Brian spent the better part of Sunday evening watching Season 1 of MacGyver on Netflix.
Richard Dean Anderson, how many young boys did you define manhood for in the 80s?
If you’re looking for some kickass bluesy rock with a ridiculously talented female vocalist, don’t miss the awesome Fugitive Kind during their upcoming East Coast tour.
There is a a clip of them performing recently on Fox25 News here.
I LOVE this band. If you have a chance to see them at a venue near you while they’re on tour, I highly recommend going. They play a great live show and their newly released album ‘You’re Being Watched’ is fantastic. I used to complain that there weren’t enough bands out there with strong, powerful female singers, and then I found Fugitive Kind, and I shut up about it. They’re that good.
How exciting was it to wake up this morning and read this article in the NY Times: “Obama Reverses Rules on U.S. Abortion Aid”?
It has been eight long years since I felt as though my President recognized the importance of supporting and promoting womens’ reproductive rights. I’m so happy.
(In case you missed it, here’s my defense of the life-saving GPS system, as originally published in the Perpetual Post. Read Ted’s rebuttal here.)
It’s easy to mock the tiny GPS unit. There it sits, mounted on your dashboard, waiting patiently to tell you to turn left in one-tenth of a mile. Oblivious to your snappy retorts and obscene innuendoes; like a humorless Dudley-Do Right, it is the ultimate straight man in your traveling comedy team.
Despite their usefulness, it has been argued that GPS units represent a scary step in the direction of computers becoming increasingly bossy and commanding. I can understand this concern, although I fail to see the downside of any technology that brings our society closer to the utopian vision shown in the world of Knight Rider. Perhaps if GPS units were a little hipper, a little sassier—a little more like sidekicks and less like schoolmarms, they would find greater acceptance in mainstream commuting society.
I will grant that the voice technology for these devices might benefit from some streamlining. While fancier models give you several options, even those merely allow you to choose whether you prefer a dry, mechanical male or a prissy, annoyed female voice to tell you that you’ve missed your exit. (Sometimes, for kicks, when I am only a block or so away from my house and don’t really need directions, I will switch GPS to the Spanish Language version and listen to it tell me sharply to “hacer un U-Turn”.) As it is, what these gadgets lack in personality, they make up for in Global Positioning.
I would also like to point out that if you decide not to listen to your GPS unit, it isn’t as though it forces you into an electronic game grid where you must play gladiator-style Jai-Alai to the death with Jeff Bridges. (That model isn’t set to enter stores until spring of 2009.) In fact, its inexhaustible, judgment-free robot patience is a big part of what makes my GPS so helpful to me. I appreciate its tireless efforts to recalculate my route when I am driving erratically in circles because I can’t figure out what it’s telling me to do. A human companion would have thrown his hands up long ago and stuffed me in the trunk, but GPS will never do that. Its only concern is getting me where I want to go, and it also doesn’t have hands. I am additionally grateful that my many driving mistakes and misadventures remain our little secret. It is one thing to get hopelessly lost with an out-of-town guest; you can’t turn those off and leave them in the car at the end of the trip. I highly doubt that my GPS complains about me to anyone else who drives my car. I would feel betrayed to learn that it was telling others, “Prepare to turn left in two miles. Molly ALWAYS manages to miss this one. Honestly, can she even dress herself?”
My dear GPS, I will follow you to the ends of the earth, as long as you can estimate how many minutes it will take me to get there. Your knowledge of local roads and awareness of where I am at all times thrills me to my befuddled core. You are the sunshine of my commute, the apple of my dashboard.
Perhaps I should provide a little more background to explain why I am singing the praises of this device. I am not technically disabled…except perhaps in the literal sense of the word. I have the navigational ability (and self-preservation instincts) of a drunk wind-up toy. You know those people who have a lousy sense of direction and get lost all the time? If you took all of those people, and combined them into one completely incompetent, perpetually lost person, and then put a bag over that person’s head, spun them around three times, screamed in their ear with a megaphone and then dropped them off in the middle of the desert—that would approximate my condition every time I open my front door. My sense of direction often seems more like a badly disguised death wish.
Upon learning that I was moving to a new state where driving was the only way to really get anywhere in less than two days, my friends and family were concerned. My lifespan in North Carolina, if left to my own devices to find my way around, was estimated at two weeks. Fortunately, my parents’ parting gift to me was a small, unassuming GPS unit. It was a wonderful gift. Thanks to GPS, I am drunk with navigational power, and high on estimated arrival times. It is the only reason I am here today, writing this piece. (That, and because it threatened to run over my dog in three-tenths of a mile if I didn’t; but I digress). I only wish the good people at GPS could make a model that told you which way was front. I would buy two.
Spurred on by this delightful post from Leanne, I’ve been thinking a lot about cooking and eating habits, specifically my curiosity about the food that other people buy and the meals they make.
It seems like a particularly personal, intimate topic; only when you have gotten to know someone very well do you begin to learn much about their eating habits and the groceries they stock their kitchens with. When I am in line at the supermarket, I find myself checking out the items other people are buying and wondering how often they buy them. There are some things Brian and I run out of constantly, like milk, bread, cheese, eggs, and creamer. There are other things we purchase less often, but still like to have on hand because we use them a lot in recipes; onions, garlic, fresh spinach, pasta and olive oil, to name a very few.
It’s made me look back at my eating habits and the things I used to cook often in various stages of my life. In college I used to steal greens and sliced vegetables from the cafeteria and add them to my hot-pot ramen back at the dorm. I made a lot of chicken quesadillas and drank gallons of frozen, canned juice when I lived in Honolulu. When I first moved to Boston I made a lot of those Goya boxes of beans & rice, to which I would add more canned beans, fresh vegetables, and meat when I had it on hand. Now, Brian and I take turns cooking each other large breakfasts on the weekends; scrambled eggs, bacon and egg sandwiches; eggs Benedict and breakfast burritos. For dinner we like to bake frozen pizzas and top them with chicken or vegetables and more cheese to make them more filling.
I sometimes wonder what my friends and coworkers eat at home. Do they dine out at restaurants often? Where are their favorite take-out places? Do they have standard meals they prepare together if they live with significant others; if they live alone, do they cook smaller portions more frequently, or do they make bigger meals for the leftovers? If they have roommates, do they share meals with them, or is everyone on their own in the kitchen? I wonder what their pantries and fridges contain. Do they go through a lot of orange juice? Are their freezers filled with ice, or frozen meals, or frozen vegetables? Do they buy oreos?
I suppose a lot of one’s eating habits as an adult were learned in childhood. At least half of the meals on my rotating list are on there because I ate them all the time growing up. We had sit-down dinners every night; sometimes I wonder how my mother managed to have dinner on the table every evening after working all day. Only now do I realize how impressive that is, and how much preparation and tactical planning-ahead that must have taken.
Cooking and eating is a big part of life, and yet it is a part of life which to me seems shrouded in mystery, even for many of those I am closest to. There are a plethora of cooking-based blogs on the internet, but I’m not interested in the cooking habits of strangers. I feel somehow that knowing what my friends and loved ones do in the kitchen, will help me to know them better.
Dear reader, what are your favorite weekday meals to make? What do you like to cook when you have the leisure time and the money? What are the groceries you buy most often? I’m listening!
I was disappointed that I wouldn’t be able to watch the Inauguration today because I had to work. My plan was to go to the gym around noon so that I could at least watch it on the crappy tvs at the gym (which are always tuned to the Fox network, blech) while I ran on the treadmill or something.
And then! Lo and behold! Nature dropped 4 inches and counting of snow on Raleigh! If this were Boston, I’d be at work right now. But because it’s the beautiful beautiful south, everything is closed down today. My car sits nestled in the snow outside the apartment, and Brian and I sit nestled on the couch, drinking coffee and watching Barack Obama’s historic inauguration. I’m so thankful for days like this one. Somehow, snow days always manage to stretch on forever.
For the latest installment of the Perpetual Post, I wrote a defense of the reality-television genius that is So You Think You Can Dance, vs the falseness of American Idol. Read the other side of the story, and the newest issue of the PP here.
So You Think You Can Dance proves that people still do things on tv for reasons other than fame and fortune.
I was not immediately sold on the concept of So You Think You Can Dance. The inexplicable popularity of American Idol had left me wary of this type of cheesy, ‘call-in-to-vote for your favorite contestant’ variety show. The snide British judge, the wince-worthy audition episodes; I’d seen it all before, and I knew it wasn’t my thing.
Still, when I learned that friends of mine were getting together each week to order takeout and watch what they referred to as “Silly Dance Show”, I began to join them—for the company and the food, I told myself. Not the sexy dancing or the tear-away pants. It only took a few viewings before I gave in to my skepticism, did a victory dance on my dignity, and fully embraced the spirit of So You Think You Can Dance. I soon found myself watching the weekly episodes with my eyes shining and my hands clasped together beneath my chin. Some of the most well-performed and choreographed dance numbers even gave me chills. I was hooked.
It wasn’t hard for me to figure out what it was that drew me to this show when American Idol had for so long failed to gain my loyalty. It wasn’t just that it featured dancing instead of singing, although that was certainly a factor. Not to badmouth singing; I know singing is hard, especially on stage in front of millions—but so is doing three back flips in a row, or fox-trotting in stilettos and a fringed bikini…and guess which of those I find more entertaining?
It’s true that if all you’re after is a fringed bikini, you might do just as well by watching Dancing with the Stars (or, come to think of it, the Winter Olympics). However, part of the appeal of SYTYCD is the humble roots of the contestants. They are not celebrities. Many have little to no formal training in dance, and yet they still manage to be strong competitors. Since the first rule of SYTYCD is that a dancer has to be able to pick up and become reasonably proficient in many different styles of dance with lightning speed, extreme proficiency in one discipline is not necessarily a formula for success in others. The process of discovering who has what it takes and who doesn’t is fascinating. There’s a certain thrill in watching a montage where a guy whose background is in breakdancing learns ballroom, or in observing a trained ballerina’s first attempts at shimmying. While these contestants already have an enviable amount of rhythm and control over their own bodies (although to me, any amount of rhythm is enviable), it’s fascinating to discover whether this translates into a passable Charleston from a tap dancer, or a decent Worm from a student of modern dance– though I’ll be the first to admit that my standards for The Worm are all but unattainable. The challenges that these dancers take on, and their subsequent successes, can be thrilling.
Not only that, but unlike the winners of American Idol, the winners of SYTYCD are not promised any particular fame or fortune. Frequently, visits from past winners of the show reveal that their careers in dance were boosted only faintly from their participation on the show. (“Good to see everyone again! Since I won SYTYCD last year I’ve starred as a back-up dancing peanut in a Skippy commercial, and I have a small part in an upcoming PBS special about the history of Jazz Hands.”) An awareness of these less-than-mighty expectations fosters the appealing concept that these dancers are on the show simply because they love to dance. Who can resist that?
Even the title of So You Think You Can Dance, with its hokey bravado, manages to evoke a more playful, irreverent era in pop culture and entertainment than does the humorless title of American Idol, which oozes with mocking self-importance. Idol is ultimately putting one over on you. Pick your prepackaged Idol, America, from these limited options. But on So You Think You Can Dance, everyone is in on the joke. Things never get too serious; one can almost picture the cast of Grease circling each other in a dance hall, snapping their fingers in theatrical menace as they prepare to demonstrate their unrivaled prowess in the art of getting down. These dance contestants are covered in bruises, have dirty bare feet and are frequently dressed in acid-washed denim and sequins. They know how to keep things light.
Granted, I still don’t particularly enjoy the show’s initial ‘audition’ episodes, perhaps because I am not an authority on the subject of dance (despite my behavior on certain inebriated late nights when AC/DC comes on the jukebox at the bar). Also, while it’s pretty easy to tell the genuinely talented from the tragically misguided on American Idol auditions, a really great audition for So You Think You Can Dance looks suspiciously similar to a really terrible audition, particularly once you’ve had a few beers. “Oh man, that girl dances like my six year old niece when she thinks no one is watching,” I’ve commented on occasion, only to have the judges fall all over each other, post audition, to praise the girl and hand her a plane ticket to LA. I suppose that’s why I’m a fan instead of a judge. Watch a couple of episodes this next season, and see if you can’t say the same thing.
It’s not easy finding an audience in the vast, chaotic world of the internet. Particularly if you’re a blogger, you know how difficult it can be to call attention to your work and gain consistent readers. There’s so much else out there, jostling for attention with pictures and video and flashy ads clamoring to help you raise your credit score, satisfy her and earn big bucks working from home. It’s also more difficult at this point to find and carve out a unique niche that hasn’t already been done a hundred different ways. (Way to get there first, AlpacaNation.net).
I only recently began to explore the world of web content popularity-ranking sites like Digg.com and Technorati (I know, I’m old fashioned, yet sassy-kind of like The Golden Girls). I now know exactly what I’m up against in the fame game of the internet, and it’s a little disheartening. The last time I checked, the highest-ranked link on one site was a picture of a sleeping baby, wearing a party hat, with a bottle of Jose Cuervo nestled under its arm.
How can I possibly compete with that?! I don’t have any kids, or know anyone who would trust me with alcohol around theirs. I don’t even have a digital camera. Also, after gazing at that image, and considering its popularity, I am out of tequila.
I’ve realized that I’m ultimately doomed, because my blog is made up of words, which are on the way out. After all, why bother reading when instead you can watch a video of a guy getting a cake to the face, or a cat attacking a printer? (Oh man. The cat! The printer! Comic gold.) I predict that before too long, written communication will be reduced to an exchange of funny and shocking pictures and videos with universally understood meanings. Your boss will email you a link to a short film of a monkey falling out of a tree, and it will mean “You’re fired”. Your best friend will send you a camera-phone picture of a drunk guy eating plastic fruit, and it’ll mean “I’m going to be late to the movie tonight”. A picture of a puppy standing on its hind legs in an attempt reach a dangling hot dog will mean, “Please pick up milk on your way home.” We’re swiftly working our way back to pictograms. Extremely advanced and frequently moving versions of pictograms, but pictograms all the same.
After all, what percentage of the silly e-mail forwards you receive these days are simply an endless scroll of images; sunsets, children hugging, peace marches, galloping horses? (Or perhaps you have different acquaintances than I do.) E-mails don’t have to contain messages or even written content any more to be endlessly forwarded, as long as they include pictures of baby animals and/or unintentionally hilarious misspelled signs.
Some day soon my blog will be replaced with an image depicting a stick-figure wearing a hat on its butt. It’s the new universal sign of ‘if you can’t beat ’em, join ’em’.
I have become involved with an exciting new journalistic endeavor, The Perpetual Post, which is the brainchild of Howard Megdal. For this week’s issue I wrote a devil’s advocate-style article condemning the old-fashionedness of print material in favor of internet-style reading.
Read it, along with Ted Berg’s rebuttal, here. Also, check out the rest of the issue. If I do say so myself, it’s a darn good read.
- Yes, he’s pointing at his watch.
Apparently he had more important places to wave, things to wave at.
I Heard Tell 