What I Really Really Want Is NOT actual Virtual Reality. Unless and until the tech wizards apply the massive might of their computers to converting every existing film into three dimensions. No need to invest in new stories until ALL the others have been rendered in three dimensions. I want THAT, with the headset so I can sit outside and enjoy the air whilst enjoying one of my favorite films!
Saturday, January 10, 2026
Wednesday, July 21, 2010
No book to read on the bus....
So this morning was an iPod morning, and for some reason, the selections were all titles in the "S" column:
Shivers – Armin Van Buuren
Shotgun Down the Avalanche – Shawn Colvin
Similar Features – Melissa Etheridge
Smaointe - Enya
So Far Away – Dire Straits
[The] Stake – Steve Miller Band
Shivers – Armin Van Buuren
Shotgun Down the Avalanche – Shawn Colvin
Similar Features – Melissa Etheridge
Smaointe - Enya
So Far Away – Dire Straits
[The] Stake – Steve Miller Band
Wednesday, March 10, 2010
O give me a trough, a nice big wide trough...
Natura vacuum abhorret = Nature abhors a vacuum. Francois Rabelais, c.1494–1553. (Oxford Dictionary of Scientific Quotations)
I've never really understood this, although I seem to have known it for a very long time, as a 'saying' or piece of folksy wisdom trotted out as the occasion demands. However, as we now know, quite a lot of Nature IS vacuum (or, at least, non-atmospheric) - but not according to science nit-picker MSW. However, all this is a roundabout way of getting to the point, which is, that while Nature may abhor a vacuum, she's got nothing on drivers on I-35 between San Antonio and Austin. Specifically that bit between San Marcos and Austin. And this during Spring Break, when a good 1/4 of the regualar commuters are out of town! The 'average' driver (and yes, I use the term as loosely as possible) seems to feel that any space larger than a car length MUST BE FILLED!!! I have noticed that traffic seems to come in waves, and I prefer to be in the trough, rather than the crest, although at least at night it is easier to see that crest advancing, advancing, steadily advancing, to crash down on my poor unseaworthy bark. It seems as if the other drivers are all thinking "There is space ahead, empty space! I must fill it, now!"
Why??????
I've never really understood this, although I seem to have known it for a very long time, as a 'saying' or piece of folksy wisdom trotted out as the occasion demands. However, as we now know, quite a lot of Nature IS vacuum (or, at least, non-atmospheric) - but not according to science nit-picker MSW. However, all this is a roundabout way of getting to the point, which is, that while Nature may abhor a vacuum, she's got nothing on drivers on I-35 between San Antonio and Austin. Specifically that bit between San Marcos and Austin. And this during Spring Break, when a good 1/4 of the regualar commuters are out of town! The 'average' driver (and yes, I use the term as loosely as possible) seems to feel that any space larger than a car length MUST BE FILLED!!! I have noticed that traffic seems to come in waves, and I prefer to be in the trough, rather than the crest, although at least at night it is easier to see that crest advancing, advancing, steadily advancing, to crash down on my poor unseaworthy bark. It seems as if the other drivers are all thinking "There is space ahead, empty space! I must fill it, now!"
Why??????
Sunday, February 21, 2010
The Earbud Generation
Last week, while in a public restroom, I was able to hear the music. Not on the usual Muzak system, because the restroom I was in does not have Muzak. No, I was hearing, over the noise of other people flushing, and myself voiding an uncomfortably full bladder, the music of choice of an iPod user, with the requisite earbuds, who was on the other side of the wall, around the corner, applying makeup. If I could give you members of the Earbud Generation one bit of advice, it would be this: invest in companies that make hearing aids. Not the old-grannie ones, but the high-tech stealth ones that your compatriots are going to be buying in mass quantities in about 10 years, when you can no longer hear the person sitting next to you speaking at normal volume. Cause this investment will pay off, big time.
Saturday, August 30, 2008
I'm Your Man
I sent an inquiry via e-mail to a friend, to find out if he was the one I (thought) had borrowed a particular book. His answer, “As Leonard Cohen says, ‘I’m your man.’” sent me off on a search for the song, and into a tailspin of repeated listening.
I don’t know anything about Mr. Cohen. I haven’t Wiki-ed, or Google-ed, or anything else-ed him – on purpose. All I know is this song (ok, a few others piqued my interest and I got them, too) which I first encountered as the soundscape to a particularly interesting scene in the film Secretary. Now, the fact that I not only saw that film―in conjunction with the fact that it got added, at first opportunity, to the DVD collection—quite probably reveals things about me that are uncomfortable to contemplate, much less know. The ick factor aside, there is something undeniable about the voice of Leonard Cohen intoning the words of I’m Your Man: S-E-X, in all caps, italicized, bold, and the largest typeface imaginable. O very yes.
If Barry White’s voice conjures elaborate visions of the seraglio, harems of cool white marble surrounding deep, still blue pools, tapestry hung alcoves with plush Oriental rugs, low inlaid tables with swanlike silver coffee services, and silk and satin pillows in glorious profusion, well, Mr. Cohen’s suggests something completely different. A high rise apartment, vast windows overlooking the city, glass, cool blond Scandinavian furniture, large black vases with bare black branches – the sort of images gleaned from years of Woody Allen films and New Yorker stories – since one has never actually visited a city (much less THE city) that remotely resembles anything like those images.
In the midst of such cool emptiness, Mr. Cohen’s voice glows like a burning coal. Warm, ENVELOPING, suggesting long days spent on a huge slab bed, being occasionally stroked like a favored pet, while that silky voice unspools, saying anything, anything, anything at all.
If all love songs (by men, at least) are some variation on “Pick me!!! Pick me!!!” then surely, I’m Your Man represents the ultimate distillation of that particular cri de coeur. The world may indeed be, as James Brown avers, a man’s world, but because I’m Your Man advances the argument that the man in question is willing to be, do, say anything to be the one picked, it may be one of the most devious love songs ever penned. Because while all love songs plead, very few promise change on the part of the one pleading! They plead, offer excuses, crow celebratory paeans after being picked, or lament no longer being the lady’s choice, but very seldom do they offer to change spots, even if there is some acknowledgement that spots-changing might have been necessary to secure said lady’s happiness and continued favors.
But it is a very unsettling combination – warm voice, cool spare background, and promises of everything uttered in as dispassionate a tone as has ever been employed while delivering a declaration. The most unsettling and dispassionate section of the song is the bridge, and on the words – please, please – a plea unlike (in my experience) any other uttered in song. The tone implies that these words are merely pro-forma, an inclusion without meaning, since the bare offer of the verses should be enough. That is what I mean by devious, especially when this sentiment is coupled with that slow, sex-laden, warmly cool, coolly warm voice.
This is why I don’t need to know anything about Mr. Cohen’s biography. This song tells me that it will be littered with evidence of multiple love affairs, of varying lengths and intensities, of veritably Rousseau-ian proportions. It is all there in the song.
I still like it, though.
I don’t know anything about Mr. Cohen. I haven’t Wiki-ed, or Google-ed, or anything else-ed him – on purpose. All I know is this song (ok, a few others piqued my interest and I got them, too) which I first encountered as the soundscape to a particularly interesting scene in the film Secretary. Now, the fact that I not only saw that film―in conjunction with the fact that it got added, at first opportunity, to the DVD collection—quite probably reveals things about me that are uncomfortable to contemplate, much less know. The ick factor aside, there is something undeniable about the voice of Leonard Cohen intoning the words of I’m Your Man: S-E-X, in all caps, italicized, bold, and the largest typeface imaginable. O very yes.
If Barry White’s voice conjures elaborate visions of the seraglio, harems of cool white marble surrounding deep, still blue pools, tapestry hung alcoves with plush Oriental rugs, low inlaid tables with swanlike silver coffee services, and silk and satin pillows in glorious profusion, well, Mr. Cohen’s suggests something completely different. A high rise apartment, vast windows overlooking the city, glass, cool blond Scandinavian furniture, large black vases with bare black branches – the sort of images gleaned from years of Woody Allen films and New Yorker stories – since one has never actually visited a city (much less THE city) that remotely resembles anything like those images.
In the midst of such cool emptiness, Mr. Cohen’s voice glows like a burning coal. Warm, ENVELOPING, suggesting long days spent on a huge slab bed, being occasionally stroked like a favored pet, while that silky voice unspools, saying anything, anything, anything at all.
If all love songs (by men, at least) are some variation on “Pick me!!! Pick me!!!” then surely, I’m Your Man represents the ultimate distillation of that particular cri de coeur. The world may indeed be, as James Brown avers, a man’s world, but because I’m Your Man advances the argument that the man in question is willing to be, do, say anything to be the one picked, it may be one of the most devious love songs ever penned. Because while all love songs plead, very few promise change on the part of the one pleading! They plead, offer excuses, crow celebratory paeans after being picked, or lament no longer being the lady’s choice, but very seldom do they offer to change spots, even if there is some acknowledgement that spots-changing might have been necessary to secure said lady’s happiness and continued favors.
But it is a very unsettling combination – warm voice, cool spare background, and promises of everything uttered in as dispassionate a tone as has ever been employed while delivering a declaration. The most unsettling and dispassionate section of the song is the bridge, and on the words – please, please – a plea unlike (in my experience) any other uttered in song. The tone implies that these words are merely pro-forma, an inclusion without meaning, since the bare offer of the verses should be enough. That is what I mean by devious, especially when this sentiment is coupled with that slow, sex-laden, warmly cool, coolly warm voice.
This is why I don’t need to know anything about Mr. Cohen’s biography. This song tells me that it will be littered with evidence of multiple love affairs, of varying lengths and intensities, of veritably Rousseau-ian proportions. It is all there in the song.
I still like it, though.
Tuesday, May 20, 2008
America: Problem Child
The principal problem that afflicts our country was diagnosed two hundred and twenty-seven years ago, by a very perceptive Frenchman. To wit:
“Cast your eyes upon the capital of your empire, and you will find two classes of citizens. The one, glutted with riches, displays an opulence which offends those it does not corrupt; the other, mired in destitution, worsens its conditions by wearing a mask of prosperity which it does not possess: for such is the power of gold (when it becomes the god of a nation, stands in the stead of all talent, and takes the place of every virtue) that one must either have wealth or feign to have it.”
~ Denis Diderot (Abbé Reynal) in Histoire philosophique et politique des établissements et du commerce des Européens dans des Deux Indes, Book IV, 1781 (Vol. XV, Oeuvres complètes, Paris, Club français du livre,1973).
Mon. Diderot was writing 'under cover' in a book officially authored by his friend and co-philosophe, the Abbé Reynal, addressing his Majesty Louis XVI of France. That portion of the sentiment which I have emphasized (bold & italic) is as applicable now as it was then -- perhaps more so, since the age of the CREDIT CARD has made "feigning" wealth a practically universally available affliction, and by virtue of the sentiment in parentheses -- which is, if anything, more true now than it was then.
Would Diderot weep to know that still, after all this time, his warnings have gone unheeded? Or would he, being philosopical, put it down to the apparently immutably small nature of human nature? One can't help but wonder.
“Cast your eyes upon the capital of your empire, and you will find two classes of citizens. The one, glutted with riches, displays an opulence which offends those it does not corrupt; the other, mired in destitution, worsens its conditions by wearing a mask of prosperity which it does not possess: for such is the power of gold (when it becomes the god of a nation, stands in the stead of all talent, and takes the place of every virtue) that one must either have wealth or feign to have it.”
~ Denis Diderot (Abbé Reynal) in Histoire philosophique et politique des établissements et du commerce des Européens dans des Deux Indes, Book IV, 1781 (Vol. XV, Oeuvres complètes, Paris, Club français du livre,1973).
Mon. Diderot was writing 'under cover' in a book officially authored by his friend and co-philosophe, the Abbé Reynal, addressing his Majesty Louis XVI of France. That portion of the sentiment which I have emphasized (bold & italic) is as applicable now as it was then -- perhaps more so, since the age of the CREDIT CARD has made "feigning" wealth a practically universally available affliction, and by virtue of the sentiment in parentheses -- which is, if anything, more true now than it was then.
Would Diderot weep to know that still, after all this time, his warnings have gone unheeded? Or would he, being philosopical, put it down to the apparently immutably small nature of human nature? One can't help but wonder.
Thursday, March 13, 2008
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