Birthday Laziness

Blue is the new black.

(Well, blue WAS the new black. Now it's probably the old black.)

(Or the old blue.)

Chipotle is the new garlic.

Community college is the new high school.

Swine flu is the new Spanish flu.

China is the new America.

40 is the new 30. (We hope!)

Ahmadinejad is the new Saddam.

Ontogeny is the new phylogeny.

Thrift is the new indulgence.

Facebook is the new homeroom (see post of 5/11/09).

The iPhone is the new Rubik's Cube.

Cats are the new dogs.

"Fringe" is the new "X-Files."

Sanchez is the new Namath. (Fingers crossed.)

Random lists are the new cop-out blog entry.

Feel free to play along at home.

Watched Any Good Books Lately?

A portmanteau word is formed by smushing two separate words together--the way clothes are crammed into a suitcase--to create a new word. Mix smoke and fog, you get smog; drive your motorcar to a hotel, you arrive at a motel; and now, splice video clips into your favorite book, you get our word of the day, Vook.

The newest new thing in publishing is the incorporation of video clips into digital (or e-) books. Now, when you download the latest Stephen King opus into your Kindle, you're likely to get not only juicy descriptions of flesh-eating caterpillars, but also perhaps a dramatization of said caterpillars' latest feast.

In some ways, this seems like a definite plus. For non-fiction and informational titles, this might be the greatest thing since movable type. Wouldn't it be neat to check out a recipe in a cookbook and then instantly be able to watch an experienced chef demonstrate how to prepare it? Or imagine a history of World War II: You could read a detailed description of, say, the Battle of the Bulge, complete with explanations of the strategies each army employed, and then click to a video reenactment that shows you how the strategies about which you've just read actually unfolded.

On the other hand, we're skeptical about the application of this technology to fiction. Fred L. Gronvall, an Amazon.com reviewer, writing about "Level 26," an e-novel, commented that "It really makes a story more real if you know what the characters look like." That statement depresses us. Because, Mr. Gronvall, a video clip doesn't show you "what the characters look like"--it shows you a casting director's idea of what the characters look like; or, perhaps, the closest approximation to a casting director's idea of what the characters should look like, given the performers who were available at that particular time. It's a safe bet they are not exactly what the author pictured when he wrote the novel.

What's fun about reading a novel--as opposed to watching a movie or TV show--is that you get to create the fictional world for yourself; you get to populate the novel with your own images, ably (we hope) assisted by the novelist. When we read Dickens, we want to imagine the characters in all their exaggerated, Dickensian unreality; we don't want someone else's too-realistic rendition of Mr. Pickwick forced upon us. Would our experience of reading Catch-22 be improved by seeing Snowden's "secret" spill out on the bomber floor? Or would that detract from the book's exquisite balancing of hilarity and horror, toppling it permanently in one direction over the other? We think the latter.

We'll give the last word to the novelist Walter Mosley: "Reading is one of the few experiences we have outside of relationships in which our cognitive abilities grow. And our cognitive abilities actually go backwards when we're watching television or doing stuff on computers."

(Well, except for reading "The Solipsist," that is.)

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New York Times Sentence of the Week:

"China's leaders marked their nation's 60th anniversary on Thursday with a precision display of military bravado that included, improbably, a female militia unit toting submachine guns and attired in red miniskirts an white jackboots, and a fleet of floats with representations of a giant fish and Mount Everest." ("China Celebrates 60 Years of Communist Rule")

"Improbably"? Well, sure, until you consider that the festivities were directed by Quentin Tarantino.

No?

신 포도

Now wait just a cotton-pickin' moment here! Today's "Blog of Note" is something called "Bestiaria." What's it about? According to its subtitle, it's about "relatos e imagenes de mujeres fantasticas e reales" (which we think means something like "relatives and imaginary mudgears fantastic, really!"--whatever the hell mudgears are).

That's right, Sloppists: IT'S NOT EVEN IN ENGLISH! It's in some farcical language like Spanish or Portuguese or . . . or. . . Basque who the &*%$@ knows?!?

Look, if President Obama wants to provide healthcare to illegal immigrants or hobbits or women or whatever, that's one thing. But for Google--GOOGLE, fer Pete's sake!--to cater to those "people" who can't even be bothered to learn English. . . . What has this world come to?

Doesn't everyone know that English is the official language of the internet? The lingua franca, if you will. (Lingua franca is Latin, by the way. It's Latin for "English." Even though it kind of means "French." Those Latins are funny folk.)

And this is not just sour grapes, either! (Which is uvas acidas in Portuguese. And suan pu tao in Mandarin. But we digress.)

Well, OK, maybe it is sour grapes (zure druiven in Dutch). Shouldn't Google have designated more English blogs--ALL English blogs--"Blogs of Note" before reaching out to those huddled masses yearning to blog free?

Hey, we have enough trouble competing against the 19,825, 409 English-language blogs out there. What chance have we got against the world?

Ugh.

(PS: We're sure that Carolina Aguirre, the creator of "Bestiaria," is a skillful writer and a lovely human being. We're just really really bitter.)

Head Games

From the "Resounding 'Duh!'" File: "Dementia Risk Seen in Players in N.F.L. Study"

This story shocked us more than anything since last summer's National Weather Service report concluding that people who went about in rainstorms without umbrellas are likely to become wet.

Yes, apparently, highly muscled, 300 pound men whose profession calls upon them to collide at high speeds with other highly-muscled 300 pound men are at elevated risk for dementia later in life. Could it have something to do with years of skull-rattling impacts endured in games and in practice, day after day, for six months of every year?

The study indicates that comparatively young former football players, those in the 30 to 49 year old age group, are diagnosed with Alzheimer's or other memory-impairing diseases at a rate some 19 times higher than the general population. 19 times higher!!! (We know what we said about exclamation points, but, come on--19 times!!!) Thing is, though, another way of putting this is that, among non-NFL players, the incidence of dementia is 0.1 percent; among former NFL players, it's 1.9%.

Hardly alarming news, we think. After all, most people who make it to the NFL and stay there for at least three seasons (the minimum playing time of those surveyed) are literally living a dream. Had you told 100 of these men while they were playing on their high school teams that they would all get to play in the NFL for at least three years but that two of them would fall prey to Alzheimer's at a comparatively young age, how many of those players do you think would hang up their cleats? Our guess? Not many.

We also think it worth noting that, while former NFL players report a higher rate of dementia than the general population, they also report a lower rate of ulcers and heart attacks, presumably because, as athletes, these folks were more likely to eat right and exercise regularly.

Look, if this study leads to sturdier helmets or rules changes to reduce the occurrence of concussions or other head injuries in the NFL, great. The fact remains, though, that we're all going to get old, and most of us are going to die. (Hmmm. . . . should probably switch those around.) The way we live, the choices we make, the jobs we hold, the dreams we chase all contribute to the quality of our lives and, often, the causes of our deteriorations and deaths. Should we be overly concerned that people suffer the consequences of the field they have chosen to pursue? Especially when we suspect that, knowing the risks, few of the potential victims would choose to do anything differently?

No Contest

Last Saturday, a man was arrested after climbing into the grizzly bear enclosure at the San Francisco Zoo. Nobody--human or ursine--was hurt. And no, we have no word on why he did it. We did, however, hear on the news this morning that the man was going to plead not guilty to charges of. . . of. . . Well, OK, we don't know exactly what he was charged with--criminal trespass, we suppose. Or annoying bears. But we were struck by the audacity of a "Not guilty" plea: What's his defense? "I wasn't actually IN the grizzly bear enclosure. You're mistaking me for one of the dozens of other people rounded up in the mass grizzly-bear-enclosure raid!"

"Seriously," we said to WOS, "shouldn't this guy just plead 'No contest,' and move on?"

Then we started to think about what we had just said.

(Digression: Someday we're going to have to start thinking about things we're GOING to say. EOD)

To plead "No contest." That's one of those words and phrases that everybody's heard and many people have probably used, but whose meaning is often marginally understood at best. We knew (or at any rate, suspected) that pleading no contest--no lo contendere in the more satisfyingly legalistic Latin--essentially amounted to saying, "Yeah, I did it"--"It's a fair cop" in the more satisfyingly Python-esque British English. But we also knew (or at any rate, suspected) that it MUST somehow be different from pleading "Guilty."

Well it is! So here, Sloppists, for your edification--and, y'know, perhaps for your use (hey, we don't know what kind of illicit activities you all get up to!)--a minor disquisition on the "No contest" plea:

According to West's Encyclopedia of American Law, nolo contendere is "a plea made by a defendant in a criminal action that is substantially but not technically an admission of guilt." In other words, the defendant does not dispute the facts against him, but, since he has not technically admitted guilt, these facts may (may, not must) not be used against him in other criminal proceedings. We understand that this sort of plea may also not be considered a "strike" under some "Three Strikes"-type laws.

It would seem to us, then, that grizzlyhugger probably SHOULD, in fact, plead "No contest" (assuming he is given that option--some states have no provision for such pleas, and some judges may not accept one). We think that "No contest" is the perfect plea for crimes that are essentially harmless in their effects, and on which municipal attorneys would presumably not wish to spend much time.

Well, y'know, unless the bears are adamant about seeing justice done.

Requiem for a Semanticist

Language lovers lament! William Safire--viscount of vocabulary, sesquipedalian savant, warrior among wordsmiths--has passed on, kicked the bucket, expired--in a word, died.

Yes, Sloppists, the conservative pundit and weekly language columnist for the New York Times gave up the ghost on Sunday. And while we disagree with his right-of-center politics, we mourn the passing of a writer of wit and erudition.

Appropriately enough, the Solipsist found himself embroiled in a linguistic controversy of his own at work today. At issue were the subtle and not-so-subtle variations between "expertise," "competence" and "correctness." For the record, one can demonstrate competence (the possession of required skill, knowledge, qualification or capacity) without displaying expertise (the knowledge level associated with one who has special skill or knowledge in some particular field--with emphasis on the word 'special'); it is debatable, though, whether one can demonstrate expertise without displaying competence. And at any rate, it is redundant to request that someone display BOTH expertise AND competence.

Or maybe it isn't. And that was what was so engaging about Safire's linguistic commentary. While his prose style exuded authority, and he was facile (proceeding with ease) with puns and alliteration--it was he who, as a Nixon administration speechwriter, coined the phrase "nattering nabobs of negativism"--he welcomed commentary and reserved regular column space for members of the "Gotcha! Gang"--those stalwarts in his "Lexicographic Irregulars" who gleefully pounced on any misuse of grammar, punctuation, or usage. Safire was a true quibbler, and we suspect he derived great joy from mixing it up with like-minded nitpickers.

So grammarians of the world, unite! (Safire would LOVE the Marxist rhetoric.) Raise your drinking vessel of choice, and toast the memory of a man who would have enthusiastically discoursed upon the differences among glass, goblet, flagon, and stein. RIP, Mr. Safire.

Plinky Agonistes II

"List the best meals you've ever had."

That's today's "Plinky prompt." So, yes, after resisting the blandishments of Plinky for 276 entries, the Solipsist feels it is time to give Plinky the honor of his attention.

Previously on "The Solipsist": YNSHC vowed to resist Plinky--a sort of "idea generator" for the stumped blogger--on the grounds that it was an admission of defeat. Why resort to a pre-programmed topic when, with a little bit of effort, Moreover, the prompts themselves were reminiscent of those sort of semi-stoned "What if?" questions one poses at the end of parties when most of the beer is gone and only the true diehards (and hosts) remain. Still, when one comes across a prompt as profound as the one offered above--"List the best meals you've ever had"--how can one resist?

All right, all right, we're just stuck and uninspired. So let's see:

We suppose a great meal is a function of not just food but of fellowship. People tend to default to the Thanksgivings and Christmas hams--or Chanukkah latkes, if you prefer. In some households, where the culinary skill level is less than sublime, the best meals may be those served on Yom Kippur. (For the Gentiles among our readership: Yom Kippur is a day of fasting.) Here, though, we wish to focus only on the comestibles consumed.

Breakfast is our favorite meal of the day. Not a typical weekday breakfast, which tends to consist of coffee, but a weekend breakfast. A leisurely breakfast, eaten out and thus not entailing dishwashing. Give us some properly greasy over-easy eggs, a steak, and some hash browns and coffee and we're happy.

As for more specific repasts, we don't maintain a list--even a mental one--of "great meals." Any meal even remotely worthy of consideration among the best, though, would involve copious amounts of melted cheese--either on a hamburger or a pizza. Let's go with hamburger, as that way we can incorporate bacon. Indeed, a fine meal can be purchased at a local hamburguerie, combining beef, melted cheese, bacon AND a butterscotch milkshake. It doesn't get much better than that.

In the end, though, our attitude towards food is that it is fuel. In the debate between those who eat to live and those who live to eat, we whole-heartedly fall into the former camp. No matter how delicious or memorable a meal may be, in the end it all, quite literally, turns to crap. Why romanticize?

Take that, Plinky!