WOS: What is the big deal about St. Patrick's Day, anyway?
SOL: Well, he was the patron saint of Ireland. . . . I don't exactly know what the significance of the day is. I guess it's kind of like July 4th or Cinco de Mayo. Plus it's an excuse to drink a lot.
WOS: I guess. But a lot of Irish people I know are just really against the whole Catholic Church thing.
SOL: Hm. Well, St. Patrick also drove all the snakes out of Ireland.
WOS: Yeah, sure.
SOL: And all the tigers.
WOS: There are no tigers in Ireland.
SOL: Exactly! That was St. Patrick! He said, "OK, all you tigers! Get back to. . . uh. . . India?"
WOS: Of course.
SOL: And THAT's why there are no tigers in Ireland!
WOS: I see.
SOL: Tomorrow, I'll tell you the story of why lemurs love canteloupe!
WOS: Can't wait.
Saturday, March 16, 2013
Friday, March 15, 2013
The Eye of the Beholder
The other night, we watched this movie called "The Eye" (2008), an American remake of one of these Asian horror movies in a language nobody speaks (Mandarin, maybe?). Jessica Alba stars as a blind violinist. (Is there any other kind? Do you suppose anyone messes with blind violinists by switching their violins with violas? Does it make a difference? Where was I?) Alba receives a corneal transplant, which gradually restores her sight--only its not just her sight anymore: Now she has ghostly visions inspired by the donor's corneas. Or something like that. I admit I didn't pay close attention.
The movie gave me a great idea, though: I should hang out at the opthalmological surgery ward at my local pizzeria. . . or even better, at my local hospital. There, I will volunteer to help the recovering patients--all of whom no doubt look like Jessica Alba! I will help them adjust to the unfamiliar sensations caused by this thing called "sight."
"So," she'll say, "you're here to help me learn to see?"
"Yes, I am," I'll reply. "And, by the way, you should know that this," indicating myself, "is what the ultimate sample of masculine beauty looks like."
"Really?!?"
"Why, yes! And you know what else?"
"What?"
"I like YOU!"
"Oh, my!"
(WOS: Hon, what are you writing about?
(SOL: Nothing, Dear!)
OK. We have to keep it down. You were saying?
"Oh, my! That's wonderful to hear, Mr. Solipsist."
"Just 'Solipsist' is fine."
"Hey!"
"What?"
"What is this called?"
"That's a magazine. It says, 'Entertainment Weekly.'"
"Oh. And who is this a picture of?"
"Uh. . . That's Johnny Depp. He's an actor. Why?"
"Oh! It's just that. . . well, I understand that you are the. . .what was it? 'The ultimate. . .?'"
"Ultimate sample of masculine beauty."
"Right. But. . . When I see this picture, I feel all. . . tickly."
All right, so I'll have to keep them away from magazines.
Actually, I just need to make sure I'm there the moment they wake up from the unblindectomy. If I'm the first thing they see, they'll imprint on me like so many baby ducks! Perfect!
(WOS: Can I read your blog now?
(SOL: Uh, sure. Just remember, I love you.)
The movie gave me a great idea, though: I should hang out at the opthalmological surgery ward at my local pizzeria. . . or even better, at my local hospital. There, I will volunteer to help the recovering patients--all of whom no doubt look like Jessica Alba! I will help them adjust to the unfamiliar sensations caused by this thing called "sight."
"So," she'll say, "you're here to help me learn to see?"
"Yes, I am," I'll reply. "And, by the way, you should know that this," indicating myself, "is what the ultimate sample of masculine beauty looks like."
"Really?!?"
"Why, yes! And you know what else?"
"What?"
"I like YOU!"
"Oh, my!"
(WOS: Hon, what are you writing about?
(SOL: Nothing, Dear!)
OK. We have to keep it down. You were saying?
"Oh, my! That's wonderful to hear, Mr. Solipsist."
"Just 'Solipsist' is fine."
"Hey!"
"What?"
"What is this called?"
"That's a magazine. It says, 'Entertainment Weekly.'"
"Oh. And who is this a picture of?"
"Uh. . . That's Johnny Depp. He's an actor. Why?"
"Oh! It's just that. . . well, I understand that you are the. . .what was it? 'The ultimate. . .?'"
"Ultimate sample of masculine beauty."
"Right. But. . . When I see this picture, I feel all. . . tickly."
All right, so I'll have to keep them away from magazines.
Actually, I just need to make sure I'm there the moment they wake up from the unblindectomy. If I'm the first thing they see, they'll imprint on me like so many baby ducks! Perfect!
(WOS: Can I read your blog now?
(SOL: Uh, sure. Just remember, I love you.)
Thursday, March 14, 2013
Thursday Miscellany
The Food and Drug Administration is considering loosening the rules for approving Alzheimer's drugs: Instead of having to demonstrate that their new drugs improve daily functioning, pharmaceutical companies can receive approval for drugs that simply show effectiveness in improving memory.
In other news, the Food and Drug Administration is considering loosening the rules for approving Alzheimer's drugs: Instead of having to demonstrate that their new drugs improve daily functioning, pharmaceutical companies can receive approval for drugs that simply show effectiveness in improving memory.
I'm sorry, that just never gets old!
**************************
Another current-events trope: Every article about the Papacy must mention that Benedict was the first Pope to resign in almost 600 years. More often than not, in an attempt to sound even more solemn, the phrase will be "nearly six centuries."
In other news, the Food and Drug Administration is considering loosening the rules for approving Alzheimer's drugs: Instead of having to demonstrate that their new drugs improve daily functioning, pharmaceutical companies can receive approval for drugs that simply show effectiveness in improving memory.
I'm sorry, that just never gets old!
**************************
Another current-events trope: Every article about the Papacy must mention that Benedict was the first Pope to resign in almost 600 years. More often than not, in an attempt to sound even more solemn, the phrase will be "nearly six centuries."
Wednesday, March 13, 2013
Meet the New Pope
Can it be mere coincidence that, on a day when my iTunes shuffled first to a song from "Evita," an Argentinean would soon address a massive crowd from a palatial balcony? OK, I guess it COULD be, but I doubt it. No, God had plans for my iTunes. "High-Flying, Adored" an Andrew Lloyd Weberian puff of musical white smoke, foreshadowing the imminent elevation of His Eminence Jorge Mario Reboglio to the Papacy.
I'm pretty pissed off, I don't mind telling you. All this talk about how the Church needed to diversify had led me to believe the conclave would finally place a Jew on the Throne of St. Peter for the first time since. . . well, since Peter, I guess. Suppose I can stop waiting by the phone.
I'm also troubled by the College of Cardinals' blatant pandering to the younger generation with its selection of the 76-year-old Cardinal Reboglio. Sure, nobody expected them to choose someone of Pope Benedict's years, but Reboglio's not even in his ninth decade! Does he truly possess sufficient maturity and gravitas to lead the Holy See through these trying times?
Not if his choice of name is any indication. I mean, Pope Francis? Francis?!? Not exactly the most manly of Pope names. What's wrong with good, sturdy Pope names like Urban or Zosimus?!? I, for one, think we have waited quite long enough for a Pope Hilarius II!
I'm sorry, but I think the Cardinals blew it this time. I truly worry that this poor choice will soil the otherwise sterling image of Catholic clergy in the world today.
I'm pretty pissed off, I don't mind telling you. All this talk about how the Church needed to diversify had led me to believe the conclave would finally place a Jew on the Throne of St. Peter for the first time since. . . well, since Peter, I guess. Suppose I can stop waiting by the phone.
I'm also troubled by the College of Cardinals' blatant pandering to the younger generation with its selection of the 76-year-old Cardinal Reboglio. Sure, nobody expected them to choose someone of Pope Benedict's years, but Reboglio's not even in his ninth decade! Does he truly possess sufficient maturity and gravitas to lead the Holy See through these trying times?
Not if his choice of name is any indication. I mean, Pope Francis? Francis?!? Not exactly the most manly of Pope names. What's wrong with good, sturdy Pope names like Urban or Zosimus?!? I, for one, think we have waited quite long enough for a Pope Hilarius II!
I'm sorry, but I think the Cardinals blew it this time. I truly worry that this poor choice will soil the otherwise sterling image of Catholic clergy in the world today.
Tuesday, March 12, 2013
Trope Trip
Back in high school, when we were reading The Odyssey, our English teacher explained to us that Homer didn't actually "write" the epic poem. Strictly speaking, no one from Homer's era wrote the poem: It was recited. But even in the sense of composition, it was not, she explained, strictly accurate to say Homer wrote the story. What he did was stitch together various versions of the stories of the Trojan War and Odysseus' journey home (and presumably other tales lost to antiquity) into coherent wholes. In a sense, Homer was sampling. "Rosy-fingered dawn"? He probably didn't come up with that one himself.
I've found myself noticing a lot of tropes in the newspapers these days: words, phrases, factoids that writers or editors feel compelled to mention in every story about certain topics. For example, since Oscar Pistorius, the legless South African sprinter, was arrested for killing his girlfriend, every story about the case mentions that Pistorius was born without fibulas. A salient point? About Pistorius, sure. But in the context of the murder case, which skeletal components the man was or was not born with seems of little relevance.
Slightly more reasonable is the constant reminder that many Afghans go by a single name. True, anyone who has ever perused a newspaper article about Afghanistan should by now be aware of this fact. But one never knows when a first-time reader will wonder why the article "failed" to provide an Afghan warlord's surname. Now, if someone would just explain why the one name Afghans go by is almost always "Habibullah.". . .
And if Detroit added one resident for every mention of Detroit once being the United States' 4th largest city, Detroit would quickly become the United States' third largest city!
At what point does a trope become a cliche? Probably when it's been blogged about.
I've found myself noticing a lot of tropes in the newspapers these days: words, phrases, factoids that writers or editors feel compelled to mention in every story about certain topics. For example, since Oscar Pistorius, the legless South African sprinter, was arrested for killing his girlfriend, every story about the case mentions that Pistorius was born without fibulas. A salient point? About Pistorius, sure. But in the context of the murder case, which skeletal components the man was or was not born with seems of little relevance.
Slightly more reasonable is the constant reminder that many Afghans go by a single name. True, anyone who has ever perused a newspaper article about Afghanistan should by now be aware of this fact. But one never knows when a first-time reader will wonder why the article "failed" to provide an Afghan warlord's surname. Now, if someone would just explain why the one name Afghans go by is almost always "Habibullah.". . .
And if Detroit added one resident for every mention of Detroit once being the United States' 4th largest city, Detroit would quickly become the United States' third largest city!
At what point does a trope become a cliche? Probably when it's been blogged about.
Monday, March 11, 2013
Advice to New Teachers: This IS the Fun Part
I once did an observation of an adjunct English professor. Her lesson was fine: clear, logically organized, multi-modal. The students remained on task. No fires broke out. I couldn't help but feel, though, that something was missing. Then I realized what it was: She didn't look like she was having any fun.
A great deal of the teaching profession, let's face it, sucks. Lesson-planning is tedious. Faculty meetings are endless. Grading is at least the fifth circle of Hell--the seventh or eighth if you're grading essays. But what makes teaching bearable is the hefty paychecks. I kid, of course.
No, the only part of teaching that provides any sort of consistent joy is the time spent actually teaching. Not always, of course. Some classes can suck the life out of even the most Panglossian soul. On the whole, though, the classroom is where a teacher gets to shine, to show off, to revel in the attention, to sublimate the urges that would otherwise drive him to rank exhibitionism--or acting! Frankly, any successful teacher--excuse the expression--gets off on teaching. And any teacher who doesn't should seriously consider a different profession.
Obviously, not all jobs are fun, and "fun" may not be the main consideration in one's job hunt. Teaching, however, is disproportionately difficult given the salary one can expect to receive. People can make similar money doing jobs that are significantly less draining--salt mining, for instance. If you find yourself collapsing at the end of the day, that's normal. But if you find yourself bored while you're actually in class, get out as soon as possible.
A great deal of the teaching profession, let's face it, sucks. Lesson-planning is tedious. Faculty meetings are endless. Grading is at least the fifth circle of Hell--the seventh or eighth if you're grading essays. But what makes teaching bearable is the hefty paychecks. I kid, of course.
No, the only part of teaching that provides any sort of consistent joy is the time spent actually teaching. Not always, of course. Some classes can suck the life out of even the most Panglossian soul. On the whole, though, the classroom is where a teacher gets to shine, to show off, to revel in the attention, to sublimate the urges that would otherwise drive him to rank exhibitionism--or acting! Frankly, any successful teacher--excuse the expression--gets off on teaching. And any teacher who doesn't should seriously consider a different profession.
Obviously, not all jobs are fun, and "fun" may not be the main consideration in one's job hunt. Teaching, however, is disproportionately difficult given the salary one can expect to receive. People can make similar money doing jobs that are significantly less draining--salt mining, for instance. If you find yourself collapsing at the end of the day, that's normal. But if you find yourself bored while you're actually in class, get out as soon as possible.
Sunday, March 10, 2013
Take Me Out to the Brawl Game
The World Baseball Classic is in full swing (get it?). The WBC, of course, is the baseball world's quadrennial attempt to inject the sport with the international appeal of soccer. And while not yet managing to capture the thrill of the 0-0 tie decided by penalty kicks, the tournament has at least reached a level of respectability where top-tier major leaguers are willing to take part--which is more than can be said for the Major League Baseball All-Star Game, so that's something.
Yesterday, however, the tournament was sullied by a bench-clearing brawl between the Canadian and Mexican national teams. Tempers flared when a Canadian batter bunted for a base hit in the ninth inning, despite the fact that Canada was ahead by six runs. According to baseball's famous unwritten rules, bunting for a base hit in this situation is considered poor form--piling on runs for no particular purpose. At the WBC, however, the strategy makes sense: "Run differential" is a factor used in deciding which teams advance in the tournament in the event of ties in the final standings, so teams understandably want to score as many runs--even "meaningless" runs--as possible.
Despite this reasonable explanation for the strategy, the Mexican pitcher seemed to take offense: He hit the next batter with a pitch, which led to small onfield riot. Even fans got into the act, throwing water bottles and baseballs at players and coaches. Whether this will prove to be a black eye for the WBC remains to be seen. Indeed, some commentators speculate that this could be good in the long run, as it provides evidence to uninterested American fans (and players) that this tournament is something that players take seriously.
The deeper significance, though, may be a move toward elminating the inanity of Daylight Savings Time: After all, if springing forward makes Canadians cranky, imagine the effect it must have on the rest of us.
Yesterday, however, the tournament was sullied by a bench-clearing brawl between the Canadian and Mexican national teams. Tempers flared when a Canadian batter bunted for a base hit in the ninth inning, despite the fact that Canada was ahead by six runs. According to baseball's famous unwritten rules, bunting for a base hit in this situation is considered poor form--piling on runs for no particular purpose. At the WBC, however, the strategy makes sense: "Run differential" is a factor used in deciding which teams advance in the tournament in the event of ties in the final standings, so teams understandably want to score as many runs--even "meaningless" runs--as possible.
Despite this reasonable explanation for the strategy, the Mexican pitcher seemed to take offense: He hit the next batter with a pitch, which led to small onfield riot. Even fans got into the act, throwing water bottles and baseballs at players and coaches. Whether this will prove to be a black eye for the WBC remains to be seen. Indeed, some commentators speculate that this could be good in the long run, as it provides evidence to uninterested American fans (and players) that this tournament is something that players take seriously.
The deeper significance, though, may be a move toward elminating the inanity of Daylight Savings Time: After all, if springing forward makes Canadians cranky, imagine the effect it must have on the rest of us.
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