Syntax of Things

Someone's Knockin' at my Door

With a few hours left before sunset on the West coast, there's still time to carve a pumpkin.  If you're looking for ideas, check out Extreme Pumpkins (my favorite pictured above).  Or you can chisel out this electronic version.

Smell My Feet

When I was a kid, I lived in a candy-friendly neighborhood, meaning that every Halloween we would come away with huge bags of cavity-inducing treats and the occasional silver dollar that kept my mom busy for hours making sure that my little brother and I had equal amounts or that there wasn't anything in our bags that might cause us to visit the emergency room later that night.  But one Halloween we made out with more than candy.  This particular day had been rainy, so much so that we almost didn't get to trick-or-treat.  But the rain stopped and we made our sweep of the neighborhood and returned with our overflowing bags only to quickly take off our costumes, empty the candy on the bed, and return to the streets, bags in hands, to catch some of the hundreds of frogs that had migrated from the ditches onto the streets in search of bugs or treats or air.  We filled our bags and brought them home.  What did we do with them?  Turned them loose.  It was all about the hunt and we had it easy that night.  Besides, we had candy to eat.

As for Halloween this year, Elaine and I will once again be hiding in our own apartment.  We learned from our first year here that Halloween can be expensive and right now we're watching every penny.  We'll let the unsuspecting downstairs neighbors, who claim Halloween as their favorite holiday, treat the kiddies. 

But I won't let you go with out a few treats.  Happy Halloween:

Do the real-life inspirations for Dracula and Frankenstein have historical connections with one another?  According to this article, they do.

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The Oregonian gives a sampling of Chuck Crisafulli and Kyra Thompson's new book, Go to Hell: A Heated History of the Underworld, including this:

Fans of television's "Gilligan's Island" theorize that each of the castaways is guilty of one of the seven deadly sins.
Gilligan -- gluttony
Skipper -- anger
Mr. Howell -- greed
Mrs. Howell -- sloth
Ginger -- lust
Mary Ann -- envy
Professor -- pride

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The Dallas Morning News {bugmenot} is celebrating Texas literati.  First, University of Texas senior lecturer Dick Holland lists the seven most important figures in Texas letters. Then, Will Clarke (not the former baseball player) responds to Larry McMurtry's two-decade old essay ""Ever a Bridegroom: Reflections on the Failure of Texas Literature" in which McMurtry said that Texas writing was insular and "cowboy obsessed."

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The Salt Lake Tribune explores two of Ernest Hemingway's Idaho haunts.

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A gallery of funeral art.*

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Why does God hate amputees?*

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Check out this collection of the "best rejected advertisements."*

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Chromewaves' mp3 of the week is Wilco's cover of the BOC's "Don't Fear the Reaper."

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Legally download David Dondero's new album, South of the South, from the Team Love site.  "Brownsville Revival," about an evangelical revival that has been ongoing in Pensacola, Florida, since Father's Day of 1995, may be one of Dondero's best songs yet.  It scores points from me for its honest and vivid description of a town that I once called home.

*via MeFi

A Less Risky Investment Opportunity

From some guy: "A high school teacher and father of one (with another child on the way), I now want to seriously pursue writing as a career, and the best way to deepen and expand my craft is to pursue an M.F.A. in creative writing. Unfortunately, the programs to which I have applied take three years to complete, and I'm not prepared to put my family deep into debt at this stage, despite my profound desire to focus on writing. So, I'm resorting to the web and my creativity in an attempt to solve our financial bind."

From me:  "A guy with a wife, two dogs (oh, and a cat that pees on my couch), I now want to make the move to full-time slacker, mooch, and lover of long naps and sleepless nights without consequences.  Unfortunately, I have a $1,400 a month rent, a ton of bills, and a wife who loves the finer thrift stores and yard sales in this expensive city, and I'm not inclined to sleep on the street or in Tijuana and my wife wants to be a shopper at Goodwill not a recipient of its charity. So I'm resorting to the web and my blogging in an attempt to finance my new lifestyle."

Vice Stripped of Flannery

Just this afternoon, I went to the bookstore to look for a copy of Tuscaloosa, Alabama, native Brad Vice's The Bear Bryant Funeral Train but couldn't find it.  Well, it appears that Vice might be aptly named.  According to this report in the Tuscaloosa News (bugmenot), Vice has been stripped of the Flannery O’Connor Award for Short Fiction:

The organization took the action after textual similarities with passages from the 1934 book Stars Fell on Alabama by Carl Carmer were spotted by a Tuscaloosa librarian.

In addition, the book--reviewed here in the SF Chronicle--is being recalled and any person who wishes can get a refund from the publisher.

The textual similarities occur in the first story, "Tuscaloosa Knights," a story about a Klan march in the Alabama town:

Vice said in an e-mail that he regretted failing to acknowledge Carmer in the book, that “Tuscaloosa Knights" was intended as a play on Carmer’s subtitle, “Tuscaloosa Nights," of which the chapter in question is a section.

Both stories revolve around a Ku Klux Klan rally in Tuscaloosa, circa 1930s. Carmer’s story is about four and a half pages, while Vice’s “Tuscaloosa Knights" runs about 20 and features different characters and situations, but following closely some of Carmer’s dialogue and description.

Studying on his edition of “Stars Fell on Alabama," Vice said he assumed that, “as a nonfiction resource, the dialogue had a truth value outside of Carmer’s text."

Developing.

Update:  If I read Galleycat more often, I would have seen the story on Thursday.  But I don't, and I didn't.

P Is For...

I've been floating in a cough syrup and Vicodin haze for the last few days.  My week started with the lingering cold and ended with a stress-induced neck pain, thus the need for this cocktail.  So I was barely conscious yesterday morning when as I grabbed my bag to head out the door for work I noticed our cat, Samone, sitting on the couch making a rather strange cat face.  It took me a three count to realize that Samone wasn't grimacing at the sad fact that I had to leave her for the day; she was peeing.  On the highly absorbent fabric cushions of our couch.

I don't know if you've ever had to deal with cat urine.  If so, you know that it ranks up there with the likes of skunk spray and George Bush in its ability to permanently alter for the worse anything it touches.  This was not a little accident which could wait till later or even one that I could leave for Elaine.  I had to act immediately. 

By the time I reached the couch, Samone had finished, had jumped to the floor and sprinted to a safe part of the house.  I didn't have time to kick or even curse her.  I pulled the cushions off the couch and unzipped the fabric.  Luckily, we had some leftover anti-urine-odor enzyme, so I began the soaking process.  To the cushions themselves, I grabbed the handy Nature's Miracle and applied a generous amount to the wet spots.  Still, I feared that there was vengeance in the pee and any attempt to eradicate Samone's aim would be met with a smelly failure.  I woke Elaine to tell her what to do once the fabric had soaked in the tub for a couple of hours and left for work, leaving everything in the hands of my wife and time.

I'm not sure what got into the cat.  I know we don't pay her enough attention, that we treat the dogs as if they were our children and Samone as if she were a cactus. I know that her litter box could be cleaner and that we often buy her the bottom-shelf cat food. Hell, days go by that I don't speak to her or even realize that I have a cat.  She's rarely demanding, but mornings are her time. That's when the dogs are still asleep and she can command all of my attention as I sit at this computer and read what has gone wrong in the world while I slept.  But yesterday morning, while the Vicodin kept threatening to pull my head toward the desktop, I pushed her away, denied her the pleasure of her morning pat. 

I think that pissed her off. 

So she uttered a strange sounding meow, made that odd face, and gave me reason to remember that she exists.

The couch will survive.  We may have to live with the slight odor until nature and its Miracle run their course.  Samone, on the other hand...

I kid about the kitty.  She's fine, just no longer allowed near the couch.

Related:  Leave it to the Romans.

You Can Put It on the Board, Yes!

Congratulation to all the White Sox fans out there.  For the first time this century, I actually watched every game of the World Series and quite enjoyed all four.  Even though the 'Stros were swept, they put up a good fight in every game.  I hate to see Bagwell and Biggio denied a title, but hey, good guys retire all the time without a ring. Look at Dale Murphy and Ryan Sandberg.

My favorite part of the postgame celebration that aired on Chicago's WGN was seeing a guy on some Southside sidewalk screaming himself to tears while holding up a "Cubs Suck" poster.  In a way, didn't the White Sox victory almost seem like it was more of an "in your face" to the Cubs and Cub fans than it was a victory over Houston?  All those years of playing second fiddle and they can now proclaim ultimate scoreboard over Wrigleyville.  It has to be a good day to be a true White Sox fan.  Even if you have to make room on the bandwagon.

By the way, ever wondered why it is spelled S-O-X?  Salon has the answer:

Near the turn of the century, advocacy groups like the Spelling Simplification Board pushed for spelling reform with renewed vigor; they argued that millions of dollars were wasted on printing useless letters. The editor of the Chicago Tribune, Joseph Medill, supported the idea. Medill stripped final "e"s from words like "favorite" in the pages of his newspaper and even suggested more wholesale changes that would have made written English look something like e-mail spam. In 1906, Teddy Roosevelt ordered the government printer to adopt some simplified spellings—such as replacing the suffix "-ed" with "-t" at the end of many words—for official correspondence. Congress responded by passing a bill in support of standard orthography later that year.

By the first decade of the 1900s, "sox" was already a common way to shorten "socks." The "x" version of the word frequently appeared in advertisements for hosiery, for example. And in his 1921 tome The American Language, H.L. Mencken described "sox" as a "vigorous newcomer." "The White Sox are known to all Americans; the White Socks would seem strange," he wrote.

Ride on the Pieces Train

A very appreciative James Frey paid a visit to Oprah and her show yesterday to talk about his book and current Oprah Book Club selection A Million Little Pieces.  In case you missed it, there's a nice recap of the show on Oprah's site, but you'll have to give over personal info so that she can track you down later and get you exercising.  In addition, the Book Club portion of the site has managed to get Frey to step away from his mirror long enough to answer a few questions from members, including this one from pegcam:

My first impression is how fresh the writing style is. It seems so poetic. How did you know that this style would be the right voice for your story? I love it and I would like to know how you feel about it?

Frey's answer:

Is This Thing On?

This post may never be posted.  Typepad has been down most of the evening.  I'll give it a try anyway:

There was a Jack Kerouac symposium at the New York Public Library last weekend, and for some reason, Ethan Hawke was asked to read the newly discovered Kerouac play.

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A San Diego high school's literary magazine is in trouble for using photos of some partially nude students.

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Ever wondered how even the ugliest dude can get the hot lady if he's in a band?  Well, there seems to be some evidence in nature that "those who made the best music and other art got the most opportunities to have sex...."

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CNN/SI's John Rolfe has some fun with sport's names: "Dick Trickle ranks with such all-time snicker extractors as Harry Dick, Peter Loob, Mickey Klutts, Steve Swisher and Jerry Lumpe."

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The Houston Astros have zero African Americans on their roster--a first for a World Series team since the 1953 New York Yankees--and this worries Joe Morgan.

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The other night while watching a somewhat entertaining show on CMT about the history of "country comedians," I was reminded of the hilarious Andy Griffith sketch "What it was, was football."  Imagine a country bumpkin from mid-20th Century North Carolina coming  down from the mountains to hold a tent service in a college town, watching a game of football for the first time, and attempting to relate this discovery to friends.  If you're interested, I did find a scan of an illustrated version of the sketch by Mad Magazine:
Page 1, Page 2, Page 3, Page 4.

Degraded

Hopefully you're able to read this.  According to the folks at Typepad, their service has been "degraded" all day.  Now that you're here, you should leave and check out (and buy) some great concert posters from the Small Stakes.  {via}

Carry the One

These so-called link dump posts will continue for the next several days thanks in part to this being the time of year that I'm required to put together several reports which necessitate the use of the mathematical portion of my brain.  This is guaranteed to wreak havoc on my central nervous system and my ability to put together anything resembling a coherent essay once the five o'clock whistle has blown.  Apologies to those of you expecting more.  Comments and criticism welcome.

From Guardian: Buying a book for its cover.

A survey commissioned by the British Airports Authority confirmed what everyone knew: namely, that when we lay out £20 on a book we are prone to see it as not just nourishment for the mind, but a fashion accessory.

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The Orange County Register examines (bugmenot login: nombre; password: letmein) the popularity of memoirs and the numerous memoir-writing classes popping up to teach ordinary people how to tell their ordinary tales.

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If you've ever spent much time around scientific publishing, you know the importance of "impact factors."  Scientists spend a lot of time studying the citation impacts of specific journals before choosing the best venue for their research.  This article profiles the man behind the impact factor, Eugene Garfield, whose extensive work is the basis for not only impact factors but also for the methodology behind search engines such as Google.

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Seventy-five facts about Agatha Christie:  #16: Rearranging the letters of 'Dame Agatha Christie' gives: 'I am a right death case.'

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Sergio Hernán Witz Rodríguez, who was arrested in Mexico because his poem "La patria entre mierda" ("The Country Among Shit") in which he suggests that the Mexican flag be used as toilet paper was seen as a violation of Mexican law protecting national emblems, had his appeal of the arrest denied by the Mexican Supreme Court.  The case now goes back to a lower court which could sentence Witz to up to four years in jail.

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Is Kate Moss going to follow in the steps of James Frey and write a recovery memoir?  Or will it be poetry?

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KEXP, a frequent stream on my computer, is called the "leading force in Indie radio" by the Associated Press.

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The Lowell Sun profiles hometown boy done good (and nephew of Jack Kerouac), Jim Sampas, whose latest project is This Bird Has Flown--A 40th Anniversary Tribute to The Beatles' Rubber Soul.

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The newest project from San Diego musical mastermind Rob Crow (Pinback, Heavy Vegetable) is Goblin Cock.

Rest Well, Rosa Parks

Rosa
    by Rita Dove

How she sat there,
the time right inside a place
so wrong it was ready.

That trim name with
its dream of a bench
to rest on. Her sensible coat.

Doing nothing was the doing:
the clean flame of her gaze
carved by a camera flash.

How she stood up
when they bent down to retrieve
her purse. That courtesy.

Down in Smoke

Before you ask, yes, I do plan on keeping my promise to quit smoking by year's end.  I know I'm running out of time and I haven't taken step one toward putting down the cancer sticks, but my intention remains.  So no need to email me the link to this story:

The team found that men with higher scores on the lifetime alcohol problems scale (LAPS) and those who reported a higher number of pack-years of smoking (i.e. packs of cigarettes smoked per day times number of years) both had lower IQ scores and lower scores on a test of global proficiency.

At least I've taken care of the alcohol problem thing.

Recovery

Acetaminophen 500mg, Dextromethorphan HBr 15mg, Doxylamine succinate 6.25mg, Pseudoephedrine Hydrochloride 30mg, alcohol, citric acid, FD&C Blue No. 1, FD&C Red No. 40, flavor, high fructose corn syrup, polyethylene glycol, propylene glycol, purified water, saccharin sodium, sodium citrate.

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Eight months after the suicide of her husband, Anita Thompson talks to The Observer's Rachel Cooke about life with and without Hunter S.:

So how was married life? 'There was a dark side to Hunter. He was a lord of the underworld, which can be exciting and creative, but also hard to be around. He could be cruel, and not just to me. He was always honest; that could be painful.'

Did she join in? 'I was curious, so I tried it all. I ended up with a serious drug problem. But after about two years I realised, I can't keep up with this guy. There were so many drunk people around, I thought, someone's got to stay sober. It was hard to get off it because of the environment, but it was either that or I'd have to leave. He didn't like to lose a party buddy, but he was supportive. My rehab was in a drugs den! His motto was: it's wrong when it stops being fun. It wasn't fun for me; it was horrible. But it was fun for him right up until the very end.'

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Alabama native Brad Vice's new story collection will be getting a spot toward the top of my TBR pile if for no other reason than the title and several of the stories which reference a distant cousin who I happened to disown because he coached the wrong team.  The book is reviewed by the SF Chronicle.

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How fast do you read? Under the influence of Nyquil I managed between 300-350, though the words tended to be doubled, so I may need to figure out another algorithm to adjust for the medication. {via Ed}

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Doesn't this sound like it could be part of an episode of The Simpsons?

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A new exhibition at Paris' Pompidou Center celebrates the Dada movement, which will mark its 90th anniversary next year.  See also: the Digital Dada Library.

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Pictured above:  the McKeown Chair, a portable hearing aid from the 19th Century.  See more examples at Deafness in Disguise.

Go Go Sox

This time last year, it seemed that I was the only person outside of St. Louis pulling for the Cardinals in the World Series.  The rest of the nation, even those who could care less about baseball otherwise, were shelling out bucks for Red Sox gear and writing posts in their blogs about how great it would be if Boston could break the curse.  Curse, curse, curse.  Then after the Red Sox broke the curse, we had to endure months of documentaries and memoirs and posts on blogs about the greatness of the Red Sox nation.  Thankfully, they're not back this year.  Nor are the Yankees back.  Sadly, my Braves will be watching from the clubhouse of their favorite golf course.

This year, we have two teams that most of the country could care less about.  Houston?  The Astros have never been to the World Series.  Can't claim a curse.  Once wore uniforms that might blind you if you looked at them directly.  Chicago?  Not the Cubs.  Haven't won the World Series since the second decade of the 20th Century.  But what's that?  A curse?  Well, it could be argued that the White Sox have been cursed by that little scandal of 1919 in which White Sox players were accused of fixing the World Series.  Since then, there's been nothing to celebrate on the south side of the Windy City.  But other than the long suffering of the fans, there's been little discussion of a possible curse of Comiskey similar to what we heard last fall with regard to the Bambino.  Why is that?  White Sox fan Claire Zulkey explains it best in the Wall Street Journal:

The thing is, while the rest of the country might believe in baseball curses, Chicago White Sox fans don't. We don't blame a curse for our team's shortcomings, don't possess a sanguine "Maybe next year" attitude when we fail. When we stink, we stink. The manager says it, the players say it, and the fans say it. (Often with our attendance.) There are no excuses for losing, just as we accept no excuses for winning -- it ain't luck, good calls, one guy with a magic bat, or some smiling ghost. While the Sox are often described as a "working-class team" thanks to their roots on the grittier South Side of Chicago, it's not just the train tracks and expressway that make the 2005 White Sox blue-collar. It's a work ethic, a just put-your-head-down-and-do-your-job attitude. The attitude of showing the world what you can do, even if the world isn't watching.

And it's that blue-collar nature that has me hoping for a White Sox victory this year.  That, and the fact that they are the ultimate underdogs, the second team in the second city.  Most of all, though, I'm pulling for the White Sox because they once wore shorts and hated disco.

{thanks to Robin for the WSJ link}

Laughter Can Be the Best Decongestant

I Need a Remedy

Why couldn't the intelligent designer have made mucous to taste a little better? Like Crème brûlée or Krispy Kremes.  I mean, if we're going to have to suffer through the agony of a cold, couldn't we at least get something out of it?  Anyway, a few items to wrap up the week:

Congratulations to SoT favorite Barry Hannah who has been named Mississippi College Department of English Alumnus of the Year.  Why did it take so long and who in the world of Mississippi College alumnus could have won this award over Hannah in past years?  Hopefully this honor will inspire the release of something new from the man.  We're hungry out here, Mr. Hannah.

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Over at Slate, Jess Row takes a look at Ben Marcus's recent Harper's essay on the state of experimental fiction: "Profoundly nostalgic—as so many manifestoes turn out to be under close examination—it returns us to the pure spirit of modernism and the rhetoric of cultural crisis, of vanguards and reactionaries, of the Chosen and the Left Behind. As such, it's an unnecessary, and disingenuous, attempt to repolarize American literary culture."

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Big news from Denmark:  Hans Christian Anderson is the country's most translated author.  Interestingly enough, Soeren Kierkegaard came in a distant but dreadful third.

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The first item I found when I searched for it on eBay, which supposedly can help you find it: six tubes of superglue.  Now it all makes sense.

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The Parents Television Council has made their annual list of the ten best and ten worst family-friendly shows available.  Arrested Development, my current favorite show on TV and one of the few I watch on a regular basis, comes in as a disappointing 9th worst. (I would have thought it at least third worst, but I've never seen a few on the list.)  According to the PTC, "Arrested Development is designed to offend.  Episodes regularly contain scripted bleeps.  This enables the writers to use language, including "f**k" and "s**t," network censors would never allow.  Arrested Development also employs some of the most outrageous double-entendres ever to find their way into prime-time.  In one episode, for example, Tobias says he was an analyst and a therapist, making him the first "analrapist."  Other episodes have delved into the bizarre sexual proclivities of the main characters, such as Lucille's revelation that she and George derive sexual pleasure from being strangled with a belt." 

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The Mountain Goats' John Darnelle writes that Scarlett Johansson's days as an emo love-crush are over and suggests a few new ones, including poet Ai. 

The Hold Steady

Ok, so I'm a little late to The Hold Steady bandwagon, but after downloading their newest album, Separation Sunday, today as part of my quest to use music to cure my ills, consider me a fan.  There's nothing earth-shaking original to their music.  In fact, one can hear a little Randy Newman, some King Missile, some Rolling Stones, and I could go on.  But the lyrics are nice and I find that the older I get, the more I want to hear good words put to music.  Anyway, in case you've missed out on this band also, check out their site for a couple of mp3s or, even better, NPR annotated the lyrics to three of their songs.  I've put the annotated lyrics to my favorite song on the album, "Chicago Seemed Tired Last Night," beneath the cut.

Out Sick

Seems the only souvenir I brought back from D.C. is a nasty cold.  I blame the airplane ride for giving me the human equivalent of kennel cough.  At least I'm home, in my own bed, coughing uncontrollably in my own apartment.  Back soon.

Pull the Curtain on the Day

I've been working on this for a few weeks but haven't had the time to finish it up, that is until last night's decompression session in my Marriott.  What better way to get over a day spent in the bowels of a D.C. hotel conference center trying to understand what the hell was being spoken by a Hungarian smoking what appeared to be Capri Super Ultra Slims and apparently cursing the world for not understanding her need to smoke cigarettes the size of a straightened paperclip.  Anyway, I have a new playlist up at my webjay site.  It's a strange mix, but it pretty much captures my mood of late.  Hope you enjoy.

By the way, this would make a great birthday present (November 16) or stocking stuffer for xmas.

West Coast Bias

How do you East coasters do it?  In order to wake up at what is an ungodly 3am Pacific, I had to force myself to sleep with the aid of a couple of strong sleeping pills at 10pm D.C. time.  This meant that I went to sleep just after Lance Berkman hit his home run to give the Astros what appeared to be a series-winning homer in the 7th.  Had I still been in San Diego, the 9th inning comeback would have happened three hours before, and unless it conflicted with My Name Is Earl, I would have seen it.  Anyway, before the pills kicked in, I found a few items of interest:

If you thought his latest novel was bad, you should have seen Tom Wolfe on Real Time with Bill Maher.  In case you missed it this site has the video (scroll down below the photo).

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A Georgia State University graduate student decides to get a portrait of William Faulkner tattooed on his chest and lives to tell about it: "When he wants to read lighter literature, relatively speaking, he can simply turn to other writers. Like Jack London, for instance, who's tattooed on his right pec. Or the American bard John Steinbeck and the macho minimalist Ernest Hemingway, two authors Sriram is considering for future tattoos."

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SoT favorite Okkervil River will be playing San Diego's The Casbah on Friday night and I know one well-traveled blogger who plans on being there.  That's why I was excited to see that Chromewaves pointed the way to a new track, "No Key No Plan," which will be available on the vinyl release of Black Sheep Boy.  See also:  The Okkervil River Navigational Auxiliary Guild.

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YANP has new CYHSY.  Get them ASAP.

Deplaned

Well, I've been in D.C.--or Arlington or somewhere in Virginia--long enough to be dropped off at the wrong hotel, meaning that I had to wait around for the shuttle to pick me up and deposit me just down the road a spell.  After a day in the air, it's nice to be able to settle into a cigarette-smoke saturated room just blocks from the Pentagon and watch local news report the same things they were reporting in San Diego.  Ah, what would we do without some sort of bird flu?  Anyway, I landed at Reagan National and couldn't help but think of some bad jokes that had to do with forgetfulness and polyps.  I'll spare you.

I did manage to finish Benjamin Kunkel's Indecision on the last leg of the flight.  Overall, it's a good read.  It took some time to get accustomed to the narrator's voice, but soon enough, the story took over and it was worth the acclimation.  I'll have more to say about this book at some point.  For now, I'm going to explore the dining level of the hotel and eat some grub on the company dime.

East of West

Above:  Gray clouds over San Diego Sunday afternoon.  Believe it or not, a few drops of rain were spotted around the region.  Not pictured: A 4.9 earthquake sixty miles off the coast of San Diego which was felt as far west as the SoT headquarters.

By the time you read this, I'll be in the fuselage of a bankrupt airline's jet headed toward the East coast for a business trip.  I'd hoped to pre-post a few things for your reading enjoyment, but I ran out of time, spending my Sunday getting that semi-annual haircut and prepping notes for my meeting.  I'll be carrying a laptop with me, so if I'm able to get internet access, I should be able to make a few posts before my return on Wednesday.  If not, I'm leaving Syntax of Things in the capable "hands" of the well-dressed "man" photographed below picking out a book to review for you.  He will not be reviewing The Curious Incident of the Dog in the Night-Time. 

She Hates Me, She Hates Me Not

I need to find a nemesis.  I don't think Madonna has the time to dip this low on the blog chain to discover how much a guy who can't even spell Kaballah can't stand her.  Or should I say her music.  Because when I say I don't like something, whether it be Madonna or the new Rick Moody novel, it hasn't a thing to do with the person.  If Madonna were to drop me an email and invite me for a spot of tea, I wouldn't turn her down.  Imagine that.  Tea with Madonna.  What would we talk about?  Would she make me drink Kaballah water?  Would she make me vogue?

See, I think Mark of The Elegant Variation is lucky.  He's managed to inspire a guy and an online magazine enough that they would devote five subscriber-funded pages to him.  He gets accused of having a secret crush, is called all sorts of endearing names, and is even referred to as smelling like a cat at one point.  Apparently, Steve Almond believes that Mark and TEV have enough clout that he has to use Salon as a vehicle to take them down.   Madonna, on the other hand, could care less.  She'll put out her album next month and there won't be a single mention of the blog boy in San Diego.

Should I just aim for a more modest nemesis?  Maybe I should go after Jewel.  She's a yodeler and I've made it clear that yodeling is just below Rap on my "all-time things I wish would go away" list.  I don't mind authentic yodeling, the kind done by mountain people in West Virginia.  I'm against the yodeling that isn't really yodeling.  Bright Eyes comes to mind.  Jewel might be a worthy nemesis.

I can think of other possibilities:  Jeff Probst, Chris Burke and the Houston Astros, the toothless lady at the 7-Eleven where I get my lunch Slurpee, the San Diego Reader, Irvine Welsh, hippies, the forty-hour work week, the state of Texas.  I could go on.  But no.  I started this blog because of Madonna and I won't quit until the whole world hates Madonna.  Or her music rather.  Do I smell a cat?

Time Management

Nine things that kept me from being productive last night:

1) Exploring Flickr's book cluster. 
2) Trying to figure out if I've ever seen an umpire interviewed after clearly blowing a call that decided a playoff game.
3) Laughing at this site: Geek history through t-shirts
4) And this article: Trailer-park intellect: "The belief that everything sucks, including the reflection in the mirror, informed a vast majority of the party conversation. Talk shifted from the writings of Ayn Rand, Nietzsche, and the Anti-Heroes’ hero — the original white trash Shakespeare, Charles Bukowski — to sports, education, race relations, you name it. There were almost as many pronouncements as empty beer cans; nearly every syllable of every word burned with disregard for politesse and finesse and was laced with just enough poison to bite. Though a typical Anti-Hero soiree rings with a lot of laughs, you get the feeling that contented people don’t speak and think like these guys."
5) Composing an obituary for the flat-lined MTV and its affiliated networks.
6) Wondering if I should start Ricky "Puff Puff Pass" Williams this week on my fantasy football team.  The magic 8 ball says "Hmmmm."  Any advice appreciated.
7) Listening to a new Belle and Sebastian song.
8) Reading the instructions on how to install the recently purchased Doggie Dooley.
9) Reminding myself that my beautiful and brave wife is not ignoring me.  She is temporarily deaf in her good ear and can barely hear out of the other.  Something like that.  She continues to get better and that's all that matters.  And Elaine, it's not true that the swelling makes you look like Stewie.

Bonus: Rock, paper, scissors

Where Do the Seconds Go?

I knew something felt a little off these last few months.  Now I know why:

At one time we took for granted that there were 86,400 seconds in a solar day. That's how we divided up the day. Now we define and measure seconds with increased precision. One second is the duration of 9,192,631,770 cycles of the frequency of radiation from cesium atoms. We no longer divide the solar day into 86,400 parts to define and measure a second. We simply say there are 86,400 of the new seconds in a day. Yet Earth's rotation is gradually slowing down. The natural day is getting longer by about one second per year on average. It takes more of those precisely defined seconds to fill it out. That's why International Atomic Time, in which day length never changes, is out of sync with Sun time.