The latest outrage:
Are you fucking kidding me?!
I've ranted about this sort of thing before. A previous outrage was when I noticed that both of my parents' new cars had a feature where instead of actually turning the key in the ignition, one merely inserts the key into a slot and then pushes a "start" button.
I thought, "How can anyone in good conscience support this technology?" It takes away one of the best parts of driving. You put the key in, you turn it, and feel the engine turn over; it's so satisfying. Feeling the ridges of the key slide into the ignition, the smooth grind of metal friction, the flick of your wrist that sends your key chain clacking against the console as you hear that low rumble, feel the vibrations through your fingers, up your arms, and into your whole body as the car comes alive underneath you.
I wasn't surprised though. People see new technology such as this and they think it's "neat". Their inherent laziness delights in anything that removes them from a manual process. I'm sure people love this sort of thing.
But THIS bullshit! A car that parks itself?! If you're not going to know how to parallell park your car and you're going to let your car do it by itself, you might as well give up. Let the robots take over, and let them rape your wife. You're done.
Wednesday, January 30, 2008
Wednesday, January 23, 2008
pinkos.
Last night, Rob and I watched "Masters of the Universe." In a fit of madness over the weekend, we decided that it needed to be watched and was therefore placed on the queue, at the top. The movie is ridiculous, obviously. But it is also illustrative of a trend in 80s cinema, which was the constant scapegoating of the Communists.
In case you've forgotten the plot of this movie, it goes like this: On the planet Eternia, the evil Skeletor and his army of darkness have taken over Castle Greyskull, imprisoned The Sorceress of Greyskull, and Skeletor has begun draining her powers as he bids to claim the powers of Greyskull and become master of the universe. Mighty warrior He-Man, the most powerful man in the universe, and his companions, loyal soldier Man-at-Arms, his daughter Teela, and a dwarf inventor named Gwildor, accidentally transport themselves to Earth with Gwildor's creation, The Cosmic Key, a device that can open portals that lead to any part of the galaxy. Skeletor requires the key for his goal for universal conquest. The Comsic Key is found by Julie Winston and her boyfriend Kevin, and Skeletor and his mercenaries arrive on Earth in pursuit of He-Man and his companions, who are also searching for The Cosmic Key so they can return to Eternia and defeat Skeletor.
Of course, thrown into the mix is a surly and incredulous cop who keeps running into the two teenagers in the wake of damage caused by skirmishes between He-Man and his companions and Skeletor's minions. Naturally, he suspects that the boy Kevin is lying to him that The Cosmic Key is really an advanced new synthesizer from Japan that he found in the graveyard. He believes that Kevin is responsible for the damage and arson, and intends to arrest him. The cop is the vehicle through which the Communist paranoia seeps into this film. At first, when he is in the music store with Kevin, looking to find a reasonable explanation for the "synthesizer", he says something along the lines of "Do you think it's from the Russians?" But the more outrageous example is yet to come.
Just as the two teenagers, He-Man, Man-at-Arms, Teela, and Gwildor are about to fix the now-damaged Key and return to Eternia to stop Skeletor, the cop attempts to arrest them at gun-point with a rifle. In the ensuing chaos, they open the portal and are all transported to Eternia, including part of the brick wall from the building behind them, and half of the pink Cadillac that Gwildor earlier hot-wired and altered to "run on neutrinos". They are thrown into the middle of the throne room at Greyskull, where an intense battle begins. As the minions of Skeletor shoot at them, the cop, in disbelief and rage, yells out "Okay, you pinkos! Nobody takes pot shots at me!" and starts shooting back with his rifle.
What the hell? PInkos. He calls these people, Queerman, Monster Mash, and Zoomacroom, "pinkos":
Maybe it's just me, but they do not seem to be Communists or have any Red tendencies. They do not seem to have any political leanings at all, other than "minions of Skeletor", who most certainly is NOT a pinko. I just can't fathom how they came up with that. Perhaps it is because I think the word "pinko" itself is inordinately funny, but when applied in the most insanely inappropriate atmosphere of the throne room at Greyskull during the defining battle between He-Man and Skeletor, it goes to a whole new level.
In case you've forgotten the plot of this movie, it goes like this: On the planet Eternia, the evil Skeletor and his army of darkness have taken over Castle Greyskull, imprisoned The Sorceress of Greyskull, and Skeletor has begun draining her powers as he bids to claim the powers of Greyskull and become master of the universe. Mighty warrior He-Man, the most powerful man in the universe, and his companions, loyal soldier Man-at-Arms, his daughter Teela, and a dwarf inventor named Gwildor, accidentally transport themselves to Earth with Gwildor's creation, The Cosmic Key, a device that can open portals that lead to any part of the galaxy. Skeletor requires the key for his goal for universal conquest. The Comsic Key is found by Julie Winston and her boyfriend Kevin, and Skeletor and his mercenaries arrive on Earth in pursuit of He-Man and his companions, who are also searching for The Cosmic Key so they can return to Eternia and defeat Skeletor.
Of course, thrown into the mix is a surly and incredulous cop who keeps running into the two teenagers in the wake of damage caused by skirmishes between He-Man and his companions and Skeletor's minions. Naturally, he suspects that the boy Kevin is lying to him that The Cosmic Key is really an advanced new synthesizer from Japan that he found in the graveyard. He believes that Kevin is responsible for the damage and arson, and intends to arrest him. The cop is the vehicle through which the Communist paranoia seeps into this film. At first, when he is in the music store with Kevin, looking to find a reasonable explanation for the "synthesizer", he says something along the lines of "Do you think it's from the Russians?" But the more outrageous example is yet to come.
Just as the two teenagers, He-Man, Man-at-Arms, Teela, and Gwildor are about to fix the now-damaged Key and return to Eternia to stop Skeletor, the cop attempts to arrest them at gun-point with a rifle. In the ensuing chaos, they open the portal and are all transported to Eternia, including part of the brick wall from the building behind them, and half of the pink Cadillac that Gwildor earlier hot-wired and altered to "run on neutrinos". They are thrown into the middle of the throne room at Greyskull, where an intense battle begins. As the minions of Skeletor shoot at them, the cop, in disbelief and rage, yells out "Okay, you pinkos! Nobody takes pot shots at me!" and starts shooting back with his rifle.
What the hell? PInkos. He calls these people, Queerman, Monster Mash, and Zoomacroom, "pinkos":
Maybe it's just me, but they do not seem to be Communists or have any Red tendencies. They do not seem to have any political leanings at all, other than "minions of Skeletor", who most certainly is NOT a pinko. I just can't fathom how they came up with that. Perhaps it is because I think the word "pinko" itself is inordinately funny, but when applied in the most insanely inappropriate atmosphere of the throne room at Greyskull during the defining battle between He-Man and Skeletor, it goes to a whole new level.
Tuesday, January 15, 2008
this is what i am talking about
I'm posting a link to a recent episode of Frontline that is about the rise in prescriptions of psychoactive drugs for young children. Personally, it makes me livid, because there are so many examples of the wrongheaded and insane thinking that many psychologists have about how to approach the problem, like prescribing drugs that were created for adults and without testing how they will affect children, like writing the prescriptions before they have even formed a diagnosis, like forming diagnoses with a COMPLETE lack of critical thinking about what other factors may cause a symptom like "extreme irritability" instead of leaping to the conclusion that means bipolar disorder just because it's listed in the DSM, like succumbing to pressure and bribery from the drug companies to write a lot of prescriptions, etc. I am also in awe of the way these parents will blindly follow the advice of a doctor, even in situations where their child is 4 years old and every single trip to the doctor they come away with a new prescription and/or increases in the ones their child already takes. Or when they say, "Well, his preschool teacher suggested medication, she thought his acting-behavior might be due to a chemical imbalance." WHEN THE HELL DID A PRESCHOOL TEACHER BECOME QUALIFIED TO MAKE THAT SORT OF STATEMENT?!?!?!
The most terrifying aspect of this video to me is how the parents are convinced the children will have to be on drugs for the rest of their lives in order to cope with their conditions. These premature diagoses create a label for the child, not for their behavior, that becomes their identity. Telling your twelve-year-old daughter that she will have to take medication for the rest of her life because she is bipolar is a death sentence. These people don't think about or understand anything about the effects of what they put in their childrens' minds or bodies. There is one mother with a 4-year-old who is insatiably hungry as a side effect of one of his many medications. What does she feed him? Corn dogs. CORN DOGS! How about some fruit, asshole?
This is what I am going to school for. I want to be involved in research that shows how detrimental these drugs can be when used blindly, research into alternative methods for treating these problems (like, how about not one of the psychologists in the video even MENTIONS therapy as an option, as an alternative or supplement to the drugs. Guess what? Our brains are very complex and they are not in a vacuum. It's both nature AND nurture), and research that will further educate us as to how this very complex system works. The oversimplification in the way the brain is described to some of these patients is staggering. People need to be educated about what we know about how the brain works (and this knowledge has to keep increasing through research and NOT research funded and skewed by the drug companies), and they need to be educated or for crying out loud have the goddam intellectual curiosity to SEEK OUT education about what these drugs actually do before they idiotically put them in their own and in their childrens' bodies.
Here's the link:
http://www.pbs.org/wgbh/pages/frontline/medicatedchild/
The most terrifying aspect of this video to me is how the parents are convinced the children will have to be on drugs for the rest of their lives in order to cope with their conditions. These premature diagoses create a label for the child, not for their behavior, that becomes their identity. Telling your twelve-year-old daughter that she will have to take medication for the rest of her life because she is bipolar is a death sentence. These people don't think about or understand anything about the effects of what they put in their childrens' minds or bodies. There is one mother with a 4-year-old who is insatiably hungry as a side effect of one of his many medications. What does she feed him? Corn dogs. CORN DOGS! How about some fruit, asshole?
This is what I am going to school for. I want to be involved in research that shows how detrimental these drugs can be when used blindly, research into alternative methods for treating these problems (like, how about not one of the psychologists in the video even MENTIONS therapy as an option, as an alternative or supplement to the drugs. Guess what? Our brains are very complex and they are not in a vacuum. It's both nature AND nurture), and research that will further educate us as to how this very complex system works. The oversimplification in the way the brain is described to some of these patients is staggering. People need to be educated about what we know about how the brain works (and this knowledge has to keep increasing through research and NOT research funded and skewed by the drug companies), and they need to be educated or for crying out loud have the goddam intellectual curiosity to SEEK OUT education about what these drugs actually do before they idiotically put them in their own and in their childrens' bodies.
Here's the link:
http://www.pbs.org/wgbh/pages/frontline/medicatedchild/
Friday, January 11, 2008
fin de semana
Last Thursday night I was aimlessly deleting songs from my iTunes (a process to which I have now taken a more systematic approach, with very satisfying results), when Robert "I have three weeks off from work" Bell poured himself a rum and coke and set the tone for the entire weekend. What followed was a Rum and Coke Renaissance, in which I remembered how much I used to love them and had to have 4 or 5 reminders to really reinforce it. The thing is, I stopped ordering them at bars because what you get there is a watered-down drink that wouldn't even be satisfying as just a cola. The ones I make are perfect. Captain Morgan's Spiced Rum, enough to really taste it but not enough to make it antiseptic, and the coke preferably slightly warm and just barely perceptably a tiny bit flat. Mmmm.
Anyway, after those 4 or 5 reminders and staying up far later than I usually do led to the decision to skip work the next day, even though I had only worked Wednesday and Thursday of that week so far due to the holidays. I originally intended to merely go in late but when I woke up at 8 (the time I am usually getting to the office), I realized that wasn't happening and proceeded to go back to sleep until 11 (possibly the latest I have slept in the past 2 years). After waking, Rob and I poked around the house for a while, then went to see "Atonement" and ate tex-mex for dinner.
After dinner, we planned to go down to a bar in Park Slope, where we had read that they serve hot buttered rum. It was freezing and the perfect day for it. First, we went home to prepare ourselves for the long, cold walk down to 5th Ave and to also give ourselves a taste-enhancing treat. So of course when we finally got there, in addition to the incredibly delicious hot buttered rums, we had to also order cake. Rob got a chocolate and I got a red velvet; we could feel the sugar crackling on our tongues like Pop Rocks. The only unpleasant thing about the experience was the performance going on in the restaurant.
The place was mostly empty, only a handful of people besides us, but in the back corner behind the bar was a guy set up with a microphone and his acoustic guitar. He was terrible. Not regular "guy with an acoustic guitar in a bar" bad. Beyond the pale. Whiny. Bad covers of really good Cat Stevens songs. Recordings of his grandmother talking about some little girl who used to live down the street from her. And the most amazing, when he prefaced a song with the following statement: "Next I'm going to play a song I wrote based on a poem written by Anne Frank."
Seriously, Anne Frank.
It was unbelievable. We were willing to acknowledge the dissassociation that our current state surely contributed to. But Anne. Frank. In Park Slope, on a Friday night, in a down-home Southern themed restaurant. Why? Unacceptable. We got out of that place quickly while that lunatic was taking a break. Then, Saturday we went to the opera.
Anyway, after those 4 or 5 reminders and staying up far later than I usually do led to the decision to skip work the next day, even though I had only worked Wednesday and Thursday of that week so far due to the holidays. I originally intended to merely go in late but when I woke up at 8 (the time I am usually getting to the office), I realized that wasn't happening and proceeded to go back to sleep until 11 (possibly the latest I have slept in the past 2 years). After waking, Rob and I poked around the house for a while, then went to see "Atonement" and ate tex-mex for dinner.
After dinner, we planned to go down to a bar in Park Slope, where we had read that they serve hot buttered rum. It was freezing and the perfect day for it. First, we went home to prepare ourselves for the long, cold walk down to 5th Ave and to also give ourselves a taste-enhancing treat. So of course when we finally got there, in addition to the incredibly delicious hot buttered rums, we had to also order cake. Rob got a chocolate and I got a red velvet; we could feel the sugar crackling on our tongues like Pop Rocks. The only unpleasant thing about the experience was the performance going on in the restaurant.
The place was mostly empty, only a handful of people besides us, but in the back corner behind the bar was a guy set up with a microphone and his acoustic guitar. He was terrible. Not regular "guy with an acoustic guitar in a bar" bad. Beyond the pale. Whiny. Bad covers of really good Cat Stevens songs. Recordings of his grandmother talking about some little girl who used to live down the street from her. And the most amazing, when he prefaced a song with the following statement: "Next I'm going to play a song I wrote based on a poem written by Anne Frank."
Seriously, Anne Frank.
It was unbelievable. We were willing to acknowledge the dissassociation that our current state surely contributed to. But Anne. Frank. In Park Slope, on a Friday night, in a down-home Southern themed restaurant. Why? Unacceptable. We got out of that place quickly while that lunatic was taking a break. Then, Saturday we went to the opera.
Thursday, January 3, 2008
only in dreams
Last night I dreamed that I was riding again. I was at Stonyhill, the barn I rode at near my parents' house for over ten years. But I was riding Willow, my favorite horse from TSH, my riding camp. I only remember one part of the lesson, and I don't know which of my many trainers was there telling me to warm up with a crossrail. Taking the turn at a trot, feeling so vividly all the mechanics of the movement. Muscle memory that is so deeply ingrained that I can recall it while dreaming. That horse was tall, around 17 hands, and even at the trot he just ate the ground in front of the jump. The warm up jump was always a combination of exciting and laughably small; it always went fast and was just fine. The faceless dream trainer then told me to take the jump again, this time just letting my horse ease into a canter around the turn if he wanted to. She raised the jump, it was now around 2'6" or 3'.
Trotting off, I took the turn and felt my horse's steps quicken in excitement. I felt the tension in my thighs as I followed his movement but tried to stay still enough not to spur him on. The transition from trot to canter was so smooth and controlled, that I knew all I had to do was wait. Oddly, when I looked ahead at the jump, it wasn't there. There was no bar across the two posts. Then I looked again and it was back. I felt my control slipping, my seat pushing my horse forward in anticipation as we got closer. The last two strides are like a black hole for me. I often hold my breath and, like the moment before a car crash, it seems the whole world is bearing down on the barrier in front of me. I have to try to hold onto a shred of consciousness in that moment, if I do, I can feel the rhythm and take the jump right. This happened in the dream last night. It was that pulsing moment where I was looking down at the base of the jump, heading for a chip. But I looked up and we took off, getting the distance just right. When that happens, it's not just about equitation or "doing it right" or how it looks. It is the best feeling I know. It feels like I am in perfect unison with a 2,000 pound animal that is carrying me as, for a few seconds, it flies.
I'm not sure what this dream was about, other than missing the horses. I think sometimes it is simply about getting to experience something that is gone from your life, like talking to someone you lost or visiting a place you've left.
Trotting off, I took the turn and felt my horse's steps quicken in excitement. I felt the tension in my thighs as I followed his movement but tried to stay still enough not to spur him on. The transition from trot to canter was so smooth and controlled, that I knew all I had to do was wait. Oddly, when I looked ahead at the jump, it wasn't there. There was no bar across the two posts. Then I looked again and it was back. I felt my control slipping, my seat pushing my horse forward in anticipation as we got closer. The last two strides are like a black hole for me. I often hold my breath and, like the moment before a car crash, it seems the whole world is bearing down on the barrier in front of me. I have to try to hold onto a shred of consciousness in that moment, if I do, I can feel the rhythm and take the jump right. This happened in the dream last night. It was that pulsing moment where I was looking down at the base of the jump, heading for a chip. But I looked up and we took off, getting the distance just right. When that happens, it's not just about equitation or "doing it right" or how it looks. It is the best feeling I know. It feels like I am in perfect unison with a 2,000 pound animal that is carrying me as, for a few seconds, it flies.
I'm not sure what this dream was about, other than missing the horses. I think sometimes it is simply about getting to experience something that is gone from your life, like talking to someone you lost or visiting a place you've left.
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