And So This Is New Years. . .

As 2013 draws to a close, I find myself in a melancholy mood.  There have been some big changes in my life of late--maybe I'll tell you all about them one day soon.  I can't say the year has turned out badly, but I can say that, one year ago, I wouldn't have expected to be where I am now.  And I can scarce imagine where I'll be one year from now.

I started this blog about five years ago, as a sort of new year's resolution, in fact.  And somehow, over the years, I have acquired 39 followers--which is about 38 more than I ever expected to have.  And to all those who have read anything I've written, I'd just like to say thanks.  Whether you've ever left a comment or not, the thought of people out there--wherever "out there" is--actually caring to take a couple of minutes a day to read my random ramblings has actually kept me doing this.  So you have no one but yourselves to blame!  But you can also congratulate yourselves on helping to facilitate that rarest of feats: the KEPT New Year's Resolution.

It's the Least We Can Do

Going into the 2014 midterm elections, many Democratic Party strategists think a proposal to raise the federal minimum wage will provide a potent source of ammunition in campaigns against Republicans.  The minimum wage, currently $7.25 an hour, was last raised in 2009, and President Obama has proposed that the wage should gradually increase to $10.10 an hour by 2015; in fact, if the minimum wage had simply been indexed to inflation since the late 1960s, then it would currently be just over ten dollars an hour.  Among the electorate, the idea of raising the minimum wage enjoys broad--and bipartisan support.  Many Republican lawmakers, however, claim that raising the federal minimum will hurt small businesses.

For those GOP politicians who resist raising the minimum wage, I have a question: You claim that cutting taxes on the wealthy--supply-side economics--makes fiscal sense.  You claim that the benefits of allowing the wealthy to keep more of their own money will "trickle down" to the general population through, say, greater investment in productive activities--which leads, theoretically, to increased employment and a more vibrant economy overall.  The metaphor frequently invoked to describe this situation is that "a rising tide lifts all boats."

So my question is this: Why does this boat-lifting rising tide come only from putting more money in the hands of those who already have significant fortunes?  Wouldn't putting more cold hard cash in the pockets of those who have less similarly cause some minor flooding along the shores of the American economy? 

The Singularity Approaches!

An article in today's Times explains that, in the next year, "learning" computers will become commercially available.  The cutting-edge software in these computers is modeled on the human nervous system.  By imitating the human brain's ability to develop new neural pathways in response to external stimuli, these computers will effectively "learn" from their mistakes, thus eliminating (or at least greatly reducing) the need for reprogramming.

The breakthrough moment? "Google researchers were able to get a machine-learning algorithm, known as a neural network, to perform an identification task without supervision. The network scanned a database of 10 million images, and in doing so trained itself to recognize cats."

From that point on, computer scientists posed ever-more-challenging identification problems to these learning computers, which demonstrated exponential improvement.  The computer quickly identified
images of George Clooney:

And Gwyneth Paltrow:

The computer had no problem with historical figures, either, as this picture of Benjamin Disraeli proves:

And finally, when tasked with procuring an image of the Grand Canyon, the computer responded in a matter of nanoseconds:

Truly, the future is upon us!

Friday Miscellany

In their Super-Bowl winning 1986-87, the New York Giants adopted a strange custom: At the end of victories, shortly before the final whistle, team members would sneak up on coach Bill Parcells and dump upon him the contents of a Gatorade cooler.  I've never understood why drenching one's coach with icy, fruit-flavored water--particularly on wintry northeastern afternoons--was considered an appropriate celebratory gesture, but Parcells never seemed to mind, and this ritual was soon adopted by other teams.

Nowadays, you don't see many NFL teams douse their coaches anymore, but the Gatorade bath is still a fixture at the college level.  At the end of games, victorious college coaches can expect to get wet.  Which got me to thinking: As far as I know, no team has ever gone on to lose a game after its coach has been drenched with Gatorade.  A sure-fire winning strategy, then, would seem to be for a team's players to pour Gatorade all over the coach as soon as possible!  If I were ever hired as a college coach, therefore, I would insist on being deluged right after the coin toss!  Championship guaranteed!

(I believe the University of Texas is looking for a new coach.  Longhorns, call me!)

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An article on the diversity of the New York Police Department reports that ""officers hail from Albania to Yemen," to which I say, simply, Yo, Zambia, WTF?  Get with the program!

Just Another Day at Solipsist Central (Workplace Edition)

COLLEAGUE OF SOLIPSIST: You know, next semester, we have a lot of new stuff happening. 

SOLIPSIST: I know, but it's OK.  We know exactly what we need to do, so everything will work out fine.

COS: You hope.

SOL: No, it's like that old saying, "The best laid plans of mice and men always work out just fine."

COS: Uh, yeah.

SOL: "Man plans, God gives man exactly what he planned on."

COS: You should probably check those quotes.

SOL: I'm not going to do that.

Seasons Greetings

As a non-practicing member of the Jewish faith, I have never had particularly strong feelings one way or the other about Christmas.  I've always appreciated the festive mood that comes over people--particularly when I lived in New York, and the city seemed to unwind slightly from its normal state of aggravated frenzy.  But ultimately Christmas is just another day to hang out and, perhaps, enjoy a movie and Chinese food.

Today, in a change of pace, I'm gorging on basketball.  Five--count 'em, FIVE--games, back to back to back to back.  Uh, to back.  As I watch, I also find myself thinking about my stepfather.  He passed away several years ago, but I can't help but think how much he would have enjoyed this.  He was a huge basketball fan, and, though he would no doubt have been pained by the lackluster performance of the local New York teams, such a glut of games would have seemed like quite the Festivus miracle.

Anyway, however you are all celebrating your holiday--whether "holy" or not--I hope you're having a good time.  Happy holidays, everyone!

If You Could Change History, Would You??

Just finished reading 11/22/63, Stephen King's contribution to the ever-developing legend of the JFK assassination.  For those of you unfamiliar with the novel, it focuses on Jake Epping, who travels back in time from 2011 to the late 1950's, with the intention of preventing Lee Harvey Oswald from assassinating JFK.  For those of you unfamiliar with the story of the Kennedy assassination, I can't help you--although I will suggest that King's novel provides a better primer than Oliver Stone's conspiracy-happy "JFK."

I highly recommend the book: It's one of King's trademark tomes--nearly 850 pages long--that you can just get lost in for hours on end.  What makes the book special, though, is it's unpredictability.  That is, even if you assume that King will ultimately provide a relatively happy ending (for all that he deals in horror, his novels are seldom tragic), in this particular novel, you cannot be sure what a happy ending is.  Do we want Jake to prevent Kennedy's assassination?  Will that make the world better or worse?

Far be it from me to answer that question: Read the book yourself to find out.

Gun Crazy

As long as citizens have a right to bear arms, I understand the quandary faced by law-enforcement personnel and gun-control advocates when considering gun-ownership restrictions on the mentally ill.  After all, those suffering from mental illness retain all other rights.  The very rise of the Tea Party can be attributed to the right of sociopaths to vote.  Nor do we strip Second Amendment rights from those suffering from other diseases.  Of course, diabetics seldom receive homicidal directives from their toasters.

What struck me, though, in today's top news article, "When the Right to Bear Arms Includes the Mentally Ill," was the amount of weaponry amassed by the mentally ill: 18 rifles and shotguns; an SKS assault rifle and two handguns; 16 guns belonging to a veteran with PTSD.  I understand people wanting to own a gun for self-defense.  But maybe we could adopt a common-sense approach towards allowing mentally ill people to arm themselves: If the number of guns owned seems like a symptom of a mental illness--to wit, hoarding--then maybe it's time for the authorities to step in?

Polka Dots Would Work, Too

Watching college football--which should give you some sense of my level of desperation.  Specifically, watching the festivities of "Capital One Bowl Week"--which runs from December 21 through January 1, which--I think--is more than a week.  Damn inflation.  Currently, the Buffalo Bulls (whose name just seems like an uncorrected typo) are squaring off against the San Diego Aztecs (because why should politically questionable nicknames remain confined to the NFL?) in the Famous Idaho Potato Bowl.

No, really.

Not clear on exactly what is "Famous": the Bowl, the potatoes, or perhaps the state of Idaho, itself.  OK, that doesn't seem likely: I KNOW people who have lived in Idaho, and I get no impression that anything there merits the appellation "famous."

The gridiron in Boise, by the way, is blue.  This takes some getting used to, but I personally think more football organizations should engage in this kind of experimentation.  After all, fields have been green since the days before color television (or so I would imagine). Shouldn't the Syracuse University Orangemen play on an appropriately pumpkin-hued field?  Imagine the disorientation experienced by visitors!   The home-field advantage would be nigh insurmountable!

For that matter, why do football fields have to be monochromatic at all?  Groundskeepers could provide a fresh color every ten yards.  The Super Bowl could become a rainbow-themed affair to brighten the heart of even the most football-averse viewer.

Close Calls!

The other day, on my way to work, I passed a scene of a terrible traffic accident.  A couple of trucks were overturned, and a small car, absolutely crushed, was lying nearby.  I don't know for sure, but I can't imagine anyone in that car escaping unscathed.  This made me think: If I had only left my house, say, ten minutes earlier, I might well have been in the middle of the chaos when this accident occurred!  Talk about a close shave!

And this made me think of another narrow escape from mortality: Several years ago, I was almost on a flight from JFK to Belgrade--a flight that experienced catastrophic mechanical failure minutes after take-off.  The plane crashed into the ocean: No survivors.  And if it hadn't been for the fact that I had no ticket for that flight, nor had I any reason to be travelling to Belgrade, I might very well have met my fate on that August night.

Of course, when I think about my close calls, I always shudder when I realize that, had I been President of the United States on November 22, 1963, I would almost surely be dead right now!

Really makes you think.

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Incidentally, according to my Blogger dashboard, "The Solipsist" is holding right now at 59,999 pageviews.  That means that, if you are the first reader of today's post, you will be the 60,000th visitor to this humble website!  Congratulations!  You have won exactly nothing!

Just Another Day at Solipsist Central (Workplace Edition)

(SOLIPSIST and COLLEAGUE OF SOLIPSIST are in the office. A pile of exams sits on the desk.  These exams have been read once, and they need to be read by a second instructor.)

SOLIPSIST: So, I finished the first reads on these if you want to get started on the second reads.

COS: OK.

(A former student of COLLEAGUE OF SOLIPSIST, who now works for SOLIPSIST, walks in.)

FORMER STUDENT: Oh, are you guys reading those tests again, already.

COS: Every semester. . . .

FS: Yeah.  You know (to SOLIPSIST) back when I took this class, you read my essay.

SOL: I did?

FS: Yup.

SOL: And. . . did I pass you?

FS: Yup.  (Exits.)

SOL: Y'know, that's really kind of disappointing. . . .Like finding out you had the chance to kill Hitler and didn't.

WHAT. . . Am I Going to Write about Tonight?

Awhile back, just for kicks, I went on to Google and typed the opening words to questions--who, what, when, where, why, and how--into the search bar.  I wanted to see what Google's top "suggestion" to complete the question would be.  Tonight, feeling at a loss for a post topic, I did this again.

As was the case last time, typing "Why" prompted Google to suggest "is the sky blue?"  This time around, "What" generated--unsurprisingly--"does the fox say?"  And "Who" led to "should I start?"--a nod to the ubiquity of fantasy football leagues.

I was intrigued, though, by the suggestions for "Where," "When," and "Who":

Where am I?
When is my birthday?
How old am I?

I can only conclude that Google users have lately suffered an inordinate amount of head trauma.

What a Difference a Catastrophe Makes!

Cheers to Speaker of the House John Boehner (R-eally?!?) for taking a bold stand against diehard conservative activists!  Boehner slammed outside agitators in a speech to House Republicans, lambasting them as hypocrites who claim to espouse faith in higher principles but who truly seek only to raise money and expand their membership lists.  They are, Boehner concluded, "ridiculous"!

Why the verbal tongue-lashing?  Well, Boehner is apparently fed up with the damage caused to his Grand Old Party by these unelected agitators.  After all, because of provocations from groups like Heritage USA, cowardly Republican leaders--like John Boehner--were forced to abandon their principles and shut down the government over an unwinnable attempt to defund the Affordable Care Act!  If only staunch possessors of adamantine backbone--like John Boehner--had been in charge back then!  Imagine how differently things would have turned out!

Ready for Some Football, But Not Ready for THAT

I've watched "Thursday Night Football" a few times this season, but I guess, before tonight, I had never caught the opening.  It features someone named Priyanka Chopra singing a song called "In My City":

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=5IQCjqTZQLo

I never thought I'd say this, but I kind of miss Hank Williams, Jr.
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Just Another Day at Solipsist Central--Workplace Edition

A few weeks ago, my place of employment upgraded its phone system.  None too soon, I might add: I had had the same phone since I began working at the college, over twelve years ago.  Now I have all the telephonic bells and whistles I could ever desire: Caller ID! A speakerphone!  An online directory! Cool flashy lights!  I am as giddy as a kid on Christmas--if that kid had had a very, very sad life up to that point.

Today I received an e-mail from the head of the college's IT Department, which I'm told stands for "information technology."  Department.  The e-mail contained information about where to dispose of the old phones.  Relevant information, to be sure.  I couldn't help but note an undercurrent of sarcasm, however, as the e-mail proceeded to give detailed information about how to disconnect the old phones, should they still be connected.  I remind you: I work at a college--staffed, as you might expect, by college-educated personnel.  I questioned the necessity of a paragraph in an e-mail dedicated to an explanation of how to, not to put too fine a point on it, unplug a phone!  And then the e-mail concluded--I kid you not--"If you are not comfortable unplugging your own phone, please call the Help Desk so we can assist you."  I would pay to listen in on those conversations.

"Yes, I need my phone unplugged, and I was hoping I could get someone to help me with it.  I don't have any protective gloves, and I'm worried about getting bitten by phone-hornets."

"Hi, I tried disconnecting my phone, but I think I did it wrong, because I'm talking to you."

"I need some help with my phone.  And my shoelaces."

Maybe It's the Weather

For nearly four years now (!), I've kept up this blog on a near-daily basis.  I don't know exactly how.  Many was the day--perhaps you could tell--when I truly had nothing to say.  And yet I managed to crank out a paragraph or to in order to say it (nothing, that is).  A dubious achievement, to be sure, but an achievement, nonetheless.  Lately, though, I've slacked off.  Very few of my recent endeavors have risen to the level of acceptability--not much I would consider placing in any compilation of the Solipsist's greatest hits.

There are some things going on in my personal life, which are probably taking a toll.  Well, definitely taking a toll.  I know I'm less-focused on this blog than I might otherwise be.  I don't think, though, that this wholly explains my meager output.  Honestly, I suspect it has something to do with the weather. I generally scoff at such pharmaceutically-promoted "diseases" as "seasonal affective disorder": Sorry, but if a condition was unknown before a treatment was miraculously invented, said condition doesn't really exist.  Still, the Bay Area has been in the grip of something of a cold snap the past few days, and it does wear one down.

To be clear, Northern California temperatures cannot begin to compare to the arctic conditions across the Midwest and Northeast.  In a way, though, the relative mildness makes things worse: It's just cold enough outside to be truly uncomfortable, without being cold enough to require massive bundling or supplying such picturesque touches as snow and icicles.  The result is a general chill in the air that seeps right into the bones, making one feel vaguely fluish without, knock wood, actually suffering the disease.

My point is: Not conducive to anything resembling creative output.  I cling to the hope that this, too, shall pass soon and I'll be back to my normal loquacious self.

Mandela No Shoo-In for Hall of Fame

As the world mourns the passing of Nelson Mandela, the former South African president and an internationally revered icon of peace and humanity, a debate has flared anew over whether the late Nobel laureate deserves enshrinement in the Baseball Hall of Fame.

While Mandela's lifetime accomplishments in the promotion of human rights remain unparalleled, his lifetime batting average compares unfavorably with that of sluggers like Bill Mazeroski (2001) and Harmon Killebrew (1984), and his power-numbers are similarly underwhelming.  Furthermore, unlike fellow civil rights icon Jackie Robinson, Mandela won neither a Rookie of the Year nor a Most Valuable Player award during his career.

Mandela always displayed great plate discipline, leading to an impressive number of walks, and few will forget the key role he played toward the end of his career in helping the Milwaukee Braves knock off the Yankees in the 1957 World Series.  Still, the fact that he never finished higher than third in any race for a batting title--to say nothing of his frankly embarrassing numbers when he briefly tried his hand at pitching (1-7, 5.96 ERA, 32 walks, 14 strikeouts)--will likely doom his chances at enshrinement in Cooperstown.

The Hall of Fame Veterans Committee will consider Mandela's bid for membership, along with the posthumous candidacies of the Yankees owner George Steinbrenner and players' union director Marvin Miller.

Dubious Moments in Management

This semester has featured some calendrical oddities: In addition to beginning on a Friday--which is actually typical--this semester offers less than two weeks of classes between Thanksgiving and the end of the semester.  What this means for me and other teachers in my department is that final exams--which are all administered department-wide on the same day--have to be graded in a compressed timeframe.

We grade the exams collectively: One teacher reads an exam (not knowing who has written it--the students' names are covered), grades it, and then it is passed along to another teacher--who doesn't know what the first teacher has given it--to grade.  Usually, we have at least a week to do all this, but this semester, we have only about three days.  So, in the spirit of efficiency, I pulled department-chair rank and called in all the teachers to come together today for a sort of grading party.  We would all bring our exams--having done the first readings--and then we would just stay and read until all the second reads were done.  To make the offer palatable, I suggested people bring snacks.  Which they did.

We all got together, got our snacks, and proceeded to sit down and start to read.  Now, by general consensus, I am the fastest reader of these tests.  I pride myself on speed.  And, indeed, I train my students to accommodate the speedy reader: I tell them that these exams are graded holistically and that, when reading them, I do not want to think!  I should be able to read an exam quickly, smoothly, without having to pause or linger over anything.  Because, I explain, while making a reader think is sometimes the mark of a great piece of writing, it is more often--at least at this level--a result of opaque prose.  The less a piece of writing makes me think, the more likely it is to receive a passing grade.  So anyway, I can usually blast through these exams at a rate of 10-12 an hour.  Today, however, I got through about eight--in two hours!

The problem, of course, is that when you get a bunch of teachers together at the end of the semester, and set them a task of reading dozens of essays--or, more accurately, essentially the SAME essay dozens of times--they tend to get a bit slap-happy.  Throw in Nutter Butter cookies and Coca-Cola, and productivity is not going to be high.  And it seemed like such a good idea at the time!

Well, anyway, I'm home now.  And, if you'll excuse me. . . I have a bunch of essays to read.

Just Another Day at Solipsist Central (Workplace Edition)

COLLEAGE OF SOLIPSIST: I hate the Elf on the Shelf.

SOLIPSIST: What exactly is the Elf on the Shelf?

COS: Well, he's an Elf. . .  and you put him. . .

SOL: . . .On the shelf. I got that part.  I mean, what's his. .  . purpose?  His mission?  His raison d'Elf?

COS: He just kind of sits on the shelf and keeps an eye on the tree. . . .Makes sure the children aren't being naughty.

SOL: He's a narc.

COS: Basically.

SOL: So this is some Christian thing.

COS: Right.

SOL: Is there a Channukah Elf on the Shelf?

COS: I don't know.

SOL: "The Menorah in the Corna," maybe?

COS: Doesn't really rhyme. . . .Plus, a menorah doesn't narc on anyone.  A menorah just. . . .is.

SOL: Right.  "The Jew in the Loo"?  Too British.  "The Yid in the Frid. . .ge"?

COS: That's awful.

SOL: Yeah. . . . Oh!  "The Maccabee in the Back-Cubby"!

COS: What's a back cubby?

SOL: Like, if you have a couple of cubbies in your house?  And. . . And. . .And one's in the front of the house. . . And. . .uh. . . one's in the, uh. . . the back?

COS: I think you need to keep working on this one.

SOL: I will.

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UPDATE:

Personally, I Think the Focus Should Be "Teacher Entertainment"

I am on the "Student Success" committee at my college, student success being the current catchphrase used by unseen bureaucrats to describe the purported guiding ethos of community-college educators.  Previous catchphrases have included things like "Equity" and "Learning."  I suppose "student success" is as good a lodestar as any.  Certainly better than "student failure," at any rate--although that would be considerably easier to achieve.

Monday Miscellany

You've probably heard about the deadly train crash that occurred on New York's Metro-North line yesterday morning, killing four people and injuring dozens more.  I actually rode that train line every day for about two and a half years in the mid-90's.  I am, in retrospect, terrified to think about all the days I dozed in my seat as the train careened through "one of the sharpest curves in the Metro-North system."  Ah, the uneasy nostalgia of bullets dodged!

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On a lighter note, doesn't the sport of football have enough of a problem with subliminal homoeroticism without the announcers talking about how Seattle has "great backside penetration"?

Deep, Insightful Sports Analysis

From an article in today's Times, explaining why the New York Giants have struggled so much over the last twelve months:

"The Giants had a third-down conversation rate of 40.6 percent last season, but in their final two losses of 2012 that rate dropped to 30 percent. This season it is 34.7 percent. . . ."

Now, I don't claim great knowledge of football strategy, but if the Giants are engaging in conversations with the opposing teams on 40% of their third downs--instead of trying to move the football down the field--I think I know why they're having so much trouble!

And If FOS "Liked" Jumping Off the Roof, Would You Do It, Too?

Lately, I've noticed that, when I click on a friend's status on Facebook, I'm encouraged to "Be the first to like this."  That is, of course, "liking" in the Facebook sense of the word: Clicking on the little "Like" that appears at the bottom of the posting, to the left of "Comment" and "Share."  I guess those are in a sort of order, "like, comment, and share" being a digital-age equivalent of "fold, spindle, and mutilate" or "judge, jury, and executioner" or something.  Anyway, I now find myself obsessed not just with liking things, but with being the first to like something.  Because if I'm not the first, what's the point?  I'm just a lemming-like, bandwagon-jumper, liking the fact that so-and-so is at Chuck E. Cheese or was tagged in such-and-such's photo merely because everybody else is doing it.

Thanks a lot, Zuckerberg!  You took something beautiful and pure--the meaningless indication of one's semi-conscious approval of a friend's activity--and turned it into a base competition!  What's next?  The placement of paid advertising on one's Facebook page?  I shudder to think.

Where There's Smoke There's No Fire

Laws that restrict smoking in public places represent good public policy.  Beyond the obvious health benefits associated with reducing exposure to toxic fumes, these laws promote basic civility: Even if second-hand smoke were completely harmless to other people's health, non-smokers should not have to inhale the noxious by-products of those who do not have the common courtesy to refrain from inflicting their vices on others.  That being said, recent legislative efforts to ban electronic cigarettes from public places are completely misguided.

E-cigarettes are essentially nicotine delivery devices--not much different from patches or nicotine gum (although not generally regarded in as positive a light as those other "smoking cessation" tools).  They look more or less like "real" cigarettes, and people "smoke" them in much the same way.  Instead of smoke, though, e-cigs release harmless--or even pleasant smelling--water vapor into the air, thus posing no health risks to nearby non-smokers.  E-cigs even have a little light on the end that "flares" when people puff--and as an added "bonus," these tips, unlike the glowing tips of cigarettes, can come in a variety of colors not necessarily  found in nature.

Lately, in various locales including New York City, lawmakers have pursued legislation to ban e-cigarettes just like their more tobacco-y cousins.  The basic argument seems to be that e-cigarettes cause confusion among people who may take offense when they see someone "lighting up" in a movie theater or restaurant or any other place from which cigarettes have been banned--which is to say, any other place.  Furthermore, lawmakers fear that e-cigarettes send a "message that smoking is socially acceptable."

Well, we can't have that!  Outlaw them immediately!

Look, I don't have a problem with government officials discouraging smoking.  If they want to ban cigarette advertising from television, fine.  Want to impose high taxes on tobacco products?  OK.  Use tax dollars to sponsor public information campaigns warning of the dangers of cigarettes? I'm down with that.  But banning electronic cigarettes goes too far.

Before I go on, it is de rigueur at this point to mention that e-cigarettes have not been evaluated by the FDA and that they may, for all anybody knows, be extremely dangerous.  Perhaps they are highly carcinogenic.  Perhaps they cause gout.  Perhaps prolonged use promotes the growth of extra toes.  Fair enough.  But while these products might cause problems to those who use them, it is clear that they cause far fewer problems than traditional cigarettes do to the people who don't use them.

One could rightfully worry that people who see e-cigarette smokers will be tempted to pick up the habit--especially when they see an e-cig glowing a cool, light-saberish shade of magenta.  But then again, if lemming-like souls are going to follow the herd of cool kids over the cliff of smoking, wouldn't we prefer they take up this less lethal variety thereof?

Might these newly-recruited smokers move on to tobacco products?  Sure they might. Anything might happen.  But making harm-reductive smoking more difficult for those who are not ready to quit but are trying to mitigate the negative effects for everyone else is flawed policy at best and downright destructive at worst.

Happy Thanksgiving Everybody

Hope everybody out there has a very solipsistic Thanksgiving!  (All you have to do is ignore all the bickering relatives.)

Page Three Comes to Page One

Generally speaking--or, heck, specifically speaking--I have no objection to female nudity.  A day that includes unexpected glimpses of naked women can never be considered an entirely wasted day.  Nevertheless, I was shocked--shocked!--today when I surfed over to The New York Times website and found--on the front page--a breast!  A breast adorned with the Star of David, no less!  Had the Times decided to amp up circulation by, ahem, amping up its readers' circulation?

Well, no.  Or probably not.  The story behind the breast reported on Israeli efforts to encourage more women to undergo screening for a gene that greatly increases the risk of contracting breast cancer.  One could argue, therefore, that the picture was meant simply to illustrate and not to titillate.  But is that the case?  Here's the picture:

 

On the one hand, it's an arresting image, what with the Mogen David and the surgical scar; indeed, I assume the scar is what captured the photographer's fancy.  On the other hand, the picture also features prominently--provocatively--a nipple.  A nipple!  And thus crosses one of the red lines of "indecency" with which we're all familiar (just ask Janet Jackson).  It was clearly intentional, too; otherwise, the photographer could simply have asked the model to pull her shirt up another half inch, right?

Why female nipples are considered such hot buttons (ahem) remains a mystery to me, but there it is.  And so when the editors chose this image for the front page, they obviously knew they were choosing a picture that some people would consider--on some level--"indecent."  Maybe not Page Three of the Daily Sun "indecent," but "indecent" nonetheless.

Does this image herald a new, bustier age in mainstream journalism?  One can only hope.

Shameless Self-Promotion Isn't as Much Fun When It Counts

Every three years, tenured faculty at my college must undergo "peer evaluation"--even those of us whom most would consider peerless!  What this entails: The evaluatee rounds up two colleagues--also tenured faculty members--who then sit in on a couple of classes, take notes, and administer a student-survey.  Since these evaluations are performed by other tenured faculty--who can essentially be chosen by the evaluatee--the whole thing is quite collegial and non-threatening.  And, indeed, since the evaluatee is, not to put too fine a point on it, tenured, as long as he or she refrains from, to paraphrase Harlan Ellison, "raping, killing, and eating a student--not necessarily in that order," he or she is pretty much immune to any seriously negative repercussions.

As you might have guessed, this semester Yours Truly is due for evaluation.  On the whole, I have no objection to the process: I think I do a decent job, and I don't mind other faculty coming in and seeing what I do.  I don't mind the constructive criticism--

--except when the constructive criticism revolves around my handwriting.  Look, I get it!  My handwriting sucks!  My 'G's look like 'Ls!  My students never tire of pointing this out to me, either!  I swear there must be a clause in the Americans with Disabilities Act covering egregiously bad handwriting and protecting its sufferers from discrimination, so, if you don't want me to file a school-district-bankrupting lawsuit, Leave! Me! Alone!

Where was I?  Constructive criticism, right!  I don't mind that.  I know that people never stop learning and improving, and any tips or suggestions to point me ever upward are welcome.  Furthermore, it's always nice to see what students have to say, as it's almost always positive.  Sure, they may be saying nice things out of a sense of fear or obligation--even though the surveys are anonymous--but overall I think the students are sincere.  I have enough students who have taken multiple classes with me to make me think I'm not that intolerable.

There is, however, one part of the evaluation process that I dread: the self-evaluation.  I know I'm not alone in this, either.  So many of my colleagues complain about this part of the process.  I'm not sure why, either.  It's not modesty: If anybody asks me who the best English teacher in the college is, I quickly and un-self-consciously reply, "Aside from me?"  And why wouldn't I?  Mind you, I would fully expect any of my colleagues to do the same--that is, answer with their own names if asked the same question.  If you don't think you're the best--or well on your way--then why not?  Nor, conversely, is it a reluctance to name areas where I can improve.  As I mention above, I fully accept the idea that I will continue improving until I quit or die--or maybe not even then!

I think what bothers me is the sense that I have to somewhat justify my life.  I've just been observed by a couple of fully qualified critics: Let them tell me what I'm doing right and wrong.  I'm fine with that.  There's something more than a little Maoist about the whole self-criticism regime mandated by these evaluation processes.

Shaken Up

I'm too shaken up by the death of Brian on "Family Guy" to post anything of value.  Or maybe I'm just being lazy.  Look, it's almost the end of the semester! I'm swamped! Don't judge me!

I'll see you tomorrow.

What Shall It Profit a Newspaper If It Shall Gain Multiple Pulitzer Prizes, and Lose a Subscriber?

When I wake up on Sunday mornings and ponder whether to get up or burrow back under the covers, what pushes me toward the former is the thought of my New York Times, neatly folded in its blue plastic wrapper, waiting for me down on my doorstep.  As I wrestle out of bed--into which I often find myself stapled by a bevy of cats weighing down the corners of my blanket--I eagerly anticipate pouring myself a cup of coffee and separating the Times' sections for the day's reading: first sports, then the front page, then the Sunday Review, and, time permitting, Arts and Leisure.  Ah, Sundays!

All of which is to say, when I open the door and do not see the familiar blue wrapper, I feel more than a little peeved!  And so I have felt for roughly the last four weeks!  For some reason, the paper has not been delivered, and I am reduced to reading the paper off of my computer screen like an animal!

In the grand scheme of things, I realize this hardly qualifies as a tragedy.  Indeed, I come out ahead on the deal: I get a credit for the undelivered paper, but, as a subscriber in good standing, I have access to the online edition--access for which I am effectively not paying, as I keep getting credits for undelivered papers.  Still, the little rituals of life can be among life's greatest pleasures.  And the small deprivation of an undelivered Sunday paper starts the week off on a sour note.

As Voltaire Said, "If the Knockout Game Did Not Exist, It Would Be Necessary to Invent It"

Have you heard about the "Knockout Game"?  Ostensibly, roving packs of teenagers walk up to random people and attempt to knock them out with one punch.  Police, however, question whether the Knockout Game actually exists or is simply an internet-fueled urban myth.  Of course, whether the game exists or not, one can reasonably worry that the increasing coverage in outlets as varied as The New York Times and "The Solipsist" will inspire people to create it (you're welcome, America!).

More disturbing, though, are the official reassurances:  Sure, police say, people have been punched in the head by complete strangers for no reason. But far from being an organized activity engaged in by disaffected youth, these are merely the random acts of violence we've all become accustomed to in America today.  Nothing more to see here!

Five Things

Having turned everyone into a giraffe, Facebook has now gotten personal.  The latest meme calls on people to "Like" a friend's status, after which the friend will give the "Liker" a number.  The Liker then must post a status in which he or she reveals "X-number of Things that no one knows about" him/her, the amount corresponding to whatever number was given previously.  How one is supposed to know with certainty whether these things are truly "unknown" is unclear to me, but whatever,  I think this particular meme may have run its course, but, in the spirit of full-disclosure and laziness, I hereby present five things nobody knows about the Solipsist:

1. I have a deathly fear of snowy egrets.

2. For a six-month period back in the early 1990's, I ate nothing but waffles.

3. I am the last living speaker of a little-known (obviously) Finno-Ugric dialect.  I would say something in this language, but since nobody else would understand it anyway, I'm not going to waste precious typing time.

4. I have three nostrils, only two of which are in my nose, though.

5. I have never petted a water buffalo.

Thursday Miscellany (A Brief Post)

Are there any poems written in American Sign Language?  And if so, do they rhyme?

Two Great Tastes That Taste Gooder Together

COLLEAGUE OF SOLIPSIST: Uh-oh.

SOLIPSIST: What?

COS: My pile of student essays got mixed up with your pile of student essays.

SOL: Oh, great.  A Reese's Peanut-Butter Cup of grammatical dysfunction.

Picture Perfect

I came across an ad for app called Phototune the other day.  As far as I can tell, it's a sort of PhotoShop rival that allows you to tweak your pictures and make yourself and others all kinds of gorgeous--or at least sharpen contrasts and eliminate unwanted shadows.  In theory, I guess PhotoTune does for pictures what AutoTune does for singers (hopefully without quite so much of a Bieber effect):

I
Anyway, while I was skeptical at first, I have to say that the software seems to work better than expected, as can be seen from these before and after pictures of Yours Truly.  First, the original:

 

 

And now, the PhotoTuned:

 

 

Not bad, I guess.



 

 

Unparalleled

Any theoretical physicist--or, I don't know, "Star Trek" writer--will tell you that the universe we inhabit is just one of a presumably infinite number of parallel universes: alternate realities that exist more or less ""out of sync" with our own.  These universes are "there"--or maybe "here"--but not perceptible or reachable by us.  Anyway, in theory, anything that could possibly happen in this universe does happen in one or more of these alternate universes.  So if, for example, you go to a shopping center and, looking for a parking spot, turn left in the lot, then--in some other universe or universes--you actually turn right.  In our universe, you arrive at work at 9:03 AM; in another, at 8:57; and in still another at 9:00--or at 11:14 because you decided to stop over at the apartment of your mistress (which in that universe you have) for a quickie.

The more you think about this kind of thing, the more your mind begins to reel.  Because once you start considering the things that could change, you start to realize that the list of potential changes is, literally, endless--because in an infinite number of universes, literally anything can happen--and some would argue that every possibility must be true somewhere.  Thus, not only is there a universe where I weigh five pounds more than I do here, but there is also one where I weigh five pounds less--and one where I am the fattest human being on the planet!  And so are you!  You live in New York?  OK.  But in universe B you live in New Jersey--as hard as that may be to accept--and in another, somehow, you've ended up in the Seychelles!  Even though, in this universe, you don't even know where the Seychelles are!

In some universes, the Colonists lost the Revolutionary War with England, in some the South defeated the North, and in some Hitler won World War II.  And if that's not disturbing enough, consider this: In some universe, you are Hitler!

I wonder if there is some parallel universe wherein parallel universes don't exist.

OK, time for a nap.

Shine On, You Crazy Author

Of the 438 or so books Stephen King has written, The Shining provides the greatest amount of sheer terror.  I read that book when I was a relatively young teenager--probably too young--and was so traumatized by the fearsome goings on at the Overlook Hotel that I had to take deep breaths and steel myself every time I wanted to go outside: The front door to our apartment, you see, was at the end of a hallway.  The hallway was short--maybe six feet--but always dark.  I knew that, if they were so inclined, unseen ghosts could move fast enough to grab me before I could open the door, flood the hallway with light, and cast the malevolent spirits back to Hell.  Luckily, they never got me, but the fear has never completely disappeared.

Doctor Sleep, which picks up the story of Danny (now Dan) Torrance, the tormented child at the center of The Shining, is not as scary as its predecessor--it almost couldn't be--but it provides its own satisfactions nonetheless.

In this novel, the grown-up Dan Torrance is a recovering alcoholic working at a hospice, where he uses his psychic talents (the "shining" of the original novel) to ease the elderly residents' journeys into the hereafter: His kindly deathbed ministrations earn him the nickname "Doctor Sleep."  Eventually, Dan makes the acquaintance of Abra Stone, a 12-year-old girl with immense psychic abilities of her own, abilities that have brought her to the attention of a group of spiritual vampires known as the True Knot.  The True Knot want Abra for her "steam"--basically her essence--which, because she has such a powerful "shine," would provide sustenance for days.

Stephen King knows how to tell a story, and Doctor Sleep provides plenty of suspense and excitement.  The best parts of the novel, however, revolve not around the supernatural horrors of the True Knot, but focus instead on Dan Torrance's battles with the all-too-mundane demons of addiction and alcoholism.  Stephen King himself has made no secret of his own struggles with addiction, and in the scenes depicting Dan's self-centered depredations, his desperate reaching-out for help, his temptations throughout his life of sobriety, and his interactions with sponsors and other recovering alcoholics--in these scenes we can imagine the reality through which King himself has struggled.  And we can only be thankful that he made it through and lived to share the experience with the rest of us,

. . .And Then I'd Get Punched in the Nose by a Place-Kicker

Football teams have three basic personnel units: offense, defense, and special teams.  Even to the uninitiated, "offense" and "defense" are fairly self-explanatory.  The simple way to think of "special teams" is that group of players who take the field whenever kicking is involved.  I've always thought there was something mildly derogatory about the term "special teams"--I associate it with things like "special education" and the like--and I often wonder if the other players make fun of members of the "special teams" squad.  'Cause, you know, I would.

Status Symbolism

There's a new app going viral on Facebook called "What would I say." The program combs through your previous statuses and generates a status based on other things you've written. I tried it, and the status that came back was, "Shut up that great big hill of sleep must be a single line!" I'm less bothered by the dreamlike incomprehensibility than by the status-bot's refusal to put a comma after "Shut up." This app is thoroughly inappropriate for grammar nerds.

Insane or Proactive--The Razor's Edge

My commute to work takes about 20 minutes when there's no traffic.  Unfortunately, there's never no traffic.  It's usually not too bad, though: Door to door usually takes about 30 minutes maximum.  Every now and then, though, there's a major backup.

I usually know when traffic is going to be bad.  I have to cross a bridge on my way to work, and, right on the far side of this bridge, I pass a traffic sign that provides real-time information on the approximate drive-time to various locations.  If the sign informs me that the drive-time to Berkeley is more than about 30 minutes, then that gives me a pretty good idea that I'm going to hit some heavy traffic before I reach my destination (which is about five miles north of Berkeley).

I hate seeing such a message because I immediately suffer a major bout of indecision: Do I stay on the freeway or go local?  Because, from the next exit (after the sign), the trip to work should take about twenty minutes on local roads.  If, therefore, I can assume that the freeway trip would take more than twenty minutes, well, then, logically, I should get off the freeway.  On the other hand. . . .

Well, you've probably figured out the flaw in the logic: If the freeway is backed up, then, quite often, the local road is similarly congested--if only by extra people who had the same bright idea that I had.  Such was the case today, when a major accident caused massive delays on the freeway.  Traffic was backed up for about a mile even before I reached the helpful sign.  I took the first exit I could, and, after cruising along a blissfully empty local road for about a mile and a half, I came upon a line of cars that could best be described as a parking lot.  All told, it took about an hour and a half to make it to my office.

This happens to me frequently--so frequently, in fact, that I've made a resolution: Just stay on the freeway, I tell myself.  No matter how backed up it is, it will still get you to work faster--or at any rate no slower--than the local roads.  I made that resolution some ten traffic jams ago, though, and every time I find myself facing a backed up freeway, I still feel the urge--and sometimes I give in to the urge--to try my luck on the local roads.  Why?

I think it has to do with this overwhelming need to assert control over my own destiny--no matter how futile the attempt may be.  I cannot contentedly resign myself to my vehicular fate when I think there's a chance--however slim--that I can avoid it, that by taking some initiative I can improve my outcome.  One definition of insanity is the constant repetition of a behavior coupled with the belief that it will lead to a different outcome.  I suppose some may look at my behavior, therefore, and call it insane.  I prefer to consider myself proactive.

Election Night Analysis

Election Day came and went while I was without power for my computer (aka, Solipsist Central).  As a result, I was unable to offer my trenchant analysis on any number of important races.  I am, however, disgusted with all the subsequent chatter from pundits of all political persuasions about what the various results portend for 2014 and beyond.  What does Terry McAuliffe's election mean for Obamacare?  Was Bill DeBlasio's landslide in the New York City mayoral race a sign of a resurgent progressive spirit in the electorate?  Or does Chris Christie's similarly lopsided victory across the Hudson River show that conservatism, wrapped in a mantle of apparent common-sense, can carry the day?  And, seriously, can we just give a rest to any talk of what the election results mean for the presidential race in 2016?

We can't?

Well, in that case, let me offer my own, definitive judgment on the 2016 presidential race: Hillary Clinton will win!  And this prognostication has nothing to do with the outcomes of ANY of the high--or even low-profile races decided last Tuesday.  No, Hillary's eventual ascension was guaranteed on Election Night 2008.  Because if "Star Trek" has taught us anything--and it has!--it's that the menopausal woman

naturally follows the black guy

who follows the old white guy.

Congratulations, Madame President!

America! You're Slipping!

Yesterday was the biggest online-shopping day in the history of ever!  And we missed it!

In China, November 11 is "Singles' Day" (all those sad and lonely '1's)--as far as I can tell, a sort of anti-Valentine's Day, whereon lonelyhearts across the world's most populous nation cry in their Tsing Tao and lament their fate--which, come to think of it, sounds pretty much like Valentine's Day, so ignore my earlier comment.  Anyway, Chinese internet retailers have seized upon 11/11 as their very own "Black Friday," a day to lure e-shoppers with ridiculous e-bargains, and this year's Singles' Day was the most profitable yet, with $5.75 billion worth of orders placed, "a record for a single day anywhere in the world, surpassing by two and a half times the total for American retailers last year on so-called Cyber Monday."

So, America, while you were sitting around, barbecuing and honoring veterans--

--that is to say: barbecuing.  And honoring veterans.

--while you were doing that, America, communist China was kicking your ass in that most "socialistic" of activities: Binge-shopping!

Those veterans fought for nothing!

Dubious Moments in Editing

For more than a half-century, Bill Mazeroski kept the Pittsburgh Pirates uniform he wore when he hit the home run to win the 1960 World Series in a cedar chest in his Pennsylvania home.
"Priceless Moment for Pirates, but $632,500 for the Uniform"

A bit of trivia: The 1960 fall classic, held in Bill Mazeroski's cedar chest, holds the record for lowest World Series attendance.  Not surprising, really: Once the fielders and umpires crammed in, the chest held barely enough room for the batter--to say nothing of fans.  Of course, the confined nature of the venue also detracts somewhat from the grandeur of Mazeroski's series-clinching round-tripper, which actually only traveled three-and-a-half feet.

(SIDE NOTE: The record for SECOND lowest attendance since 1960 belongs to the 2005 World Series, between the Houston Astros and the Chicago White Sox.  While that series was held in standard-size baseball stadiums, it also featured the Houston Astros.)

Kind of Makes the Title "Trustee" Ironic

Dave Wilson, a conservative Republican, was recently elected to the Houston Community College Board of Trustees.  He defeated Bruce Austin, a 24-year incumbent, by a mere 26 votes.  Why is this news?  Because Austin and others attribute Wilson's narrow victory to a sneaky campaign strategy: pretending to be black.

The population of the community college district in question is predominantly African-American.  As part of his campaign, Wilson sent out brochures featuring photographs of random black people (which Wilson admits to snatching off the internet) above the caption "Please vote for our friend and neighbor Dave Wilson."  Furthermore, Wilson bragged of an endorsement from "Ron Wilson," identified in small print as a cousin of Dave Wilson--who just happens to share a name with a former (African-American) state representative.

Now, I know I'm supposed to be shocked--Shocked!--by such spurious political shenanigans, but I have to say that I find it hard to see what, precisely, Dave Wilson did wrong.  Look, the guy is a sleazebag: During a campaign for Houston mayor, Wilson sent out homophobic mailers attacking an openly gay candidate.  But calling a politician--even one campaigning for so picayune an office as "community college trustee"--"sleazy" is kind of like calling an investment banker "cutthroat": It's not flattering, but it kind of goes with the territory.  While his mailers "suggested" that he was black, nowhere did Dave Wilson actually state that he was African-American: And if "African-Americanness" was so important to the voters as to be the deciding factor in the election, doesn't it behoove the electorate to make sure that the candidate is, in fact, African-American?  Do Houston voters not have access to Google?

And not for nothing, the man he defeated was a 24-year incumbent!  If he was voted out of office simply for being white, then it suggests either that he was not doing a very good job, and/or that the electorate was just as bigoted and cynical as Dave Wilson himself.  I kind of think they--the voters and Dave Wilson--deserve each other.

It's Still a More Respectable Career Choice than "Congressman"

According to a front page article in today's New York Times, the era of the washroom attendant is nearing its end.  In an unrelated story, Windows 95 has been described as "a bit buggy."

Seriously, though, it's about bloody time.  I'm not exactly sure--and the article doesn't say--when the era of washroom attendants began.  Probably during the more sybaritic days of the Roman Empire; somebody had to clean up after Caligula.  But this is the twenty-first century!  We've long since passed the time when people in otherwise good health needed "attending" in a bathroom.

On those rare occasions when I do encounter a washroom attendant, I feel nothing so much as acute unease.  Who is this guy?  Is he going to be listening?  Am I actually supposed to give someone a tip for handing me a paper towel?

Thankfully, I don't get "stage fright," as some people do--and for those poor souls, an attended bathroom must be a special kind of Hell--but I am instantly flooded with feelings of middle-class guilt--feelings unmitigated by the fact that I am likely in a high-end establishment and have just eaten a meal that may have cost about as much as this poor fellow's entire nightly wages.  While I myself can enjoy the occasional visit to the "high life," this man spends every night exposed to the digestive endgames of the one percent.  So I feel guilt, which makes me wish the attendant weren't there--which makes me feel guilty for wishing the attendant weren't there!  After all, I fully support and celebrate the working man (and woman): Anyone willing to do a job, however distasteful--hell, especially distasteful--deserves some respect.

And herein lies my discomfort: What will become of the dwindling numbers of washroom attendants when this profession ultimately goes the way of mastodon wrangler and newspaper reporter?  Because, let's face it, a person who goes into the bathroom-monitoring industry probably didn't start out with a whole lot of career options: "Well, Mike, you've narrowed your choices down to molecular biology at Tufts or handing out towels to people who have just defecated.  What do you think?"

(All right, all right.  In fairness, the Yale Washroom Attendant program did provide solid career training as well as a rich grounding in the liberal arts until it was discontinued in 1972.)

I suppose a place exists for the bathroom attendant, particularly at large and loud clubs--where the job calls not so much for a connoisseur's knowledge of soaps and colognes as for the ability to prevent people from doing drugs or having sex in blacklit stalls.  Still, I will not miss those moments--however rare--when I come upon a tuxedoed gentleman waiting to hand me a washcloth or a toothpick or--a specialty of one Manhattan restroom attendant--a handful of Reese's Pieces.  Sure, after I drop a waffle, I crave peanut butter as much as the next guy.  But I am a big boy now: I can get my post-poop candy myself.

Do People Really Need to Look Up "Breathtaking"?

Regular readers of "The Solipsist" look forward to the "Thursday Trendwatch" feature.  In these installments, I review the topics listed in Yahoo's "Trending Now" section, trying to ascertain why these topics are, in fact, trending and making snarky comments all along the way.  At the moment, for example, the  number-one trending topic is KAT VON D.

The tattooed temptress has landed on the trendlist for all the wrong reasons.  (Well, not all the wrong reasons: She has not, to my knowledge, tickled an otter without permission.)  Her line of lip colorings,  "Painted Love," features such shade names as "Hellbent" and "Backstage Bambi."  Now, however, the make-up chain Sephora has pulled one of these lipsticks from its shelves because some people have taken offense at the name: "Celebutard."  I have no idea why people have a problem with a lipstick named after the delicious celery-mustard hybrid grown in the Carpathians, but apparently they do, and Sephora has caved to the pressure.

Anyway, as I say, this trendwatch appears regularly every Thursday except when it doesn't, which is most Thursdays.  I bring it up here, though, because I noticed the other day that Dictionary.com features its own trend list, one even more mystifying than Yahoo's.  Whereas Yahoo! at least provides links on its trending topics, links which take one to news stories that generally shed light on the reasons for an item's sudden popularity, Dictionary.com simply gives a list of. . . words.  One can, of course, click on the words, but this provides only definitions, not explanations.  Indeed, Dictionary.com acknowledges the apparent randomness of this list, titling the section of its webpage, "Suspiciously strong searches."  Or maybe they just used the NSA's term for it.

I can see no particular rationale for why the trending words suddenly find themselves so popular.  The current list: breathtaking, flummoxed, crest, portent, compile, lease, and missive.  When I used to do improv comedy, we would sometimes have to generate a skit incorporating random words shouted out by the inevitably drunk audience members.  This list reminds me of that....

Hey, I know, let's see if I've lost my touch!  Let's see if I can make a sentence about current events that uses these words:

Ummm. . . .

Recent election results contain breathtaking portents for 2016, although some are flummoxed by the crest in popularity of certain politicians now granted a lease on elective office.  Missive.

Damn it!

Publication Note

Hi Sloppists.

Just to give you an update: The new power cord for my laptop (AKA, Where the magic happens!) arrived today.  By tomorrow, I'll be all charged up and ready to get back to a regular publication schedule. Consider yourselves warned.

Next Year: A Reality Show in The House of the Seven Gables

First, there was "The Following," which mangled Edgar Allan Poe.  Now this.

I suspect that "Sleepy Hollow," Fox's new action-horror program arose from a profound moment of cultural semi-literacy: "Hey, let's make a show based on that story. . . .by that Irving Washington guy. . . y'know, the one where Ichabod Crane falls asleep for two-hundred years and wakes up to fight the Headless Horseman."

Close enough.

Anyway, I've watched the show--it's not particularly terrible, but not overly good either.  In this version, Ichabod Crane is not a gangly schoolteacher, but rather a hunky (if lanky) Englishman, who switched sides in the Revolutionary War.  While battling his erstwhile redcoated comrades, Crane confronts a Hessian in a sort of Bane-mask who, after a minor decapitation, goes on to become the light-shouldered eqestrian we're all familiar with from our collective nightmares and/or Disney adaptations.  Crane himself, grievously wounded, falls unconscious, and, when next he wakes, finds himself in Sleepy Hollow in 2013.  He and a young sheriff's deputy then team up to battle the Horseman and assorted other supernatural baddies.

My question, though, is this: The show has now been on for about two months (minus a World-Series break), and Ichabod has been wandering the streets for what seems to be at least the same amount of time--but he's still wearing his Revolutionary War clothes!

  Can no one take the poor guy to Target?

Technical Difficulties

Due to completely foreseen circumstances of a feline nature, the power cord to my laptop has been irretrievably chewed. While I await the arrival of a new cord, I am confined to typing on an iPad, which I hate.  I don't hate the iPad--just typing on it. Something utterly unsatisfying about tapping on flat "keys" that don't depress normally. Someone needs to work on the haptics of the thing, is all I'm saying.

Dedication

How prolific is Stephen King? Consider the book dedication. Most authors dedicate their books to their spouses. Perhaps, if one writes a second or third book, a dedication may be made to one's parents or children, or maybe another close friend or relative.  As the books continue to appear, one may thank one's agent, editor, perhaps a favorite teacher or an admired authorial role model.  Stephen King has published so many books that his latest, Doctor Sleep, a sequel to The Shining, is dedicated to the late rocker Warren Zevon, with whom King would jam occasionally as a member of the Rock Bottom Remainders (a rock band composed of famous authors like Dave Barry and Amy Tan).

Personally, I think this is great. I figure another two or three novels (which he will probably finish by Christmas) and Stephen King will be dedicating a book to me!

Shoot the "Hostages"

I was watching the second episode of "Hostages," a "drama" starring Toni Collette and Dylan McDermott, and growing more and more irritated.  I couldn't quite figure out what was bothering me about the show, and I was determined not to throw the remote at the television until I had figured out just what was bothering me.  Finally, it hit me!  And now, one cracked TV screen later, I can share it with you.

"Hostages" tells the story of Dr. Ellen Sanders (Collette), a surgeon selected to operate on the President of the United States, who comes home the day before the surgery to discover that her family has been taken--you guessed it-- hostage by an elite team of--well, I would say "terrorists," but since they're led by the somewhat engaging Duncan Carlisle (McDermott), I'm not entirely sure that they're, exactly, bad guys.  I suppose if I were to keep watching, all would eventually become clear.  But that's not going to happen.  To continue::

OK, so Carlisle and his crew are holding Sanders' family hostage.  Their demand?  That she take a dive in the eighth--or, rather, that she intentionally botch the President's otherwise routine surgery so that he dies on the operating table.  What is Sanders to do?  What choice does she have?  In order to save her family, she must go against everything she believes!  The angst!  The drama!  The first episode builds to its climax as Sanders heads to the hospital to perform the surgery.  We watch, along with the hostage-takers and the Sanders clan, as the television interrupts its regularly scheduled programming with a breaking story from the President's hospital--

--THE SURGERY HAS BEEN DELAYED!

It seems that someone "accidentally" administered a blood thinner to the President, so Dr. Sanders has no choice but to postpone the surgery.  Wouldn't want anything to happen to the President, of course.  As the episode ends, we see Toni Collette, on TV, explain that of course the surgery will proceed as soon as possible.  She looks straight into the camera and says something to the effect of "I don't give up that easily."  A grudging smile crosses the face of Dylan McDermott: We can almost hear the subtext: "Oho!  Clever girl!  You've won THIS battle!  But will you win the war?"

OK, yeah, I'm surprised I made it through another half an episode, too.

But here's what ruins the whole thing for me.  In episode one, when she first sees the hostage takers in her home, Ellen activates a security device to call for help.  Duncan sees this, so he tells Ellen that she'd best be contacting the security company to tell them not to send anyone.  Ellen calls, but the company--while glad to hear that it's a "false alarm"--insists on sending someone over to the house to check: Company policy!  When the security guard shows up, though, it turns out that he's in on the whole thing!  He knows Dylan McDermott and his merry band of miscreants!  You see, Ellen: They're everywhere!  You can't get away from them!  You'd better just do what we say!

And when I say they're everywhere, I mean, EVERYWHERE!  Because in episode two, Ellen is being interviewed by the Secret Service about the mishap with the President's meds.  At one point, the head honcho steps out, and another Secret Service agent leans over and asks Ellen, quietly, whether her son is "enjoying spending time with her new houseguests"!  OH MY GOD!  THEY'VE EVEN INFILTRATED THE SECRET SERVICE!

You see the plot problem here?  If this shadowy cabal that wants to kill the President is so thorough that it can ensconce agents not only at the private security firm that watches over Dr. Sanders' home but also IN THE FREAKIN' SECRET SERVICE, then WHY do they need to count on the services of a reluctant doctor--who is also just maybe smart enough to figure out a way to thwart their plans?  Why wouldn't they just find a different doctor who would be willing, say, to do exactly what they wanted in exchange for something simple, like a tidy cash payout?  If they can get to the Secret Service, they could presumably get to anybody, right?

So one of two things is happening here: Either Duncan Carlisle chose Sanders to be the instrument of the President's doom BECAUSE OF her reluctance, because Carlisle--being Dylan McDermott, after all--is actually NOT a bad guy and actually wants to thwart the murderous plans of the actual bad guys; or, on the other hand, the writers have no idea what they're doing.  Either way, "Hostages" is not worth the ransom, i.e., the precious hours of my life I would never get back for watching it.

Dress under Duress

I've recently submitted an application for a new job--a promotion of sorts.  I'll keep you all posted as developments occur.  The other day, though, a friend of mine advised me that, if I get the job, I will have to go shopping.  As someone who has sported a wardrobe of t-shirts and jeans almost exclusively for the last ten years or so, I have a decided lack of "adult clothes."  Or, to be exact, the adult clothes I do possess have not, um, expanded as much as I have over the last ten years.  So, yes, I agreed, I will have to accept the fact that a wardrobe upgrade may be necessary.  This friend then suggested I start now.

"Dress for the job you want," she said, "not the job you have."

Sound advice, indeed!  So, for the last week I have worn a New York Mets uniform to work everyday.  If that doesn't work, in a couple of weeks I'll start dressing like a magician!  Or a bat!

Stem the STEM Tide

When I first started college, I pursued a major in acting, a degree choice that was accepted by my liberal, teen-of-the-60's mother and greeted with no small amount of eye-rolling by any number of friends and well-wishers: What, exactly, did I think I was going to do with a degree in acting?.  I suppose on some level I, too, asked myself that question and came up with an unsatisfactory answer because, midway through my sophomore year I switched my major from the dramatic arts to the more socially acceptable English, with a soupcon of education-training thrown in.  Strangely enough, this was seen as a rational move, a practical step down the road to responsible adulthood.

Nowadays, though, such a change of major would elicit so much eye-rolling as to strain the optic nerves: Not only would a switch from drama to English be seen as, at best, a lateral move on the continuum of frivolity, but I would also be condemned for wasting my time and money on the inevitable inefficiencies of transferring.  Nowadays, if a student goes to college intending to study anything less obviously practical than, say, applied nuclear physics, he risks incurring the wrath of parents and society alike.  English--a major once so respectable as to inspire musical-theater balladry--is now just another academic dead-end.

Colleges have begun to take notice.  At Stanford and Harvard and any number of other bastions of higher education, administrators look on with concern as the enrollments in once proud humanities departments continue to shrink.  While the trend didn't start with the global economic meltdown, the recession has seemingly channeled ever-greater number of students into the STEM fields (science, technology, engineering and math)--these seeming to offer students greater chances of gainful employment upon graduation.  Why, the thinking goes, would anyone waste four-plus years and potentially tens of thousands of dollars on a degree in something as squishy as English?

I have to admit, I find myself on the defensive when confronting the question, "What good is an English degree?"  I mean, there is something apparently self-indulgent about spending years reading and discussing good books when one could spend those same years learning how to splice a nucleotide to a particle accelerator.  Or whatever it is that science people do.  Then again, maybe nucleotide-splicing is just as self-indulgent in its way, as the people who major in science probably enjoy lab work just as much as English majors enjoy books.

Or at least, they probably did, back in the days when not everyone felt compelled to major in "practical" fields whether they wanted to or not.  Which I think is an important point: Do we have more STEM majors because people want to major in STEM fields or simply because people think that only by majoring in these fields will they be able to find work?  And if the reason is the latter, then won't they be disappointed when they graduate and find themselves having to compete with a multitude of other graduates for what will still be a limited number of positions?  And won't the ones who get the best jobs still be the ones whose enthusiasm for the subject has led them to achieve at the highest levels--the ones who probably would have gone into the sciences anyway?

Humanities majors may not be as well-versed in the workings of the atom or the proper way to run an economy as those who pursue more scientific fields.  But those who study English or philosophy or music or, yes, drama develop valuable skills nonetheless--communication skills, writing skills, those oft-mentioned critical thinking skills that everyone values so highly.  Not everyone, frankly, is cut out for scientific careers--I'm certainly not--so why shouldn't students follow their passions to find something at which they can excel?  The jobs will come.  For what it's worth, while most of my fellow drama majors may not have achieved Broadway superstardom or landed lucrative multi-picture deals, they have pretty much all gone on to successful careers in any number of fields.  Who could argue with that?

Day Off

Kind of tired today.  Back tomorrow.

Annotation

"Making Robots More Like Us"

Wouldn't we be better off making robots like us more?  Has nobody here seen "Terminator"?

"On a recent morning Natanel Dukan walked into the Paris offices of the French robot maker Aldebaran and noticed one of the company’s humanoid NAO robots sitting on a chair. Mr. Dukan, an electrical engineer, could not resist. Bending over, he kissed the robot on the cheek. In response the NAO tilted its head, touched his cheek and let out an audible smack.

"It is certainly a very French application for a robot, but the intimate gesture by the $16,000, two-foot robot, now being used in academic research labs and robotic soccer leagues, also reflects a significant shift."

Why would you spend $16,000 to make a robot play soccer?  Or is it just that the thought of robots is so cool that they need to do something to reduce their sheer awesomeness?

". . . .Romeo, a five-foot humanoid robot, will soon be introduced by Aldebaran as a “big brother” to the pipsqueak, kissing NAO robot."

If you're going to build a kissing robot named "Romeo," you know you're asking for trouble, right?

"The key to this advance is the new robots’ form. Their humanlike appearance does more than satisfy science-fiction fantasies."

Riiiight. . . . Fantasies about "science fiction."  Like, robots flying spaceships. . . . Things like that.  Ahem.

"Roboticists also point out that humans have an affinity for their own shape, easing transitions and making collaboration more natural. Creating robots in humanoid form also simplifies training and partnerships in the workplace, and increases their potential in new applications like caregiving."

"Caregiving."  Is that what the kids are calling it these days?

"Rethink Robotics recently released a video of its robot, Baxter, making a cup of coffee with a Keurig coffee machine. The company said the humanoid robot, with tong-like hands and a computer-screen face, was trained to carry out a variety of preprogrammed coffee-making tasks in just several hours."

But what if I don't want to wait several hours for a cup of coffee?  Oh--the programming took several hours. . . . Got it.  Heh.

"At Carnegie Mellon University, Manuela M. Veloso, a professor of computer science, has developed a series of mobile robots she calls CoBots to perform tasks like delivering mail, guiding visitors to appointments and fetching coffee. She calls it “symbiotic autonomy,” since the robots also rely on humans. For example, because they don’t have arms, they can’t operate elevators, so they have been programmed to wait and ask for human assistance. If they get lost, they stop, call up a map of the building on their computer screens, interrupt a passing human and say, “I am lost, can you tell me where I am?”

The New York version of this robot has been programmed to respond accordingly when the passing human flips him off.

"To function in the real world and to be safe, robots must have a radically different design from factory robots, which are based on “stiff” actuators capable of moving with great speed to a precise position. The new robots have “compliant actuators,” which respond to external forces by yielding in a natural fashion."

Insert your own robot-sex joke here.

"Dr. Pratt recalled an incident when the researchers first realized that series elastic actuation was the key to freeing robots from their cages. While working on an early humanoid robot named COG, in a project led by Rodney Brooks, the founder of Rethink Robotics who was then director of the M.I.T. artificial intelligence lab, they were demonstrating how the robot could do tasks like writing with a pencil and paper. However, there was a bug in the software, causing the robot’s arm to repeatedly bang the table.

"Dr. Brooks decided it was an opportunity to demonstrate the safety of the technology. He placed himself between the table and the arm, which began spanking him."

 

GOODNIGHT EVERYBODY!

I Need a New Hobby

My fantasy fantasy football team sucks this year.  I don't know what Pigskinablanket13 is thinking half the time: He has, like, NO offensive linemen, and he keeps stocking up on punters!  And don't even get me started on Backandfourthdown!  Hey, Backy, trade Josh Freeman, already!  If the Bucs can do it, so can you!  I know, I know: It's my own fault.  I hang on to fantasy footballers way too long.  I hear everyone telling me that GridironGreta is past her prime, but I just have a feeling that she's got one or two good weekends left in her.  However, if anyone out there is interested, I will at this point trade SidelineusAndLucy for, like, a stick of gum.  What kind of a stupid name is that, anyway?

I'm Thinking They Should Do "Gravity's Rainbow" Next

According to a front-page article in today's Times, Children's book publishers are now producing board books--those big, chunky cardboard tomes designed to be "read" (or at least slobbered on) by toddlers and a large portion of the Republican electorate--adapted from the classics.  Not classic board books, mind you: Actual classics!  There are now board book editions of Moby-Dick, Les Miserables, and Sense and Sensibility.  My personal favorite, though, if an accompanying photograph is any indication, is a board-book version of Anna Karenina.  If nothing else, that ending should keep kids away from Thomas the Tank Engine forever.

Amtrak Officials Object to Use of "Train Wreck" Metaphor to Describe Obamacare

WASHINGTON--At a news conference Friday, an Amtrak spokesman explained that numerous railroad employees, including both senior management and rank-and-file staff, took offense at the continuing usage of the metaphor "train wreck" to describe the failings of the Affordable Care Act (ACA) website.

"Look," said Amtrak spokesman David Walcott, "we here at Amtrak know a thing or two about train wrecks.  And using that term to describe the ACA website is just insulting to Amtrak.  Even our worst disasters pale in comparison to the complete debacle that is the Obamacare internet portal."

Engineer Mick Gessel, 57, concurred.  "I've been with Amtrak for over twenty-five years, so believe me, I'm no stranger to railway catastrophes.  I've even helped picked up toes at a couple of crash sites.  But none of that can hold a candle to what is happening with healthcare.gov."

Obama administration officials, too, derided the use of the "train wreck" metaphor.  "We don't feel that the website rollout is a train wreck, at all," said White House spokesman Jay Carney.  Carney, however, declined to answer when asked what lethally catastrophic failure--space shuttle explosion, nuclear plant meltdown, avalanche--could serve as a more apt description of Obamacare.

In other news, an Amtrak Obamacare outside Pittsburgh claimed the lives of 37 people early Saturday morning.  Toes were strewn over a five mile area.

Drug Legislation Abuse

If I go to a doctor because I'm in pain, and the doctor believes that I need a prescription medication to alleviate that pain, how hard should it be to get that prescription filled?  Pretty hard, apparently, if the FDA gets its way.  According to an article in today's Times, the Food and Drug Administration, in response to an increase in the number of deaths traced to prescription drug abuse, has recommended new restrictions on hydrocodone, the active ingredient in drugs like Vicodin.  Some pharmacists and patients rights groups are concerned about the proposal.

Modern society has a strange relationship to medication: On the one hand, there seem to be pills for everything, from wonder drugs that cure horrific diseases to modern-day snake oil cures for diseases that didn't seem to exist before the "cures" came along (Restless legs syndrome? Insufficient eyelashes?).  But when it comes to something as seemingly uncontroversial as pills that alleviate basic human suffering--pain--we tend to become uneasy.  It's not just prescription drugs, either, of course: The essential effect of so many of the drugs outlawed by "enlightened"" society--marijuana, heroin--is nothing more insidious than the alleviation of pain.  This is not meant as an endorsement of these drugs--although I personally believe in decriminalization of pretty much all narcotics--but merely an observation that in this highly medicated society, we seem uneasy when it comes to drugs that do nothing more than make people feel good.

Maybe that's the problem, though.  We have no major problem with drugs that cure diseases, because we usually have some objective proof that (A) the condition exists and (B) that the drug has cured it.  "Pain," on the other hand is intangible; it is, quite literally, all in your head.  This is not to say that it is not real to the sufferer--simply that there is no objective way to verify that it exists or how bad it is.  And for some reason, we as a society have seen fit to regulate the amount of pain relief to which people are entitled--even if a doctor agrees that such relief is needed.

Certainly, if people are abusing prescription drugs to a lethal extent, there is a problem.  But I don't think a government agency dictating the way that trained medical professionals dispense necessary medication is the right response.  I imagine most doctors are as concerned about drug abuse as your average government bureaucrat.  Let them be the ones to determine what is appropriate.