshed.  The Doctor is about saving lives, not taking them.

As mentioned above, the show has been on the air in various forms for over forty years now.  Time Lords, you see, can "regenerate," so when the actors and/or producers want to move on, they can easily be replaced simply by introducing a "new" Doctor.  He's essentially the same character with the quirks and mannerisms of the new actor, fitted to the vision of the new producers.  David Tennant (Dr. Ten) will soon be replaced by Matt Smith (Dr. Eleven).  Perhaps of more disturbing significance, the executive producer, Russell T. Davies, will also be moving on.  (Pay attention to the writing credits at the start of the episodes; the ones written by Davies are invariably the best.)

What makes the show special is that, for science-fiction, the production values are somewhat on the cheap side.  To be sure, the recent episodes are technically far superior to those from the 60's and 70's.  But the Daleks (the Time Lords' arch-enemies) still look like nothing so much as giant salt shakers with periscopes, and the extraplanetary sets look like, well, like sets.  We're not talking "Battlestar Galactica," here.

But what the show lacks in technical dazzle, it more than makes up for in those less important areas like scripts and acting.  The dialogue is often silly, but also quite funny.  While the Doctor's enemies are often violent and inhuman--in every sense of the word--the writers are always aware that they are creating entertainment, and they do their best to incorporate clever banter and/or sight gags into every episode.  The stories can be quite touching, too, without being overly saccharine.  And when the script calls for technobabble--as any science fiction script eventually will--the actors are more than capable of pulling it off smoothly and convincingly.  

The MOST impressive thing about "Doctor Who," though, is apparent when you compare it to other serial-type shows like "Lost" or "Heroes."  Now, the Solipsist loves "Lost," but he's still not convinced that the writers know what they're doing or where the show is going.  Every week, they throw in plot twists and wrinkles, which are certainly interesting, but sometimes incoherent.  Each series of "Doctor Who," on the other hand (at least the recent ones), consists of a number of episodes, all of which are self-contained.  Each episode, however, will introduce, however subtly and in passing, plot points that build up to a season finale.  Only during the finale, though, do you realize that the whole season has been building up to this.  So, for example, throughout the first series (starring Christopher Eccleston as The Doctor and Billie Piper as his companion, Rose), the characters encounter the phrase "Bad Wolf."  It's nothing major or even particularly noticeable, until the end, at which point its significance becomes clear.  (And then re-watching the episodes brings its own rewards, as you notice how the whole series was constructed.)  In short, those Brit TV writers could teach their American counterparts a thing or two about plot development.

So, if you haven't already checked it out, start now.  You can even watch the episodes instantly on Netflix.  It's a pleasant way to pass an hour or two.  You'll thank the Solipsist later.

It's the Thought That Counts II

So, as promised a couple of days ago, the American Psychosomatic Institute.

In fact, it's really not funny.  The organization of mental health professionals is, according to its website (clickworthy), "Dedicated to the Integration of Biological, Psychological and Social Factors in Medicine."  In other words, they study the effect that the mind has on the body--an effect whose existence few would deny.  Fair enough.  And check out the titles of presentations at their upcoming conference: "Biopsychosocial Outcomes of Cancer Patients: Risk and Protective Factors" and "Hypertension: The Role of Environmental Stress, Genetics, and Individual Differences in Etiology, Prevention and Treatment." Honestly, the most promising title (from the perspective of one in search of things ridiculous) is "Effects of Couple Conflict in the Laboratory on Salivary Alpha Amylase."  One envisions the Bickering Bickersons pausing to drool into test tubes at regular intervals.  Overall, one must conclude that this is an organization of psychiatric heavy hitters, not to be trifled with.

Still, we'll do our best.

Part of the problem stems from a misconception that the Solipsist probably shares with many laymen: that psychosomatic illness is synonymous with hypochondria.  It is not.  A psychosomatic illness is just that, an illness.  If a man suffers from, say, hysterical blindness, then he CAN NOT SEE.  And while there may be no clear physical cause of this condition, the fact that the man's brain (or, if you prefer, mind) is telling him that he can't see is enough to render him sightless.  A hypochondriac, on the other hand, is your basic Aunt Rifke, moaning and groaning about her impending doom, all the while living to the age of 97.

So one can rationally understand a mental-health specialist who devotes himself to the former cases.  And yet there's still something goofy sounding about a convention dedicated to people who specialize in the study of something that, in SOME sense, doesn't exist.  It's like having a convention dedicated to minotaurs.  Or Star Trek.

Oh.

OK, never mind that.  It's like. . . .  Well, it's like having a great artist who devotes himself to the restoration of forgeries.  Even if a forged Rembrandt is really beautiful, it's still not a Rembrandt.  Why spend your time trying to fix it up?

Ah, but this leads us discursively to question the value of authenticity: Is a fake Rembrandt that looks as beautiful as a real Rembrandt not, in fact, a work of art?  What's in a name?  A rose by any other name would smell as sweet!  (Hey, that's pretty good: Is someone getting all this?)  And by this reasoning, is one who devotes himself to the restoration of "fake" patients not a medical artist in his own right?

Well, yes.

So the Solipsist--who is nothing if not a humanitarian--is hereby pledging to devote himself to the care of sufferers of psychosomatic illness.  Not the PSYCHOLOGICAL care, mind you: He's not qualified for that.  No, the Solipsist will provide his medical services.  He will prepare fine poultices of grape juice and ginger ale and prescribe them to his semi-suffering followers.  He will bandage intact flesh, and bind healthy bones.  It's the least he can do to assist the psychological saviors in our midst.

Hey, when it comes to psychosomatic illness, it really is the thought that counts.

It's the Thought That Counts

No, we shan't be discussing the American Psychosomatic Society, today (although, come to think of it, that would be a pretty good title for that topic as well). Instead, we shall be discussing gifts, specifically, gifts exchanged between heads of state.

If you haven't already heard, President Obama and Queen Elizabeth II exchanged gifts yesterday at Buckingham Palace. The President presented Her Majesty with an iPod loaded with show tunes, as well as a songbook signed by Richard Rodgers. Now, YNSHC thinks that sounds pretty nice, but several people have commented that Obama's gift was "lame."

Lame?

What were they expecting him to give the Queen? Delaware? She probably doesn't want it back.

Some have pointed out that Queen Elizabeth already has an iPod. Or two. Reports are still coming in.

Folks, she's the richest woman in the universe. She probably already has seven of everything in each size and color.

Others have said the older-than-God Queen wouldn't be comfortable using the new technology. This is possible, but one suspects the Queen has a royal retainer whose sole function is to keep the royal playlist up-to-date. (YNSHC has it on good authority that Queen Elizabeth is partial to death metal.)

And let's face it folks, the whole gift-exchange thing is just symbolism anyway--at least when you're dealing with popularly elected leaders. Sure, if you're a head-of-state visiting, say, Zimbabwe, there's a good chance you'll come home with a jewel-encrusted leopard, but in more enlightened societies, we expect the gifts to be simpler, more personal, again, more symbolic.

For some historical perspective, consider that President George Bush (the first) presented the Sultan of Brunei with tube socks. Franklin Delano Roosevelt and Joseph Stalin, in what is still remembered as one of the great faux pas of gift-giving history, exchanged gifts only to discover that they had EACH gotten the OTHER a fountain pen. And no less a figure than Thomas Jefferson presented the King of France with a selection of smoked meats and cheeses. So, in the grand scheme of things, an iPod isn't so bad.

By the way, you know what the Queen gave our President? An autographed picture. Of herself.

Talk about lame.

Another Day Another Dolor

"If I were punished for every pun I shed, there would not be left a puny shed of my punnish head."

--Samuel Johnson

What is it about paronomasia that people find so punishing?  Can we not play with words, as long as we know where they've been?

A recent New York Times  article (click title) explored the relative merits of this rhetorical technique.  For many people, there are none.  For others, scarcely a sentence can be uttered without resort to some form of pun.  The Solipsist is neither clever enough nor, frankly, motivated enough to try cramming puns into every nook and cranny of today's entry.  So forgive him if today's entry is somewhat bland, not especially pun-gent.  (Sorry.)

And there it is: The nearly unavoidable apology that comes after a pun.  Particularly a lame one, as the one above surely is.  As the Op-Ed writer pointed out, puns more commonly elicit groans--or at best half-smiles--rather than laughter.  And yet they are also associated with wit.  Why?

The Solipsist thinks the main problem with a pun is not so much the thing itself as its medium. His theory is that puns go over better when spoken than when written.  There's something about a written pun that seems somehow forced, too clever by half (or three quarters, or seven-eighths--oh my, YNSHC has been driven to disfraction!)  (Sorry.)  When you read a piece of writing, you assume the writer has taken time to think about words and phrasing.  A pun also implies a certain amount of thought--implies that the writer took his time, sitting in his dark parlor, candlewax dripping over a weathered skull (did people not have candlesticks in the dark ages?  And where did they get all those skulls?), until he finds le mot juste.  And le mot juste turns out to be a pretty lame play on words.

A SPOKEN pun, on the other hand, with its air of spontaneity, can often be more rewarding.  The other day, Solipsist was listing his various responsibilities at his place of employment.  When his interlocutor commented that this seemed like an unusually large number of jobs, YNSHC replied, "Yeah, I have more positions than the Kama Sutra."

OK, maybe not a knee-slapper, but not bad for the spur of the moment.  And it is this very improvisational quality that seems missing in most written puns.  So, if you're going to write a pun, you almost always have to apologize for forcing your (forced) wit on your unsuspecting readership.  Either that, or the pun itself better be extraordinary.

By the way, have you ever met a multilingual punster?  (No, this is not the set-up for a bad joke.)  Once, the Solipsist was dining with some Spaniards who lived in New York City, where they were studying German literature.  Try to keep up with this one:

How does a German atheist tell you it's raining in Barcelona?

Gottes caen.

(Explication: The above Spanish phrase roughly translates into "raindrops fall."  However, it shares a pronunciation with the German phrase, "Gott es kein," which roughly translates to "There is no God."  Get it?)

So the next time you're confronted by an irredeemable punster, take a moment to be thankful that he's only punning in one language.

Tomorrow: The American Psychosomatic Society.

Boobies! (Toldja We Were Gonna Be Whimsical)

Today the Solipsist had his students draft a movie review.  We first discussed the elements that could be critiqued (e.g., plot, acting, script, etc.).  Then the Solipsist asked the class to work in groups to discuss a movie and come up with some notes toward a review.  In one group, a student was talking about "Watchmen."  His comment: "'Watchmen' was a good movie, but there was too much penis!"

Now THAT's a topic sentence!

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So, as promised, the Brassage.

The other day, "Good Morning America" (GMA) featured a report on the "Brassage," a specially designed bra that supposedly massages the lymph nodes, thereby removing toxins from the body and perhaps even helping prevent breast cancer.  When the Solipsist saw this, he figured it had to be good for a couple hundred words.  We'll see.

First, there's something jarring about turning on GMA and being confronted with scenes from a Victoria's Secret runway show (or the like).  Not that there's anything wrong with buxom women in lacy thongs flouncing down a catwalk at any time of day, but one really wants to have one's coffee first, so as to be more fully awake and aware to appreciate it.  At the same time, one almost pities the poor hausfrau (or hausmann, for that matter), who looks to the morning news and talk shows as innocuous background noise for getting the kids ready for school.  All of a sudden, little Johnny, who's in 6th grade and just starting to feel those funny stirrings down there, has stopped eating his Froot Loops and is going to be hungry on the school bus, all because he couldn't take his eyes off the television.  Anyway, the Solipsist is all in favor of healthy breasts, but he's pretty sure that none of those lingerie-clad models was actually wearing the Brassage.

Still, we could chalk this all up as a variant on that classic marketing ploy, "SEX!!!!  OK, now that I've got your attention, let's talk about the latest innovations in paper-clip technology."  But what about the Brassage itself?  Does it work?  And if so, then, if this video reaches even ONE at-risk woman, isn't it worth a couple of Froot-Loop-deprived pre-adolescents?  Perhaps, but this is a significant "if."

According to yesterday's Chicago Sun-Times (click on today's title for a link to the article), the Brassage has been pulled from the market following the GMA--you should excuse the expression--expose, during which the bra's designer walked out of the interview when questions were raised about the product.

It's probably all for the best.  One has images of far too many bar fights breaking out after some variant of the following conversation:

"Hey, Asshole, did you just feel up my girlfriend?"

"Wha'?  [Heavy Brooklyn accent] Na, na, na.  I mean, not fuh nothin'.  Ah just thought dat she looked like she was buildin' up some toxins.  KnowwhatImean?"

Punch.

Now, the question is, do they have a similar product for prostate cancer?

Tomorrow: Puns!

Ice Cream Musings

The Solipsist has been catching some flak lately.  His father accused him of incipient conservatism (presumably because of his Kirsten Gillibrand post, although it may also be attributable to the Ann Coulter blow-up doll under the bed--perhaps we've said too much).  FOS complained that YNSHC's encomium to U2 left him "cross-eyed."  (Sure, but just try listening to HIM blather on about Jethro Tull or Han Solo at Star's End for an hour or two!)  So, in the spirit of lightening things up a bit, this week will be devoted to flights of fancy and whimsical observations (barring some TRULY blogworthy horror).  For starters, a few words on ice cream (hey, what's more whimsical than starting with dessert?):

If you're in a relationship, your ice-cream selections can't be too appealing.  If you get something like, "Unspeakably Hideous Death by Chocolate" (or its kin), you risk accusations of insensitivity and/or attempting to undermine the dietary resolve of a loved one.  Also, you don't want to get anything too tempting to the kids in the house because that would be bad for their tummies!  (And, y'know, then they'd eat all your ice cream!)  So you scan the freezer, constructing pro and con tables in your head, looking for that perfect flavor--the one that's appealing to you, but not too appealing to anyone else.  (The Solipsist has found Butterfinger infused flavors to be particularly efficacious for his purposes.) 

(Upon reading this passage, WOS commented that she thinks the Solipsist is talking about her--about ways to keep her from eating Solipsist's ice cream!  Nothing could be further from the truth, Dear Reader.  Still, she has promised that, in the middle of the night, she's going to sneak to the refrigerator, dump the ice cream down the sink, and then put the container back in the freezer, leaving a nasty surprise for YNSHC in the morning.)

Other thoughts occur in the ice-cream aisle:  Could there be anything more boring than "Triple Vanilla" (an actual flavor)!  Who would buy that?  Probably the kind of person who collects stamps.

Also, when did animal "tracks" become appropriate ice cream flavors?  Check out your grocer's freezer: "Moose Tracks," "Turtle Tracks," "Bear Tracks."  What's next?  Slug Trails?

Tomorrow: The Brassage!

The New Opiate of the People

Sudhir Venkatesh, self-described "rogue sociologist" (hide the women!), speculates that bloggers may be to blame for the lack of street riots during today's financial crisis.  Blogs, as suggested by the title of your favorite source for news, information, and kvetching, are often solipsistic endeavors.  And they are a symptom of the atomization of the world.  Because of this atomization, we are unable or unwilling--or maybe just uninspired--to join up and rise up and protest and throw things, despite the overwhelming anger that pundits keep telling us we're feeling.

Venkatesh is not exactly advocating a storming of the Bastille, or even of AIG headquarters.  He is, however, suggesting that society would benefit from more engagement on the part of its members.  If "American anger remains corralled on the internet," he writes, "into e-mail messages to Congress and in sporadic small-group protests, it is unlikely that the Obama administration will do much to assuage the anger of taxpayers."  He may have a point.  Certainly, there is a pervasive sense of malaise, one that works against the idea of taking to the streets.  And maybe we are at an end of empire stage, where bread and circuses (e.g., hi-def on-demand television and celebrity dance competitions) are temporarily pacifying the masses.

This particular blogger, though--this part of Venkatesh's problem--thinks the problem lies in the arcane and confusing nature of the current crisis.  How do you rise up when you don't even know what you're mad at?  The world economy seems to have collapsed, but what is that economy based on?  For years, now, most people's "wealth" has rested in investments that they didn't understand (or, in the case of your average 401K investor, even think much about).  We reside in an economic system where the average person lives day-to-day without even needing to see actual money.  Our "paychecks" are directly deposited: One organization tells another organization to change the numbers on our bank accounts, and then this number is swiftly or gradually portioned out to accounts held by other agencies.  The wealth that has been wiped out is not even "paper profits"--its digital profits.

Of course, there is real suffering in the real world, real people losing real jobs and real houses.  The masses may yet rise up.  Indeed, when the time comes for such action, it will more than likely be these selfsame bloggers and internet activists who help coordinate the protests.  The malaise we feel is not because of our separation into virtual communities of one; if anything, that confuses cause and effect.  Indeed, so far from being some new opiate of the people, it is probably the vast hive-mind of the virtual world that can, bit by bit, help people make sense of this confusing time and ultimately inspire a more informed revolution.