Retrieved from ol' dependable (The) Sports Guy. It's a little long, and slow in parts, but it got me real good a few times.
"I quit on you when you ran outta Dee-troit with Willie The Pimp!" - Get This worthy.
Monday, January 28, 2008
Thursday, January 17, 2008
Spilling the beans on edge
There’s a bit in the Spectrum section of the Sydney Morning Herald on Saturdays called Big Questions. I really hate it, because it’s often used to ask where certain proverbs come from. Gee, I wonder who coined the term ‘to coin a term’? Talk about boring!
That’s why today I’m going to talk about where the phrase “to spill the beans” comes from.
Once upon a time Maria Bevilaqua was sitting by the local watering hole, cooling her heels. She had just been given a recipe by her grandfather, Louie, for bean lasagne. She should have had the recipe months ago. “I don’t care what it’s been, what is it now?”, she had said at the time. Louie spat on the ground in disgust and walked away, and it took him a full 7 months to invite her once more to receive the recipe.
This recipe had been in the family for 12 generations, and was a closely guarded secret. Once it was leaked to a neighbouring village, and Old Vinnie Bevilaqua was forced to doorknock the whole village, getting them to sign affidavits saying they would never use or pass on the recipe.
Maria, who’d always had a sharp tongue, was now just enjoying the moment. A carp swam past her foot. She pulled out a bb gun and shot it in the groin. Receiving the recipe was like being admitted into the family proper. She held her head high, her face a picture of serenity now. She’d already memorised the recipe, including the optional inclusion of a sprig of sparrowbane for when the moon was full – La Luna Spumante was what the old folk called it.
Slowly Maria picked up her things and headed off to market. She knew precisely which ingredients she needed, and picked them all up without a hitch, although the Spanish onions were a little dull. She shot the vendor in the groin with her bb gun and returned home with 6 full envirobags worth of fresh produce.
When Maria got home, Louie was waiting for her. “Maria, you little s.o.b., the family tradition is that the first time you learn the recipe, you gotta cook it for someone else. And not just anyone else. Us Bevilaquas is well connected. You gonna cook the recipe for the Countess of Guidonia and her family.”
“What?! That’s ridiculous.”
“The hell it is! You gonna cook for her, you gonna cook it well, and you gonna come back and tell us all about it. Off you go.”
With that he pushed her out the door before she could even put her bags down. He stuffed the address into her skirt pocket, and ignored her incredibly obscene protestations. When she finally turned around and started trudging off, he called out.
“Maria! You’ll pass the Sfaggis of Lago Maggiore on the way. Those pricks have been trying to get this recipe for 145 years. They don’t know you’re coming, but don’t raise any attention anyway. Keep your head down and your palms pointed outwards for good luck. Now do what I say and off you go.”
By now Maria was in a sour mood, but knew she’d better heed Louie’s instructions. Ingredients in hand, she hopped onto Angelo the family mule and headed off.
It was a beautiful road that she rode down, and her mood soon lightened. What was the countess’ family like?, she wondered. How many were there? Surely gramps wouldn’t send me away with insufficient ingredients? She was genuinely excited about the possibilities of the evening. She pulled out a hipflask and knocked back a fifth of vodka. Onward she rode.
Occasionally she passed villagers going about their daily business. Some said hello, others ignored her. She remembered Louie’s warning about the Sfaggis, but was unconcerned. She pulled up beside a massive baobab, and reckoned there was another 15 minutes of riding before she got there. She hopped off Angelo to stretch her legs. The shopping bags were secured tightly behind the saddle. Just as she was about to hop back on, someone spoke to her.
“Excuse me madam, where are you going?” said a friendly middle aged woman.
“I’m off to Guidonia. If you’ll excuse me, I have an appointment to keep.”
The woman smiled politely, and continued on her way. Maria rode off, but glanced back. The middle aged woman had broken into a sprint and was running in the direction of a homestead just off the road. Maria thought this unusual, but kept riding. A moment later she looked back again, and she could now see the lady talking to some other people, gesticulating frantically and pointing down the road towards… Maria!
Maria brought Angelo to a trot, and was beginning to feel very uneasy. She looked around again, and saw several people running towards her. There was a young man out in front, followed by some children.
Maria decided she would not look back again, and she rode Angelo as fast as he could go. The people didn’t seem to be catching up with her, and within a few minutes she saw Guidonia castle looming in front of her. She was confident now of making it, but still somewhat anxious. Sweat covered her entire body and she had saddle sores. Finally she reached the castle gates, and she hopped off Angelo and looked around. No one seemed to be following her, so she allowed herself a smile. She was here!
She was greeted at the gate by a portly doorman in fantastic garb. “You must be Maria. Let me help you with your bags.”
She unfastened the bags from Angelo and slapped the mule on the butt. With that Angelo rode away in the direction of home. She handed five of the six bags over to the doorman, but hesitated when it came to the all-important sixth – the home of the beans. There were green beans, red beans, white beans – you name it. She peeked inside to confirm the contents, and turned to the gate.
“Madam? There is a sixth bag. Please let me take it for you.”
“Umm, well – actually if it’s okay, I’ll hang onto it.”
“Madam, you don’t understand. Let me take it for you, it’s no problem.”
“Thank you, really, but I’d like to carry it. My wallet’s in here too.”
“Listen, I get paid by the bag. That bag is worth a lot of money to me. Please?”
“Alright! Crissakes.” She handed the bag to the doorman, but kept a watchful eye on him.
As the huge gate swung open, she stepped forward – and tripped over a cobble stone. She cried out: “Fatherf*cker!” An elderly couple standing nearby glared at her and shook their heads. Maria’s only thought was: thank God I wasn’t carrying the bag! It’s contents would have been revealed to all the world – although the Sfaggis were nowhere in sight.
As she pulled herself up the doorman rushed over to help. In doing so, he switched hands, moved the bags around and lost his grip. A single bag fell to the ground. Time seemed to slow down. The beans spilled everywhere. Maria cursed audibly and bent over to collect the beans. As she did so, she heard a high-pitched, whiny laugh. She turned around, and the laughter continued.
It was the man from the road, who had been chasing her.
“Ha ha ha! I’ve done it! I’ve discovered the secret ingredient to the Bevilaqua Lasagne. It’s beans! BEANS!!!”
He shouted it out, again and again, and walked away, still shouting.
“You idiot!,” she said to the doorman. “Do you realise what you’ve just done?”
“There there, Madam,” said the doorman. “It’s okay, we wash the beans.”
Maria felt sick. She had to act quick. She raced after the man, who was still laughing, and tapped him on the left shoulder. As he turned around, she produced an affidavit. “What’s this?” he said quizzically. Ah screw it, she thought to herself, and she pulled a knife out of her skirt pocket and stabbed the man in the chest. He dropped to the ground, and sputtered the word ‘Beans’ one last time before carking it.
Maria went on to cook the most wonderful bean lasagne for the Countess, and she lived to pass on the tale to her grandchildren, and later her children, about the fateful day she spilled the beans.
***
Of course, all of this is by the by. What I’m spilling the beans about is Edge. Edge is a science website (and notfer profit) created by literary agent John Brockman. I wouldn’t mind working for him. It contains articles, essays, videos and more, with an impressive range of regular contributors. Prominent are zoologist-cum-atheist flagbearer Richard Dawkins, maverick* molecular biologist Craig Venter, author Ian McEwan and astronomer Paul Davies. Sadly no Hofstadter there, but I like to think he just hasn’t sold out. I have to admit, there’s something a little wanky about being on the list of Edge contributors, but to be fair, if you have to be on a list it might as well be this one.
Anyway, there’s always something stimulating to read there, whether it’s about the definition of life, the end of the universe, or the vagaries of human nature. Even better, it’s meant for a lay audience but never dumbs down, there’s conflict a plenty but it’s usually respectful and with justification, and it celebrates life’s big questions.
Speaking of questions, what prompted me to make this post was the annual question and answer frenzy from Edge’s World Question Centre. Questions are posed and heaps and heaps of insightful, amusing or controversial answers are provided by the aforementioned range of contributors. This year’s question is: What have you changed your mind about? Why? Hey wait a minute, that’s two questions!
There’s always a few writers whose answers I look for – Judith Rich Harris, (she of the “peers are more influential than parents in determining our behaviour” theory), Simon Baron Cohen (similar name to Ali G’s creator), Susan Blackmore (author of the Meme Machine and a cool user’s guide to consciousness book. Am I present?), Richard Dawkins, Daniel Dennett, Daniel Goleman (of emotional intelligence fame), Jaron Lanier (who once proposed a more useful question like: What’s the single most effective thing we could do to make the world a better place, or something like that), John Allen Paulos (wrote Innumeracy and I Think Therefore I Laugh) and Robert Trivers.
But you never know who will write something that makes you think. So far this year I like Karl Sabbagh’s response, that he used to think experts knew better than he, but now realises they may be knowledgeable but that doesn’t make them wise. So except for their field of expertise (I would argue even in their field of expertise sometimes), you’re just as likely as them to be right about any given issue.
Here’s a list of all the questions, one per year starting in 2008 and working backwards. Sorry about the caps and underline - I abhor them. The last few have been turned into books – a great Christmas or Birthday gift for the whole family, nerds and idiots alike.
WHAT HAVE YOU CHANGED YOUR MIND ABOUT? WHY?
WHAT ARE YOU OPTIMISTIC ABOUT?
WHAT IS YOUR DANGEROUS IDEA?
"WHAT DO YOU BELIEVE IS TRUE EVEN THOUGH YOU CANNOT PROVE IT?"
"WHAT'S YOUR LAW?"
"WHAT ARE THE PRESSING SCIENTIFIC ISSUES FOR THE NATION AND THE WORLD, AND WHAT IS YOUR ADVICE ON HOW I CAN BEGIN TO DEAL WITH THEM?" —GWB
"WHAT'S YOUR QUESTION?"
"WHAT NOW?"
"WHAT QUESTIONS HAVE DISAPPEARED?"
"WHAT IS TODAY'S MOST IMPORTANT UNREPORTED STORY?"
"WHAT QUESTIONS ARE YOU ASKING YOURSELF?"
* this word is always used to describe him in the media. I prefer Word’s thesaurus alternatives: unconventional person, odd one out
That’s why today I’m going to talk about where the phrase “to spill the beans” comes from.
Once upon a time Maria Bevilaqua was sitting by the local watering hole, cooling her heels. She had just been given a recipe by her grandfather, Louie, for bean lasagne. She should have had the recipe months ago. “I don’t care what it’s been, what is it now?”, she had said at the time. Louie spat on the ground in disgust and walked away, and it took him a full 7 months to invite her once more to receive the recipe.
This recipe had been in the family for 12 generations, and was a closely guarded secret. Once it was leaked to a neighbouring village, and Old Vinnie Bevilaqua was forced to doorknock the whole village, getting them to sign affidavits saying they would never use or pass on the recipe.
Maria, who’d always had a sharp tongue, was now just enjoying the moment. A carp swam past her foot. She pulled out a bb gun and shot it in the groin. Receiving the recipe was like being admitted into the family proper. She held her head high, her face a picture of serenity now. She’d already memorised the recipe, including the optional inclusion of a sprig of sparrowbane for when the moon was full – La Luna Spumante was what the old folk called it.
Slowly Maria picked up her things and headed off to market. She knew precisely which ingredients she needed, and picked them all up without a hitch, although the Spanish onions were a little dull. She shot the vendor in the groin with her bb gun and returned home with 6 full envirobags worth of fresh produce.
When Maria got home, Louie was waiting for her. “Maria, you little s.o.b., the family tradition is that the first time you learn the recipe, you gotta cook it for someone else. And not just anyone else. Us Bevilaquas is well connected. You gonna cook the recipe for the Countess of Guidonia and her family.”
“What?! That’s ridiculous.”
“The hell it is! You gonna cook for her, you gonna cook it well, and you gonna come back and tell us all about it. Off you go.”
With that he pushed her out the door before she could even put her bags down. He stuffed the address into her skirt pocket, and ignored her incredibly obscene protestations. When she finally turned around and started trudging off, he called out.
“Maria! You’ll pass the Sfaggis of Lago Maggiore on the way. Those pricks have been trying to get this recipe for 145 years. They don’t know you’re coming, but don’t raise any attention anyway. Keep your head down and your palms pointed outwards for good luck. Now do what I say and off you go.”
By now Maria was in a sour mood, but knew she’d better heed Louie’s instructions. Ingredients in hand, she hopped onto Angelo the family mule and headed off.
It was a beautiful road that she rode down, and her mood soon lightened. What was the countess’ family like?, she wondered. How many were there? Surely gramps wouldn’t send me away with insufficient ingredients? She was genuinely excited about the possibilities of the evening. She pulled out a hipflask and knocked back a fifth of vodka. Onward she rode.
Occasionally she passed villagers going about their daily business. Some said hello, others ignored her. She remembered Louie’s warning about the Sfaggis, but was unconcerned. She pulled up beside a massive baobab, and reckoned there was another 15 minutes of riding before she got there. She hopped off Angelo to stretch her legs. The shopping bags were secured tightly behind the saddle. Just as she was about to hop back on, someone spoke to her.
“Excuse me madam, where are you going?” said a friendly middle aged woman.
“I’m off to Guidonia. If you’ll excuse me, I have an appointment to keep.”
The woman smiled politely, and continued on her way. Maria rode off, but glanced back. The middle aged woman had broken into a sprint and was running in the direction of a homestead just off the road. Maria thought this unusual, but kept riding. A moment later she looked back again, and she could now see the lady talking to some other people, gesticulating frantically and pointing down the road towards… Maria!
Maria brought Angelo to a trot, and was beginning to feel very uneasy. She looked around again, and saw several people running towards her. There was a young man out in front, followed by some children.
Maria decided she would not look back again, and she rode Angelo as fast as he could go. The people didn’t seem to be catching up with her, and within a few minutes she saw Guidonia castle looming in front of her. She was confident now of making it, but still somewhat anxious. Sweat covered her entire body and she had saddle sores. Finally she reached the castle gates, and she hopped off Angelo and looked around. No one seemed to be following her, so she allowed herself a smile. She was here!
She was greeted at the gate by a portly doorman in fantastic garb. “You must be Maria. Let me help you with your bags.”
She unfastened the bags from Angelo and slapped the mule on the butt. With that Angelo rode away in the direction of home. She handed five of the six bags over to the doorman, but hesitated when it came to the all-important sixth – the home of the beans. There were green beans, red beans, white beans – you name it. She peeked inside to confirm the contents, and turned to the gate.
“Madam? There is a sixth bag. Please let me take it for you.”
“Umm, well – actually if it’s okay, I’ll hang onto it.”
“Madam, you don’t understand. Let me take it for you, it’s no problem.”
“Thank you, really, but I’d like to carry it. My wallet’s in here too.”
“Listen, I get paid by the bag. That bag is worth a lot of money to me. Please?”
“Alright! Crissakes.” She handed the bag to the doorman, but kept a watchful eye on him.
As the huge gate swung open, she stepped forward – and tripped over a cobble stone. She cried out: “Fatherf*cker!” An elderly couple standing nearby glared at her and shook their heads. Maria’s only thought was: thank God I wasn’t carrying the bag! It’s contents would have been revealed to all the world – although the Sfaggis were nowhere in sight.
As she pulled herself up the doorman rushed over to help. In doing so, he switched hands, moved the bags around and lost his grip. A single bag fell to the ground. Time seemed to slow down. The beans spilled everywhere. Maria cursed audibly and bent over to collect the beans. As she did so, she heard a high-pitched, whiny laugh. She turned around, and the laughter continued.
It was the man from the road, who had been chasing her.
“Ha ha ha! I’ve done it! I’ve discovered the secret ingredient to the Bevilaqua Lasagne. It’s beans! BEANS!!!”
He shouted it out, again and again, and walked away, still shouting.
“You idiot!,” she said to the doorman. “Do you realise what you’ve just done?”
“There there, Madam,” said the doorman. “It’s okay, we wash the beans.”
Maria felt sick. She had to act quick. She raced after the man, who was still laughing, and tapped him on the left shoulder. As he turned around, she produced an affidavit. “What’s this?” he said quizzically. Ah screw it, she thought to herself, and she pulled a knife out of her skirt pocket and stabbed the man in the chest. He dropped to the ground, and sputtered the word ‘Beans’ one last time before carking it.
Maria went on to cook the most wonderful bean lasagne for the Countess, and she lived to pass on the tale to her grandchildren, and later her children, about the fateful day she spilled the beans.
***
Of course, all of this is by the by. What I’m spilling the beans about is Edge. Edge is a science website (and notfer profit) created by literary agent John Brockman. I wouldn’t mind working for him. It contains articles, essays, videos and more, with an impressive range of regular contributors. Prominent are zoologist-cum-atheist flagbearer Richard Dawkins, maverick* molecular biologist Craig Venter, author Ian McEwan and astronomer Paul Davies. Sadly no Hofstadter there, but I like to think he just hasn’t sold out. I have to admit, there’s something a little wanky about being on the list of Edge contributors, but to be fair, if you have to be on a list it might as well be this one.
Anyway, there’s always something stimulating to read there, whether it’s about the definition of life, the end of the universe, or the vagaries of human nature. Even better, it’s meant for a lay audience but never dumbs down, there’s conflict a plenty but it’s usually respectful and with justification, and it celebrates life’s big questions.
Speaking of questions, what prompted me to make this post was the annual question and answer frenzy from Edge’s World Question Centre. Questions are posed and heaps and heaps of insightful, amusing or controversial answers are provided by the aforementioned range of contributors. This year’s question is: What have you changed your mind about? Why? Hey wait a minute, that’s two questions!
There’s always a few writers whose answers I look for – Judith Rich Harris, (she of the “peers are more influential than parents in determining our behaviour” theory), Simon Baron Cohen (similar name to Ali G’s creator), Susan Blackmore (author of the Meme Machine and a cool user’s guide to consciousness book. Am I present?), Richard Dawkins, Daniel Dennett, Daniel Goleman (of emotional intelligence fame), Jaron Lanier (who once proposed a more useful question like: What’s the single most effective thing we could do to make the world a better place, or something like that), John Allen Paulos (wrote Innumeracy and I Think Therefore I Laugh) and Robert Trivers.
But you never know who will write something that makes you think. So far this year I like Karl Sabbagh’s response, that he used to think experts knew better than he, but now realises they may be knowledgeable but that doesn’t make them wise. So except for their field of expertise (I would argue even in their field of expertise sometimes), you’re just as likely as them to be right about any given issue.
Here’s a list of all the questions, one per year starting in 2008 and working backwards. Sorry about the caps and underline - I abhor them. The last few have been turned into books – a great Christmas or Birthday gift for the whole family, nerds and idiots alike.
WHAT HAVE YOU CHANGED YOUR MIND ABOUT? WHY?
WHAT ARE YOU OPTIMISTIC ABOUT?
WHAT IS YOUR DANGEROUS IDEA?
"WHAT DO YOU BELIEVE IS TRUE EVEN THOUGH YOU CANNOT PROVE IT?"
"WHAT'S YOUR LAW?"
"WHAT ARE THE PRESSING SCIENTIFIC ISSUES FOR THE NATION AND THE WORLD, AND WHAT IS YOUR ADVICE ON HOW I CAN BEGIN TO DEAL WITH THEM?" —GWB
"WHAT'S YOUR QUESTION?"
"WHAT NOW?"
"WHAT QUESTIONS HAVE DISAPPEARED?"
"WHAT IS TODAY'S MOST IMPORTANT UNREPORTED STORY?"
"WHAT QUESTIONS ARE YOU ASKING YOURSELF?"
* this word is always used to describe him in the media. I prefer Word’s thesaurus alternatives: unconventional person, odd one out
Monday, January 14, 2008
Free Will, research taken in vain, googly brains
Over at Ye Artful Science, there's
- chatter about free will. Insightful, yet humiliating.
- a ridiculous take on some research reported in the Herald today
- a superb analysis of the pitfalls of brain research
Surely it's just a matter of time before the Artful Sciencer is snapped up, by something.
- chatter about free will. Insightful, yet humiliating.
- a ridiculous take on some research reported in the Herald today
- a superb analysis of the pitfalls of brain research
Surely it's just a matter of time before the Artful Sciencer is snapped up, by something.
A Sports Guy - Monday, January 14
KISS AND MAKE UP
Australia and India are on the road to cordiality with the opposing captains engaging in a passionate kiss at a press conference today. The kiss was initiated by Australian captain Ricky Ponting, who said afterwards "Anil and I go way back. Way, way back. F*ck!"
FEDERER RECOVERS FROM ILLNESS
Ominously for the Australian Open field, Roger Federer is no longer feeling the effects of a flu that had him sidelined for the Kooyong Classic. At least one seed was reported to withdraw from the Open on hearing the news. "It's a tough call to make," said Dmitry Tursonov. "But it's not really worth playing if Roger is feeling well. I miss my home."
MOTHER LODE DRAWS DAVENPORT BACK AGAIN
New mother Lindsay Davenport has declared the reason behind returning from induced-pregnancy-induced retirement to play at this year's Australian Open: money. "I'm gonna get me some cash, my diggers," said Davenport. "That's what it's about now. I have a child to feed."
Australia and India are on the road to cordiality with the opposing captains engaging in a passionate kiss at a press conference today. The kiss was initiated by Australian captain Ricky Ponting, who said afterwards "Anil and I go way back. Way, way back. F*ck!"
FEDERER RECOVERS FROM ILLNESS
Ominously for the Australian Open field, Roger Federer is no longer feeling the effects of a flu that had him sidelined for the Kooyong Classic. At least one seed was reported to withdraw from the Open on hearing the news. "It's a tough call to make," said Dmitry Tursonov. "But it's not really worth playing if Roger is feeling well. I miss my home."
MOTHER LODE DRAWS DAVENPORT BACK AGAIN
New mother Lindsay Davenport has declared the reason behind returning from induced-pregnancy-induced retirement to play at this year's Australian Open: money. "I'm gonna get me some cash, my diggers," said Davenport. "That's what it's about now. I have a child to feed."
Above: Davenport was gracious in victory, allowing her opponent to share the spoils. (Photo: AP). Davenport was criticised for scheduling overmatched opponents in her return to competitive tennis.
Warwick Capper
I hate to build things up, but this really made me laugh a lot. Once again, credit goes to Tony Martin, although to be fair I think the sea lion's share of the credit actually goes to his accomplice Richard Marsland.
Wait on, let me build it down for a sec. This is an audio file, so the footage is at best distracting. Do yourself a favour and look away. Also, the sound quality could be better. Shop around at YouTube though, you might find a better one. The original file was located at Triple M's Get This page, but for some reason they've taken it down! You can still get it from the podcasts page, along with their final episode and others. While we're here, there's also some high quality ringtones up for grabs. My favourite: Brian Boyd and David Dickinson (tie). There's also a decent summary of capers at Wikipedia.
Wait on, let me build it down for a sec. This is an audio file, so the footage is at best distracting. Do yourself a favour and look away. Also, the sound quality could be better. Shop around at YouTube though, you might find a better one. The original file was located at Triple M's Get This page, but for some reason they've taken it down! You can still get it from the podcasts page, along with their final episode and others. While we're here, there's also some high quality ringtones up for grabs. My favourite: Brian Boyd and David Dickinson (tie). There's also a decent summary of capers at Wikipedia.
Sunday, January 13, 2008
Diary of a Mad Man
Dear diary,
I am a sane woman. What you think about that? Pee pee.
Yours,
Sphagnum Bog
January 14, 2008
I am a sane woman. What you think about that? Pee pee.
Yours,
Sphagnum Bog
January 14, 2008
When you don’t understand why someone you like isn’t famous
I’m rereading I Am A Strange Loop by Douglas Hofstadter. I wouldn’t say it’s his best work, but it’s still damn good. It’s essentially a summary of his thoughts on how a self, an ‘I’, a ‘light on inside’, a mind’s eye can come from a lump of squishy grey stuff.
I’m only a couple chapters in, but I keep feeling compelled to write notes about what he’s written, on account of it triggers so many thoughts and ideas in mine head. In fact, if I go through with this audacious, yet bodacious plan, I’ll have a book by the end of it! It could be the first ever book written entirely in response to, and while reading, another book. At least I assume so. The working title is I Know You Are But What Am I: Reflections on DRH’s I Am A Strange Loop.
Look, what I’m trying to say is I get sick and sleepy with having to all the time explain who Douglas Hofstadter is. To my way of thinking, he’s one of the clearest, most perceptive, easy to read, riveting authors out there, and he’s written about many a topic that would interest many and many a person. Yet he just isn’t up there with the Richard Dawkinses, Carl Saganses and Tim Flanneryses of this world.
Likewise in music, there are phenomenal performers who go unheard of, unrewarded, and unsullied day in, day out. I must confess I make no claims to know and like any obscure but brilliant bands (but watch this space for Looking Glass). Though they are in an overall minority, I know there are thousands of others who, like me, really dig the Mars Volta, Crash Test Dummies, Split Enz and Ween (almost certainly not this combination though).
Anyhoo, I believe that each and every person that this sentence refers to could list several awesome authors, musicians and creative whoevers that have touched their lives, delicately and deeply, but that can’t seem to get no respect, or at least general public awareness. I challenge these people to make that list.
These days the situation isn’t so bad with the internet. F’cryin’ out loud, I can now find people with a mutual interest in my newly acquired, top 10 All Time Coolest book, Codex Seraphinianus. Without the internet, I challenge anyone, anywhere to have heard of this amazing book (yes, I know the challenge was issued using the internet, a’F’eh!).
I guess this is all about information – how we get it, who controls its flow, and what it smells like. It’s also about personal differences in the kinds of things that profoundly resonate with (in?) our minds and hearts.
One last thing, it’s interesting to note that there is no analogous situation in sports. The best basketballers, sprinters and football players aren’t competing in D-Leagues, mid-week suburban track meets and lower grade Auckland comps. Aside from the scouts’ mythical undiscovered sporting geniuses tending sheep in a field somewhere, this phenomena just doesn’t happen in sport.
I’m only a couple chapters in, but I keep feeling compelled to write notes about what he’s written, on account of it triggers so many thoughts and ideas in mine head. In fact, if I go through with this audacious, yet bodacious plan, I’ll have a book by the end of it! It could be the first ever book written entirely in response to, and while reading, another book. At least I assume so. The working title is I Know You Are But What Am I: Reflections on DRH’s I Am A Strange Loop.
Look, what I’m trying to say is I get sick and sleepy with having to all the time explain who Douglas Hofstadter is. To my way of thinking, he’s one of the clearest, most perceptive, easy to read, riveting authors out there, and he’s written about many a topic that would interest many and many a person. Yet he just isn’t up there with the Richard Dawkinses, Carl Saganses and Tim Flanneryses of this world.
Likewise in music, there are phenomenal performers who go unheard of, unrewarded, and unsullied day in, day out. I must confess I make no claims to know and like any obscure but brilliant bands (but watch this space for Looking Glass). Though they are in an overall minority, I know there are thousands of others who, like me, really dig the Mars Volta, Crash Test Dummies, Split Enz and Ween (almost certainly not this combination though).
Anyhoo, I believe that each and every person that this sentence refers to could list several awesome authors, musicians and creative whoevers that have touched their lives, delicately and deeply, but that can’t seem to get no respect, or at least general public awareness. I challenge these people to make that list.
These days the situation isn’t so bad with the internet. F’cryin’ out loud, I can now find people with a mutual interest in my newly acquired, top 10 All Time Coolest book, Codex Seraphinianus. Without the internet, I challenge anyone, anywhere to have heard of this amazing book (yes, I know the challenge was issued using the internet, a’F’eh!).
I guess this is all about information – how we get it, who controls its flow, and what it smells like. It’s also about personal differences in the kinds of things that profoundly resonate with (in?) our minds and hearts.
One last thing, it’s interesting to note that there is no analogous situation in sports. The best basketballers, sprinters and football players aren’t competing in D-Leagues, mid-week suburban track meets and lower grade Auckland comps. Aside from the scouts’ mythical undiscovered sporting geniuses tending sheep in a field somewhere, this phenomena just doesn’t happen in sport.
Thursday, January 10, 2008
Alternative Lyrics - PJ Harvey's The Devil
As soon as I
turn left on a road
The Devil wanders
into my zone
And I pretend to myself...
Come, come, come here at one.
Come, come! On a day at 1pm
Because all of my being is now in Wyoming.
~~~
Welcome to lovesong dedications. This next song goes out to Jarryd in Bexley, and it's from his long time girlfriend Francene. Jarryd, Francene just wants to thank you for all the little things you do that make her life so special. This is for you Jarryd.
[ABBA's Money, Money, Money]
turn left on a road
The Devil wanders
into my zone
And I pretend to myself...
Come, come, come here at one.
Come, come! On a day at 1pm
Because all of my being is now in Wyoming.
~~~
Welcome to lovesong dedications. This next song goes out to Jarryd in Bexley, and it's from his long time girlfriend Francene. Jarryd, Francene just wants to thank you for all the little things you do that make her life so special. This is for you Jarryd.
[ABBA's Money, Money, Money]
Not starting, finishing
In the summer of 1982 I was sent to Thistlethwaite Finishing School for Tenn-aged Males. The postage cost over 350 dollars and I bruised my coccyx repeatedly in transit.
When I arrived I was quickly ushered into the ceremonial hall, where I witnessed the graduation rites of the class of '74. I personally considered 8 years of finishing school excessive, but my future employer insisted on it. Alas since that time standards have slipped at Chicken Wizard.
During the ceremony the graduands displayed an astonishing range of grooming, etiquette and posturing. More than one lecturer was brought to tears. It was two.
I never did complete my studies, my early withdrawal necessitated by the sudden release onto the market of an exciting and fresh new salted snack called Burger Rings. Still in my finishing school garb of flippers and old newspapers, I furtively thrust a twenty cent piece on the milkbar counter. For this I received a portion of 34 Burger Rings.
It was the best day of my life, even if the law courts saw it differently.
When I arrived I was quickly ushered into the ceremonial hall, where I witnessed the graduation rites of the class of '74. I personally considered 8 years of finishing school excessive, but my future employer insisted on it. Alas since that time standards have slipped at Chicken Wizard.
During the ceremony the graduands displayed an astonishing range of grooming, etiquette and posturing. More than one lecturer was brought to tears. It was two.
I never did complete my studies, my early withdrawal necessitated by the sudden release onto the market of an exciting and fresh new salted snack called Burger Rings. Still in my finishing school garb of flippers and old newspapers, I furtively thrust a twenty cent piece on the milkbar counter. For this I received a portion of 34 Burger Rings.
It was the best day of my life, even if the law courts saw it differently.
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