Mike mentioned Hegel in a comment on the adoption post, and it got me to thinking. Not about Hegel, I'm sorry to inform you. No, I got to thinking about a Professor I had in college when I was a freshman. Philosophy 101 was his game. Now, this poor man had to teach an 8 am class in Philosophy to a bunch of people who were half-conscious every Monday, Wednesday and Friday. The first paper we handed in almost broke his soul and spirit.
He hands the papers back to us and starts railing about the work. The crux of his ire was soon made apparent when he yelled the following.
Doctor Philosophy: The commas. Do you people have a bag of commas next to your desk when you write these papers and just throw them at the page?
Us: Looking blankly at him.
Doctor Philosophy reaches down. He reaches way down deep into an imaginary bag of commas, takes a huge handful of the commas and flings them at us with all his might.
The man threw imaginary punctuation at us. I was sitting right in the front, so as you may imagine, I was covered in commas. I was unafraid, though, because I went to 9 years of Catholic Boot Camp. No irate Professor of Philosophy could scare me with commas. I had been terrorized by the best.
Then, Doctor Philosophy switches up his game. Philosophers are a tricky, tricky lot. He has another question.
Doctor Philosophy: Do you know how many semicolons there were in all these papers?
We have no fucking clue, of course. I'm thinking (I swear this is true) fifty. Fifty semicolons. I figured he was so pissed about the excess of commas, that there must have been a plethora of other punctuation marks.
Pause.
Doctor Philosophy: ONE. ONE SEMICOLON.
Some Philosophy 101 student got all fancy and HAD to throw in a semicolon. If there had been zero semicolons, he may not have noticed it. Oh, he would have noticed the comma abuse, but I am of the opinion that without that lone semicolon, he would never have missed all the other semicolons.
I can still picture him behind his desk with his Doctor Philosophy bag o' commas. He was an excellent teacher, despite the comma bag.
Here's to you, Doctor Philosophy!
Monday, September 14, 2009
Saturday, April 25, 2009
"My Ride's Here
I stumbled upon this video. The video is mostly stills over a track of Bruce Springsteen covering a song co-written by Warren Zevon and the poet, Paul Muldoon. It's the most beautiful thing I've heard all month. Gotta love a song that references Lord Byron, Charlton Heston and Jesus and makes you goofily glad to be alive.
Uh, maybe not in that order, though.
Wednesday, March 18, 2009
Art Attack
I went to an art thing. It wasn't an exhibition of work. It was a public meeting/party to discuss an art HAPPENING that will take place next year. It's well-funded from what I can gather.
So I'm sitting on the floor (when in Rome) in the gallery space drinking water and listening to the presentations. It was at this point that I would have hired an actor to give the presentations. A lot of laughs, these visual artists were not.
At some point, I realized there was unopened PBR (Pabst Blue Ribbon) at my feet. I then had the foresight to realize that the PBR would make this art thing much more fun, so I cracked it open and yelled out:
"Yeah, brother, tell me again about institutional critique and the ontological conundrum of conceptual art in an urban landscape while trying to find plausible spaces and economic frameworks for new work." (When in Rome)
I didn't really say that, mostly because it makes no sense, but I did say to myself, "this beer is warm. My leg fell asleep sitting here. That foreign art dude is hot. He's really something."
(I'm not making this stuff up. Terms and expressions such as, institutional critique, plausibility and conceptual art, where all bandied about with impunity, so you see why the PBR was so welcome)
I have to admit it, It was an interesting experience and there were topics discussed that made me think, and I'm glad I went except for one thing.
I was waiting to use the restroom. The two people in front of me had been specatators, also. They had sat right next to me on the floor and also enjoyed the PBR. Tow-headed, arty guy and his anemic-looking gal pal. She goes in. She exits the bathroom. He's next. He stands there talking to the gal pal after she leaves the restroom. I'm behind him, and at this point I figure art boy doesn't need the restroom, that he was just keeping his friend company. I take a step forward to enter the bathroom.
He turns upon me and announces in no uncertain terms that he has to use the bathroom because he has to "really, really go." Then, he stands there. I nod. He turns on his heel. He has now very much exceeded the time limit allowed for the on-deck person in line, but still he's not in the restroom. He whirls about to face me, again. He does a shuffle that involves hands and feet and vogueing. Then he says to me:
"Was I too agressive?"
I say "No." Real deadpan. I'm starting to get pissed. Then, I realize he is a twit, an art twit. He can't help himself. He thinks being an ass is the same thing as being interesting.
Luckily, I was saved from further conversation with the art twit by this nice woman. She was a German artist, and she offered to show me where another bathroom was in the space. She did. I was glad. There's more but this is long enough. I may make a collage to explore my feelings further.
Originally posted September 21, 2006
So I'm sitting on the floor (when in Rome) in the gallery space drinking water and listening to the presentations. It was at this point that I would have hired an actor to give the presentations. A lot of laughs, these visual artists were not.
At some point, I realized there was unopened PBR (Pabst Blue Ribbon) at my feet. I then had the foresight to realize that the PBR would make this art thing much more fun, so I cracked it open and yelled out:
"Yeah, brother, tell me again about institutional critique and the ontological conundrum of conceptual art in an urban landscape while trying to find plausible spaces and economic frameworks for new work." (When in Rome)
I didn't really say that, mostly because it makes no sense, but I did say to myself, "this beer is warm. My leg fell asleep sitting here. That foreign art dude is hot. He's really something."
(I'm not making this stuff up. Terms and expressions such as, institutional critique, plausibility and conceptual art, where all bandied about with impunity, so you see why the PBR was so welcome)
I have to admit it, It was an interesting experience and there were topics discussed that made me think, and I'm glad I went except for one thing.
I was waiting to use the restroom. The two people in front of me had been specatators, also. They had sat right next to me on the floor and also enjoyed the PBR. Tow-headed, arty guy and his anemic-looking gal pal. She goes in. She exits the bathroom. He's next. He stands there talking to the gal pal after she leaves the restroom. I'm behind him, and at this point I figure art boy doesn't need the restroom, that he was just keeping his friend company. I take a step forward to enter the bathroom.
He turns upon me and announces in no uncertain terms that he has to use the bathroom because he has to "really, really go." Then, he stands there. I nod. He turns on his heel. He has now very much exceeded the time limit allowed for the on-deck person in line, but still he's not in the restroom. He whirls about to face me, again. He does a shuffle that involves hands and feet and vogueing. Then he says to me:
"Was I too agressive?"
I say "No." Real deadpan. I'm starting to get pissed. Then, I realize he is a twit, an art twit. He can't help himself. He thinks being an ass is the same thing as being interesting.
Luckily, I was saved from further conversation with the art twit by this nice woman. She was a German artist, and she offered to show me where another bathroom was in the space. She did. I was glad. There's more but this is long enough. I may make a collage to explore my feelings further.
Originally posted September 21, 2006
Friday, May 09, 2008
Scared Out of My Wits
I'm watching The Omen. It's in the middle of the movie. I've never watched it before because I'm chicken.
The first commercial break and I find out that the movie has been brought to me by Ambien. The sleeping pill.
The Omen is the antithesis of sleeping pill material.
Watch The Omen: Stay up all week.
Take an Ambien: Maybe you get eight hours. But not if you've been watching The Omen.
I'm scared. I need a tuna on rye.
Gotta go. It's back on.
The first commercial break and I find out that the movie has been brought to me by Ambien. The sleeping pill.
The Omen is the antithesis of sleeping pill material.
Watch The Omen: Stay up all week.
Take an Ambien: Maybe you get eight hours. But not if you've been watching The Omen.
I'm scared. I need a tuna on rye.
Gotta go. It's back on.
Monday, March 10, 2008
Riddle Me This?
I'm feeling Zen:
Riddle me this:
1)If all the politicians who have extra-marital affairs and/or frequent prostitutes up and resigned, well, who would be running the show?
2)Why should I vote for someone because their supporters will be disappointed if that person doesn't win? Why should I give a crap about their disappointment? I vote my interests. That's it. End of story, morning-glory.
3)I saw a Flamenco show on Friday. It was magnificent. The dancers and the flamenco singers brought down the house.
#3 is not a riddle, just a comment.
4)This is also not a riddle. Okay, a week or so ago, I met people at a tavern on the East side. They were in this back room area. I only knew two people but everyone was nice. Anyway, after I got there, I went to the bar to get a beer. A friend was buying me a beer because it was right near my birthday. Everything is copacetic. A-OK.
This guy at the bar doesn't see me, and bumps into me.
He says, "I'm sorry."
I say, "I'm fine. Don't worry about it."
He (quick as lightning) kind of grabs my waist, drops to his knees, and kisses my boot. It all transpired so quickly that I didn't say or do anything. I'm looking at my friend, she's looking at me. The guy gets up and apologizes again.
I say: Nothing. Because I'm f'n speechless.
Then, I see the girl the guy had been talking to right before the "Boot Incident" and she gives me a shocked, kind-of-pissy look. But hell, I didn't do anything. Me and my boots were minding our own damn business.
When we walked away I said to my friend: I'm glad I had a witness to this, because if I didn't, I wouldn't believe me. We go back to the back room and tell our other friend what happened. And she is laughing and says, this kind of stuff always happens to you. Which is true, but more importantly, it was pretty damn funny.
Later on, when I was leaving, the boot kissing guy told my one friend he liked her hat because when he saw it earlier it looked great with the snow falling around her.
Riddle me this:
1)If all the politicians who have extra-marital affairs and/or frequent prostitutes up and resigned, well, who would be running the show?
2)Why should I vote for someone because their supporters will be disappointed if that person doesn't win? Why should I give a crap about their disappointment? I vote my interests. That's it. End of story, morning-glory.
3)I saw a Flamenco show on Friday. It was magnificent. The dancers and the flamenco singers brought down the house.
#3 is not a riddle, just a comment.
4)This is also not a riddle. Okay, a week or so ago, I met people at a tavern on the East side. They were in this back room area. I only knew two people but everyone was nice. Anyway, after I got there, I went to the bar to get a beer. A friend was buying me a beer because it was right near my birthday. Everything is copacetic. A-OK.
This guy at the bar doesn't see me, and bumps into me.
He says, "I'm sorry."
I say, "I'm fine. Don't worry about it."
He (quick as lightning) kind of grabs my waist, drops to his knees, and kisses my boot. It all transpired so quickly that I didn't say or do anything. I'm looking at my friend, she's looking at me. The guy gets up and apologizes again.
I say: Nothing. Because I'm f'n speechless.
Then, I see the girl the guy had been talking to right before the "Boot Incident" and she gives me a shocked, kind-of-pissy look. But hell, I didn't do anything. Me and my boots were minding our own damn business.
When we walked away I said to my friend: I'm glad I had a witness to this, because if I didn't, I wouldn't believe me. We go back to the back room and tell our other friend what happened. And she is laughing and says, this kind of stuff always happens to you. Which is true, but more importantly, it was pretty damn funny.
Later on, when I was leaving, the boot kissing guy told my one friend he liked her hat because when he saw it earlier it looked great with the snow falling around her.
Sunday, February 24, 2008
Real Life Adventures: They Suck!
I just watched A River Runs Through It with Brad Pitt. It's one of my favorite movies. The first time I saw it, well, by the end of the film, I was weeping. I didn't cry. I wept.
At that point in time, I hadn't cried that much over a movie since The Champ. The very young Ricky Schroder crying over the dead body of his father, played by Jon Voight, after Voight dies during a boxing match: "Don't die, Champ. Don't die."
Everyone who has ever seen "The Champ," cries like a little girl. If you didn't, cry, well then:
1) you didn't see the film
Or
2)That's it. #1. Because if you saw it, you cried.
Back to real life which unlike the movies has regular fluorescent lighting and Brad Pitt rarely makes an appearance. You never see Brad, say, on the F train or at the Duane Reade buying paper towels. And that is too bad.
Warning: awkward transition ahead.
I was at a bar a couple weeks ago. Mexican place. After I left I went to another bar across the street where in short order I was schooled on my alphabet and confronted for daring to try to enter another area of the bar.
So I leave the Mexican place and I'm at the bar across the street, and I go to the restroom. I think it's the ladies room, and I open the door. Huge guy inside there. Apparently, he just walked in because he was still zipped up. How do I know this? I'll tell you. He turned around and walked to the threshold of the men's room. I babble an apology. He (I swear to Christ) touches the door, pointing his finger to the letter "G" on the door. He says all nasty: "G. Guys." He is schooling me on my consonants right there in a Lower East Side tavern like we are both in some fucked-up version of Sesame Street and he is an allegedly uber-cool version of the The Count
Next. I go to the real ladies room and try the door. It's locked. I immediately back off because who knows who is going to come bouncing out the door, trying to teach me a lesson. A woman leaves. She's pissed that I knocked and makes a comment about my knocking. (I hadn't knocked)
I say, "I didn't knock. I just tried the door."
She's like, "Oh, sorry."
And it's at this point, I'm wishing I had gone to the restroom again before I left the Mexican place -- where everyone was nice and relaxed.
Anyway, LONG f'n story short. Next, I try to go to the downstairs bar in this place. Mistake. I hit the bottom step and this guy approaches me. He is right in my face. He bounds over to stop any further progression on my part. Good God, what if I had passed by and entered the downstairs bar without permission. All hell would have broken loose: bar patrons allowed to roam freely into all areas of an establishment. That would be crazy.
He says, and I quote: "What do you want?"
I say, "I want a drink."
He says something like "this area is closed." He is giving me this nasty, nasty look. And his tone of voice was malevolent.
I shrug my shoulders like fine, whatever. So I leave the bar. Who needs this crap. I don't.
But I know his face. I've seen him before, but I can't place him. I know I don't have a positive association with him, but I can't think where my previous association comes from. Then, I remember. I've seen this fucker at shows. Several times. I don't know his name, but I remember his smirk, and general, ah, demeanor.
One more thing: The bar has a great jukebox. And some random guy tried to tell me that the Hall & Oates song "Private Eyes" was better than their song, "Rich Girl."
WTF. It boggles the mind.
At that point in time, I hadn't cried that much over a movie since The Champ. The very young Ricky Schroder crying over the dead body of his father, played by Jon Voight, after Voight dies during a boxing match: "Don't die, Champ. Don't die."
Everyone who has ever seen "The Champ," cries like a little girl. If you didn't, cry, well then:
1) you didn't see the film
Or
2)That's it. #1. Because if you saw it, you cried.
Back to real life which unlike the movies has regular fluorescent lighting and Brad Pitt rarely makes an appearance. You never see Brad, say, on the F train or at the Duane Reade buying paper towels. And that is too bad.
Warning: awkward transition ahead.
I was at a bar a couple weeks ago. Mexican place. After I left I went to another bar across the street where in short order I was schooled on my alphabet and confronted for daring to try to enter another area of the bar.
So I leave the Mexican place and I'm at the bar across the street, and I go to the restroom. I think it's the ladies room, and I open the door. Huge guy inside there. Apparently, he just walked in because he was still zipped up. How do I know this? I'll tell you. He turned around and walked to the threshold of the men's room. I babble an apology. He (I swear to Christ) touches the door, pointing his finger to the letter "G" on the door. He says all nasty: "G. Guys." He is schooling me on my consonants right there in a Lower East Side tavern like we are both in some fucked-up version of Sesame Street and he is an allegedly uber-cool version of the The Count
Next. I go to the real ladies room and try the door. It's locked. I immediately back off because who knows who is going to come bouncing out the door, trying to teach me a lesson. A woman leaves. She's pissed that I knocked and makes a comment about my knocking. (I hadn't knocked)
I say, "I didn't knock. I just tried the door."
She's like, "Oh, sorry."
And it's at this point, I'm wishing I had gone to the restroom again before I left the Mexican place -- where everyone was nice and relaxed.
Anyway, LONG f'n story short. Next, I try to go to the downstairs bar in this place. Mistake. I hit the bottom step and this guy approaches me. He is right in my face. He bounds over to stop any further progression on my part. Good God, what if I had passed by and entered the downstairs bar without permission. All hell would have broken loose: bar patrons allowed to roam freely into all areas of an establishment. That would be crazy.
He says, and I quote: "What do you want?"
I say, "I want a drink."
He says something like "this area is closed." He is giving me this nasty, nasty look. And his tone of voice was malevolent.
I shrug my shoulders like fine, whatever. So I leave the bar. Who needs this crap. I don't.
But I know his face. I've seen him before, but I can't place him. I know I don't have a positive association with him, but I can't think where my previous association comes from. Then, I remember. I've seen this fucker at shows. Several times. I don't know his name, but I remember his smirk, and general, ah, demeanor.
One more thing: The bar has a great jukebox. And some random guy tried to tell me that the Hall & Oates song "Private Eyes" was better than their song, "Rich Girl."
WTF. It boggles the mind.
Friday, February 01, 2008
Monday, January 21, 2008
Dr. King
My brother has Down Syndrome. He loves to put flags out on all the patriotic holidays. He magically knows when it's Flag Day or Veterans' Day - any day in which putting out the Stars & Stripes is right.
I was in Pennsylvania this weekend and this morning he got his flags together to fly in honor of Dr. King. The ground was hard because of the bitter cold, and he could only get one flag in the ground. I had to go to the doctor's with him and we didn't have time to place the rest of the flags.
It just struck me that the lone flag stuck in the dirt of a dormant flower bed -- flapping in the frigid air amid the bright winter sun -- was appropriate.
A single flag for Dr. King's singular vision.
A single flag to represent unity. Oneness.
A flag to represent an epic struggle which made us a better people.
A single flag to honor Dr. King's fight for justice and for all those who believed and believe in the dream of an America of decency, honor and equality.
Happy Dr. Martin Luther King Day.
I was in Pennsylvania this weekend and this morning he got his flags together to fly in honor of Dr. King. The ground was hard because of the bitter cold, and he could only get one flag in the ground. I had to go to the doctor's with him and we didn't have time to place the rest of the flags.
It just struck me that the lone flag stuck in the dirt of a dormant flower bed -- flapping in the frigid air amid the bright winter sun -- was appropriate.
A single flag for Dr. King's singular vision.
A single flag to represent unity. Oneness.
A flag to represent an epic struggle which made us a better people.
A single flag to honor Dr. King's fight for justice and for all those who believed and believe in the dream of an America of decency, honor and equality.
Happy Dr. Martin Luther King Day.
Sunday, December 02, 2007
Of Crash Davis and Redemption
I love the movie, "Bull Durham." I think it is fascintaing that movies about baseball are often about redemption. "Bull Durham" is funny, sweet and sexy, but underpinning the movie is the theme of redemption.
Crash Davis (Kevin Costner) needs to believe that his time in the minors hasn't been a wasted effort and he asks Annie (Susan Sarandon) at the end of the film:
"Do you think I can make it to the Show as a manager?"
She says, "Sure honey, I think you'd be great."
Obviously, Annie's learned a bit about second chances, herself. She knows his question isn't just about career. He needs assurance his dreams weren't in vain, and his pursuit of those dreams wasn't a fool's errand. Annie offers him that certainty, faith really, because she believes it.
In the film, Crash's rival for Annie's affection is Nuke LaLoosh (Tim Robbins). He's a hot-shot, young pitcher and he runs around with his uncontrollable talent and his wham-bam-thank-you-ma'am fucking style. He doesn't need redemption at this point in his life, but he sure could use some finesse. A finesse player is a thing of beauty. And rare. You can't fake finesse. You either have it or you don't. It can be developed but not faked.
In seeking out redemption there is beauty and a fragile honesty that all the self-congratulating, self-involved nonsense we are continually selling as our respective truths, can't even come close to.
By the time the credits roll --as Annie and Crash are dancing in her living room to "60 Minute Man" -- it is crystal clear they salvaged each others' hearts.
Crash Davis (Kevin Costner) needs to believe that his time in the minors hasn't been a wasted effort and he asks Annie (Susan Sarandon) at the end of the film:
"Do you think I can make it to the Show as a manager?"
She says, "Sure honey, I think you'd be great."
Obviously, Annie's learned a bit about second chances, herself. She knows his question isn't just about career. He needs assurance his dreams weren't in vain, and his pursuit of those dreams wasn't a fool's errand. Annie offers him that certainty, faith really, because she believes it.
In the film, Crash's rival for Annie's affection is Nuke LaLoosh (Tim Robbins). He's a hot-shot, young pitcher and he runs around with his uncontrollable talent and his wham-bam-thank-you-ma'am fucking style. He doesn't need redemption at this point in his life, but he sure could use some finesse. A finesse player is a thing of beauty. And rare. You can't fake finesse. You either have it or you don't. It can be developed but not faked.
In seeking out redemption there is beauty and a fragile honesty that all the self-congratulating, self-involved nonsense we are continually selling as our respective truths, can't even come close to.
By the time the credits roll --as Annie and Crash are dancing in her living room to "60 Minute Man" -- it is crystal clear they salvaged each others' hearts.
Wednesday, November 14, 2007
Linus: You Blockhead
I watched a bit of the Charlie Brown Great Pumpkin episode a few weeks ago. It was an hour long: I always thought it was a 30 minute deal. Linus was running for class president. He lost when he mentioned The Great Pumpkin - this despite an almost assured victory due to Lucy's stellar campaign management.
I wasn't watching too carefully. I was writing something and turned on the tv. Anyway, when I saw the part about the election and Linus' speech, etc., I thought the following:
Am I high?
Then: (in quick succession)
1)When did this episode have a class election and a campaign it it?
2)Has it always had these elements?
3)Is this a new version?
4)Was it always an hour long?
5)WTF.
Point #5 is not really a question, just a three letter essay on the caprice of memory and Linus' insistence on the existence of the Great Pumpkin. Lucy often calls Charlie Brown a blockhead, but really, isn't Linus is a bit of a blockhead, as well?
I like the word "Blockhead." I'm going to use it in conversation tomorrow. One time, while doing bad dinner theater, someone in the show decided we should all use the word "festoon" during a performance. All night, I was wracking my brains trying to toss a well-placed "festoon" in my lines, my dialogue, if you will. And by "dialogue," I mean the crappy dinner theater words we were paid to speak.
I did manage to throw my "festoon" in the show -- somewhere around the dessert course. I was actually relieved. Did I think it would alter the course of the show? My life? Dinner theater? No, I didn't, but I did want to accomplish the assigned task.
That is wackier than Linus' belief in the Great Pumpkin.
I wasn't watching too carefully. I was writing something and turned on the tv. Anyway, when I saw the part about the election and Linus' speech, etc., I thought the following:
Am I high?
Then: (in quick succession)
1)When did this episode have a class election and a campaign it it?
2)Has it always had these elements?
3)Is this a new version?
4)Was it always an hour long?
5)WTF.
Point #5 is not really a question, just a three letter essay on the caprice of memory and Linus' insistence on the existence of the Great Pumpkin. Lucy often calls Charlie Brown a blockhead, but really, isn't Linus is a bit of a blockhead, as well?
I like the word "Blockhead." I'm going to use it in conversation tomorrow. One time, while doing bad dinner theater, someone in the show decided we should all use the word "festoon" during a performance. All night, I was wracking my brains trying to toss a well-placed "festoon" in my lines, my dialogue, if you will. And by "dialogue," I mean the crappy dinner theater words we were paid to speak.
I did manage to throw my "festoon" in the show -- somewhere around the dessert course. I was actually relieved. Did I think it would alter the course of the show? My life? Dinner theater? No, I didn't, but I did want to accomplish the assigned task.
That is wackier than Linus' belief in the Great Pumpkin.
