The Stuff of Thought
February 9, 2010
I don???t read many books because television and the computer got in the way, but my friend kept referring to this book and it sounded pretty interesting. His last mention of it was the straw that broke the camel???s back. I was just going to check it out of the library, but the library that???s in the next block from my office wasn???t one of the branches that had it available. So to get my instant gratification, I instead trotted down to Barnes & Noble, where I was prepared to pay about $16 for the softcover copy they said they had. When I got to the store, I discovered that the hardcover edition was on the bargain table for $6.
Steven Pinker is the author, and the subtitle is Language as a Window into Human Nature. The summary on the cover flap is pretty dry; a reader review on the B&N website says, ???This combination results in a curious reading experience: Pinker’s lively style, many anecdotes and extreme lucidity pull you forward in the text, but the difficulty of the questions he raises could stump you for some time.???
That sort of sums up my impression of the book so far, now that I???m a whole 18 pages in. The first ponder that he presents is to think about how many events happened in the 9/11 terrorist attack(s) in New York City. Was there one event, a terrorist attack on America? Were there two events, two different airplanes hitting two different buildings. Were there more, including the Pentagon and the Pennsylvania field. You never really thought about that before, did you? Insurance payouts hinge on the answer.
I think this will be a pretty fascinating read.
My dad is an amazing musician
February 7, 2010
This is an article that ran in the local paper, profiling the Dixieland jazz band that my dad headed up when he was in high school. That’s my dad on clarinet and my uncle on piano, both at the left in the photo. My mom gave me this photocopy a couple of years ago; it landed on my fridge and there it has stayed. I don’t remember now if it’s an old article that she just unearthed or if it’s a recent reprint. At any rate, it’s a fun and interesting thing to have.
Stepping away from the familial connection for a moment, just look at those boys. Do kids who start comparable groups these days have uniforms? Would kids even have a jazz band, or do they just go for—oh, I don’t know—some hip hoppy, dancy thing that they could present on So You Think You Can Dance or America’s Got Talent?
Yes, I am out of it.
But apparently my dad and the fellows were not. They played such prestigious events as intermission at a square dance, the straw hat promotion day, the West Side picnic, a meeting of the Young Adult Klub. I’m not poking fun here, but how much more wholesome can you get? Do we long for those innocent days when children were named Vernon and Myron? I just might. People were nicer to each other and didn’t go barreling down the freeway in their Chevy Suburban gas hogs thinking everybody better get outta their way.
My grandfather—my dad’s dad—was fairly musical in an informal way. As a kid and young adult, I remember Grandpa often strumming his ukelele and singing (with a deep voice that would hold about twenty Tiny Tims), or producing a unique double-toned whistle that I could never imitate. My uncle still plays and was a piano tuner by trade. My dad is just about the most incredible musician that I know of.
Although he played the clarinet in his youth, my dad is very much a keyboardist. My parents both always played piano, and my dad was pretty adept at the pipe organ for a while, too. His first career was as a professor of music at the small liberal arts college in the town where I grew up, and he moonlighted as the Methodist church organist for a while. Then he became a piano and organ salesman, which he still is, though the organs have evolved into digital keyboards, and the pianos as well are just as likely to run on motherboards as have hammers that strings.
As a salesman with a storefront, my dad has ample opportunity to “demonstrate.” This puts his playing skills on display whether in the presence of customers or not. The talent that my dad has that I never developed is that of improvisation. He doesn’t need to read music and it seems like he can sit down and play anything.
Every now and then, he gets a piano-playing gig. When my grandmother was still living, her fellow residents would always look forward to his visits because he would sit down at the piano and provide some dinner music, just because he enjoys playing.
I began piano lessons when I was six or seven and added the flute in fifth grade. For one of my college graduations, my parents gave me a digital piano. I’m ashamed to say that it’s been unused for too many years. Maybe I will dust it off one of these days in conjunction with this mini-creative renaissance I’m having.
Personal grooming
February 5, 2010
This photo just about sums up the lengths I go to every morning to make myself presentable. My lengths are shorts. My only goal is to be clean. Beyond that, things pretty much happen au natural.
I shampoo, condition, and wash in the shower. Sometimes I shave my legs. I dry myself off, use a store-brand version of Oil of Olay on my face and some pretty-smelling lotion from Bath & Body Works on my arms and legs along with a few squirts of matching body spray. The first effort I make at looks is to pat on a little undereye concealer and draw a few lines with a black pencil. I clean my glasses with the special cloth that I let Lenscrafters talk me into buying. I apply deodorant, and then I can put on my bathrobe. Then it’s time for the hair. The towel comes off and is shaken in the bathtub. I comb my hair and fluff the furrows with my fingers. Then comes the second effort I make at looks—I shoot the blowdryer at it for about 45 seconds. That’s just enough to get rid of the watery wetness so that the air can take over. I used to dry the shit out of my hair; I was 24 before I realized how curly it had become after puberty. I take a multivitamin and calcium supplement and get dressed, and then I’m on my way.I wear bigger shoes now
February 4, 2010
Are feet one of the body parts that keeps growing as you age? Or have my feet gotten a little larger because I don’t impose tight confinement on them? It probably all started with my first pair of Birkenstocks (this is the second, and it seems it’s about time for a third), when I learned just how comfortable shoes could be.
These Nike Air boots are the last in a long line of that style that I used to favor in the 80s. Only these were actually comfortable and had good traction for snowy Minnesota winter walks home from work. I think they’re the oldest pair of shoes that I still have. I got them probably fifteen years ago and wore them regularly for a good eight or nine years. I have good luck with Nike. That’s what the trainers are, too. In footwear as in many things, I’ve gotten curmudgeonly about going for comfort and practicality over stylishness, especially since I had a bout with plantar fasciitis ten or twelve years ago brought on by walking too much in my Dr Martens, which apparently did not have good support. The toes of the shoes I buy have gotten progressively less restrictive, and I’ve gone for extra room in length, too. Whereas I was always a 7-1/2, now I don’t get less than size 8. Sometimes, they might even be 8-1/2 or 9 depending on what the style is, how they run, and whether there needs to be room for an extra pair of thick wool socks. Extra arch support insoles always go in. Someone I know judges shoes by whether they make her feet look big. I judge shoes by whether they make my feet comfortable.Connect the dots
February 3, 2010
Quick! What did you think of? I’ve been pondering all day about what I could connect with what, and I haven’t come up with anything profound. As for the non-earthshattering I give you the following.
Last Wednesday I woke up in the morning with some mild head congestion. I did not go to bed any earlier than usual. Thursday I felt about the same when I got up, but by early afternoon I was dragging and teetering on the edge of finding a substitute to bowl for me. But after a while and two and a half cups of coffee, I was feeling much better. I went bowling. I drank orange juice. My first game was less than stellar, only 169; my timing on the approach was all messed up. I added vodka to the orange juice. Was it due to the “aiming fluid” or the sage advice from my teammate? We fixed my timing problem and my second game was 243 and my third was 251. That’s a 663 series after starting with a 169. Not too shabby. So then, feeling good about my bowling after all and still fairly peppy, I decided to pop over to karaoke. When I leave the bowling alley, I have half a mile to drive before I have to make the decision. That’s plenty of time to find a song on the car radio that you know and can sing along with a little to determine what kind of a karaoke voice you have that evening, even though you’re likely coming down with a cold. Verdict: good enough. At karaoke I drank tomato juice and grapefruit juice (okay, with another vodka or two, but hey, I was making an effort on vitamin C and not overdoing the booze), and sang Robbie Williams “Millennium” and Carole King “Jazzman.” Although I couldn’t say it was early, I did leave about an hour sooner than I usually do, if I go. Friday morning? Train wreck. Unfortunately, I could not choose to totally call in sick that day, as I had to finish the 60th birthday party invitation for my boss’ sister WHICH HAD TO GET DONE. That’s fine, it was a take-off on one of the American tabloids, and something like that is always a fun diversion to work on. I went in, hacked to the other boss that I was only there long enough to finish the invitation, finished the invitation, and left around noon or so. After a brief stop for some comforting tomato soup and grilled cheese (creamy tomato basil and caprese panini), I headed home. There was some sneezing. Would it have felt like my neck was trying to expel my throat if I hadn’t warbled like a songbird the night before? Once home, I went to bed at 2, woke up at 7, managed to stay up until 11 on account of some good movies on the classic movie channel, and slept through until about 11 on Saturday morning. I still felt like death warmed over, so unfurled my futon chair and made a daybed in front of the TV out of it and several pillows. The movie channel took good care of me with such classics as “Elmer Gantry,” “National Velvet,” and “Wuthering Heights.” As Saturday evening wore on, I began to feel noticeably better (I recorded “The Sea Hawk” because though I’ve never seen it, I just couldn’t stay up for it. I’ve had the soundtrack for 20 years on the recommendation of public radio for Eric Korngold’s scoring skills). I went back to bed around 11 again, and again slept until a little before 11. I was very much better on Sunday—I have always said that sleep is my best medicine. Sunday night I went to bed at the usual time which is not early or late, or just right. Monday I felt pretty good, except for the nose-blowing.The verdict on the dot connexions? I wonder if I would have felt so crappy on Friday if I had just come home Thursday night and gotten two, maybe three, more hours of sleep. Hard to know.
Still, I certainly see a lot of related actions and outcomes between Wednesday and Sunday.
I made up a drink, sort of
February 2, 2010
In the spirit of drinking two drinks (of my choice) at once, I decided on the way home that I was in the mood for a Black and Tan. So I jauntily entered the liquor store that is dangerously convenient on my walk home (across the street from the sushi restaurant that is dangerously convenient on my walk home) and strode to the beer cooler in the back, expecting to grab a four-pack of Guinness Draught cans and a six-pack of Bass Pale Ale bottles.
Fail. What liquor store doesn’t have Bass? “It’ll be in on Thursday,” said the evening manager who has learned that, even though I wear a big coat and carry a giant backpack, I am no threat to shoplift. We bonded over the lag time between when Sierra Nevada Celebration Ale was released and when it finally showed up at this store. During several visits over two weeks as I hopefully inquired “now?”, I heard what has become a famous refrain, “Check back on Thursday.” In all fairness, I suppose I should mention that this liquor store does focus on their wine selection. And though their beer department is small, relatively speaking, it is weighted toward the non-Genuine Draft varieties of malty goodness. I will also mention that, perhaps apropos, I have Anthony Bourdain’s new episode from Prague on as I write this and there is a heavy emphasis on beer. It’s hard not to find the Guinness these days, but in lieu of Bass I chose one of my favorite pale ales, Sierra Nevada. I selected it over, say, Lagunitas or Southern Hemisphere because those are grapefruity pales. Sierra Nevada is regularly aley. Not bad. Perhaps even better in this situation (but also unavailable) would have been Red Seal Pale Ale. So I christened this concoction the Black and Nev, to distinguish it from the legitimate Black and Tan. I had thought of Black and Pale but decided to go with Nev to give it a more specific identity. Then my friend suggested Dark and Pale, which I love in principle because of the oxymoronic wordplay. But in the end, I think I’ll stick with Black and Pale, as the Black is a practical reference to Guinness, which it does actually contain. Sorry, Lauren!Houseplant assassination
January 28, 2010
This is the tale of three houseplants. Two have been around for a long time and the third was traumatized by Robbin Rabbit a couple of years ago.
Robbin is a free-range rabbit, and he’s highly motivated by food and also very athletic. Maybe it’s because he grew up with two cats that he feels it’s only natural to scale piles of boxes and get where he really oughtn’t be. The combination of hunger and fearlessness led to his assassination of a perfectly lovely spider plant on the windowsill next to my desk. How can I be sure it was Robbin? Because not long after I got home, I caught him going back for seconds. I’m thankful that the irresistible allure of some fresh greens before I dispensed his legitimate supper didn’t lead to any dire consequences. For the rabbit, at least. I put the sawed-off plant in my sunny front window and it eventually made a valiant effort at recovery. The leaves are now about twice as leggy as before, but it’s once again a reasonably respectable houseplant. Only now it must contend with being the favored gnashing subject of my cats, particularly Dasie. I don’t think they set out to eat it, exactly, but in the course of their teething on it, some of it disappears. But it perseveres under adversity. All of my philodendrons (four at my office and six at home) can trace their roots, so to speak, back to a handful of cuttings that I snipped from my former employer’s office over 15 years ago when Jim, Rob, and I worked together. Those things kind of grow like weeds and they don’t mind at all medium-strength, diffuse light. I keep mine trimmed so that they can put their energy into being full and bushy rather than sending out long runners of leaves. My oldest plants, though, are the pointy ones. I have no idea what they’re call. But I do know that the original shoots came from plants that our nextdoor neighbors the Dawsons had. My mom started some new plants before we moved in 1978, and all six of my plants are descended from the first offshoot she gave me way back when. These, too, grow prolifically and are tolerant of varying conditions. Several of mine are in need of dividing and replanting. If anybody knows what they’re called, please leave a comment below.
I miss Heidi Collins
January 26, 2010
And I watch too much TV. My friends will be used to my saying periodically that I should just ditch Comcast, watch what I need to online or with Netflix, and generally spend more time doing things other than watching shows.
However, I have yet to quite work up enough courage to actually go through with it. I tried once about five years ago, but then the gal on the other end offered to give me my service for half price for six months. How could I refuse? Then about a year ago I called again to cancel the TV part, but the gal on the other end reminded me that my TV and internet were bundled and that if I dropped the TV the price of the internet would go up, but if I kept the TV, it would only be $15 a month more than with internet alone. How could I refuse, when the TV package was supposedly worth $40? Bastards.My favorite woolens
January 24, 2010
I don’t really have favorite clothes, but two items get a lot of use simply because they are seasonally appropriate—my Scottish wool sweater and my London hat.
During the Scotland portion of my first trip to the UK, I acquired two wool sweaters from a shop on Edinburgh’s High Street. I’m certain to the locals it was just another tourist-oriented business, but the sweaters really are quite nice. I got a blue one and a buff one. I pulled out the blue one first this winter and discovered that it’s perfect for keeping me nice and toasty in my drafty old place, thereby allowing me to keep the thermostat set about five degrees lower than if I weren’t wearing it (with a turtleneck underneath and longjohns under my sweatpants). I don’t recall having discovered that last winter. I was going to switch to the white one, but discovered that something has eaten a hole through it. Moths? Dunno. So I put it back aside. Therefore, needing to continue wearing the blue one but becoming concerned that it might get up and walk away all on its own, I threw it into the cold-water wash. I’ve done that with other wool items to no consequence. Not so with this sweater. It is now only two-thirds its original size. It’s still comfortably wearable as both sweaters were too big to begin with. I need to investigate washing the white one, too. If something’s been munching on it, I would prefer to clean it, too, before attempting repair and wear. My London hat, on the other hand, is polyester and acrylic and went through the wash just fine. Even though I’ve had it for at least seven years (it, too, was bought in a tourist shop near the Tower of London), this is the first winter that I’ve worn it much. I think it’s too small for my head and therefore always does its best to pop off. I have figured out that wearing a headband underneath it gives it something to stick to and makes it usable. Yay!Tattooine, aka my non-existant ink mark
January 23, 2010
Heretofore, I’ve never had the desire to get a tattoo. I’m not sure I do now, though perhaps I do moreso than I did in, say, September. That’s when I drew on myself with a couple of different Sharpies. And it turned out that I didn’t mind how it looked.
I have always maintained that if I did more body art, it would 99.9% be likely to happen as a demure nose piercing. I have never thought that I wanted to get a tattoo. But two funny things happened. About a year ago, I accidently discovered that my mom had gotten a tattoo. At age 70! Without consulting my dad! Who didn’t realize for months afterwards! I certainly don’t feel like I have to keep up, or tell anybody if I do. Then we had the marker tattoo mission. And I liked it! I didn’t try to scrub it off. Today I’ve been thinking about it again. If I did actually go through with the real thing (which I’m not saying I will), I would get this rabbit, pretty for sure. I could see having it be about 75% of the pictured size. However, I think the overall line thickness to rabbit-size proportion is exactly right. Maybe I will have it done at Saint Sabrina’s, or maybe I will have it done in Camden. TBD, perhaps sooner than I think.
Kelly’s Unnecessary Blog 