(ongoing series) correlation, or causality?

January 30, 2007:

Eszter gives a talk in the renowned TechTalk series at Google.

January 31, 2007:

(via NYT)

to serve and take notice

Around Boston, business folk are very fond of backing up statements that you shouldn't do something with the threat that police will take notice. Three examples:


(private parking near Inman Square--which, incidentally, is the home of Magnolia, my new favorite Cambridge restaurant)


(laundromat near where I live)


(no parking sign spray painted on wall in theatre district, Boston; includes me with horrible red-eye)

Is it just me, or is the idea that police will take notice not exactly the scariest threat in the world? Even, maybe, does it not seem like much of a threat at all? Every time I see one of these signs I think, "And then what?"

I've never seen one of these signs in the Midwest. (Or if I have, I haven't taken notice.) Is this a Boston area thing? An East Coast thing? A cities larger than Madison thing?

Neil Christian –She’s Got The Power

Neil Christian –She’s Got The Power/Someone’s Following Me Around –Vogue SA.14089 –(1976 French issue)

11 years after She’s Got The Action, she finally Got The Power as well…Yes, this is the same Neil Christian (he of And The Crusaders…). She’s Got The Power is a pretty good late Glam Stomper and a late (check the tired eyes… the pouting Mr. Christian seems to have had his joie de vivre sucked out of him) Neil Christian release. It remains to be confirmed if Neil had a further single out in ’86 called She Wears The Trousers…

Click below for soundclip

good old earwig, nothing beats it*

From Bowles, Microeconomics:

In the children's game, common around the world (English speakers call it "Rock, Paper, Scissors" and for others it is "Earwig, Human, Elephant") there is no Nash equilibrium in pure strategies.

Earwig, Human, Elephant? Really? What beats what in Earwig, Human, Elephant? And how do you make your fingers look like an earwig? Anybody know?

* Reference to Simpsons exchange:

Lisa:  Look, there's only one way to settle this.  Rock-paper-scissors.
Lisa's brain: Poor predictable Bart.  Always takes `rock'.
Bart's brain: Good ol' `rock'.  Nuthin' beats that!
Bart:  Rock!
Lisa:  Paper.
Bart:  D'oh!

newest asa member resolution: taking another political stand, but not one that will keep us away from chicago

Following the successful American Sociological Association resolutions in past years against the Iraq War and against the prohibition of gay marriage, circulating this year is a resolution against Native American nicknames in sport. Full text as follows:

Proposed Resolution of the American Sociological Association on Native American Sport Mascots

WHEREAS the American Sociological Association comprises sociologists and kindred professionals who study, among other things, culture, religion, media, sport, race and ethnicity, racism, and other forms of inequality;

WHEREAS the American Sociological Association recognizes that racial prejudice, stereotypes, individual discrimination and institutional discrimination are socially created phenomena that are harmful to Native Americans and other people of color;

WHEREAS the American Sociological Association is resolved to undertake scholarship, education, and action that helps to eradicate racism;

WHEREAS social science scholarship has demonstrated that the continued use of Native American nicknames, logos and mascots in sport reflect and reinforce misleading stereotypes of Native Americans in both past and contemporary times;

WHEREAS the stereotypes embedded in Native American nicknames, logos and mascots in sport undermine education about the lives of Native American peoples;

WHEREAS social science scholarship has demonstrated that the continued use of Native American nicknames, logos and mascots in sport harm Native American people in psychological, educational, and social ways;

WHEREAS the continued use of Native American nicknames, logos and mascots in sport shows disrespect for Native American spiritual and cultural practices;

WHEREAS many Native American individuals across the United States have found Native American nicknames, logos and mascots in sport offensive and called for their elimination;

AND, WHEREAS the continued use of Native American nicknames, logos and mascots in sport has been condemned by numerous reputable academic, educational and civil rights organizations, and the vast majority of Native American advocacy organizations, including but not limited to: American Anthropological Association, American Psychological Association, North American Society for the Sociology of Sport, Modern Language Association, United States Commission on Civil Rights, National Association for the Advancement of Colored People, Association of American Indian Affairs, National Congress of American Indians, and National Indian Education Association;

NOW, THEREFORE, BE IT RESOLVED, THAT THE AMERICAN SOCIOLOGICAL ASSOCIATION calls for the discontinuation of the use of Native American nicknames, logos and mascots in sport.

As with all member resolutions, signatures from 3% of members are needed to place it on the ballot. Apparently if you copy the above text and send it to stop_indian_mascots@yahoo.com (presumably along with your name) that is sufficient to count as a signature.

The drive is being organized by Jeffrey Montez de Oca and Laurel Davis-Delano. I have sent an e-mail asking about the evidence regarding WHEREAS #6 of the resolution (the one about evidence demonstrating harm). I'm not saying anything about the quantity or quality of this evidence; I honestly don't know. It seems to me that there should be a requirement that resolutions that make claims about social science findings should be expected to provide references to those findings and preferably with the resolution itself. I'll let you know what response I receive to my query.

The resolution does not itself imply any actions other than ASA "calling for the discontinuation." I have a friend who works for ASA; I wonder if he'll have to be the one who gets on the phone and makes these calls. But to whom? By contrast, the American Anthropological Association has a at-least-ten-year boycott on holding meetings in Illinois (e.g., in Chicago) because of the University of Illinois flamboyantly offensive "Chief Illiniwek" mascot.

ph.D&D

Fellow faculty dorky-types looking for amusement, check out: Scholars & Students: A Compendium of Professorial Magic [hat tip: Jude]. I'm going to resist the urge to cast the listed Level 3 Speak Pop spell when I return to teaching this fall, as there is no reason to think I can pull it off.

Enigma - LSD ( Love, Sensuality, Devotion ) Free download.

Tracklist:
1. The Landing
2. Turn Around
3. Gravity Of Love
4. T.N.T. For The Brain
5. Modern Crusaders
6. Shadows In Silence
7. Return To Innocence
8. I Love You...I'll Kill You
9. Principles Of Lust
10. Sadeness (Part 1)
11. Silence Must Be Heard
12. Smell Of Desire
13. Mea Culpa
14. Push The Limits
15. Beyond The Invisible
16. Age Of Loneliness
17. Morphing Thru Time
18. The Cross Of Changes

Download part l
Download part ll

Review. A greatest-hits package sampling four Enigma discs released between 1990 and 2000, LSD splendidly documents the influential output of Michael Cretu, a techno-bohemian who successfully creates cinematic, otherworldly New Age-like musical suites. Now, more than a decade removed from the arrival of Sadeness (Part 1) and its eyebrow-raising mix of sacred and sensual subplots, people can debate whether Cretu's music represents savvy commercial calculation or satisfying art. LSD suggests a split decision, though tracks with intriguing blends of atmosphere and rhythm, such as "Gravity of Love," "T.N.T. for the Brain" and "Morphing Thru Time," reveal an inventiveness that demonstrates Cretu is capable of more than sophisticated novelty tunes. Two new songs, neither especially noteworthy, open this package. Meanwhile, remastered older tracks segue beautifully to exude a satisfying, seamless unity. Big bonus: run time exceeds 76 minutes.

jfw 2.0 (alpha)

I have just upgraded to the new Blogger at last--although I have not upgraded the template. Given all I have going on the next four weeks, the last thing I need to do is get mired in is messing around with a new template, especially since I suspect what I would mainly be doing is trying to get it to look like the template I presently have, only with tags. (And especially since I've got myself concurrently mired in trying to work my way through a graduate microeconomics text, as though I have time for that.)

I have thought about trying to contract the labor out (the template upgrade, not the microeconomics). Does anyone know if there are reasonably priced templateers for hire?

what makes graduate programs great?

I just did the general National Research Council survey of faculty for the sociology department rankings they are putting together. This survey asks questions about your own record (you also attach your vita), and then it also asks you questions about what you think are the criteria by which a graduate program should be judged. I thought these latter questions were interesting, and so saved them to repost here. There are separate questions about criteria for assessing (1) the quality of faculty, (2) the quality of students, and (3) general characteristics of programs, and then you are asked separately to provide the % by which you would weight each of those three categories toward a global rating.

For each category, you are asked to selected up to four categories you think are "important" and then the two you think are most important. I will italicize the two I selected as most important, but restrain myself from more discussion. Assessing graduate program quality is a matter about which I have many wheelbarrows full of thoughts, but I have way too much to do so I don't even want to get into that here.

Regarding the quality of the program's faculty:
a. Number of publications (books, articles, etc.) per faculty member
b. Number of citations per faculty member
c. Receipt of extramural grants for research
d. Involvement in interdisciplinary work
e. Racial/ethnic diversity of the program faculty
f. Gender diversity of the program faculty
g. Reception by peers of a faculty member's work as measured by honors and awards

Regarding the quality of the program's students:
a. Median GRE scores of entering students
b. Percentage of students receiving full financial support
c. Percentage of students with portable fellowships
d. Number of student publications and presentations
e. Racial/ethnic diversity of the student population
f. Gender diversity of the student population
g. A high percentage of international students

Regarding the program:
a. Average number of Ph.D.s granted over the last five years
b. Percentage of entering students who complete a doctoral degree
c. Time to degree
d. Placement of students after graduation
e. Percentage of students with individual work space
f. Percentage of health insurance premiums covered by the institution or program
g. Number of student support activities provided at either the institutional or program level

Anyway, I'd be interested in how you would have answered these questions (or, if you're also faculty and have done the survey, how you did answer them). One of the things I kept thinking about as I did the survey is how I would have answered the questions if I'd done this survey as a graduate student vs. how I answered them now.

BTW, I was surprised by the absence of faculty size as a criterion. I feel like small departments must have won some political/rhetorical battle for that to be something not even available as an alternative someone doing the ratings could choose.

BTW-BTW, if NRC conducted a survey of graduate student satisfaction/happiness, I would have selected this as a criterion that should be used. I have thought that ASA should organize an online survey on that as a service to the future of the profession. My experience is that when sociology faculty see unhappy graduate students in their midst, their response is first to remove their sociology thinking caps and then to say "there are unhappy graduate students everywhere," a statement that is no doubt true but doesn't really note the relevant and important possibility that the proportion of unhappy students may vary from place to place and perhaps some of this variation has to do with details of their program.

you're older than you've ever been and now you're even older, but at least the world is smaller and the people are prettier

My Starbucks cup is The Way I See It #186:

The world is smaller than you think, and the people on it are more beautiful than you think.
--Bertram van Munster

Setting aside the whole matter of the surname "van Munster," do you think van Munster intends this to apply to him as well, even after having had this insight? If I read the cup and believe van Munster, does it still apply to me? Is the world still smaller and people more beautiful than what I think? If I believe so, then does it then still apply? What about now? Now? Now? I can keep on going until I think the world is as small as the head of a pin, upon which everyone is ineffably beautiful angels dancing on top. I'm nothing if not tenacious, especially where infinite regresses are involved.

Anyway, it seems like the coffee-cup world-size people-beauty analogue of Hofstadter's Law, that projects always take longer than you think, even once you take into account Hofstadter's Law. And my own corollary, that projects always take longer than you think, even after you take into account that you've taken into account Hofstadter's law and my corollary.

(Note: Yes, I go to Starbucks, although I don't drink coffee. For those who are anti-Starbucks, I used to be quite assertively anti-anti-Starbucks. Then I learned they were singlehandedly responsible for the sale of over one million copies of the latest Mitch Albom book. Now I'm just non-anti-Starbucks.)

(ongoing series) brief lessons that should really be taught in our nation's schools

156. Check spelling twice, tattoo once.

Rococo –Follow That Car

Rococo –Follow That Car/Lucinda - Mountain TOP 9 (1976 UK)

Rococo were Melody Maker battle of the Bands finalists in ‘74 (under the name Brats) and Follow That Car is a glorious and deliciously overblown production with shimmering Lexicon reverbs and real LOUD car engine noises. It ends up as some form of Spector, Beach Boys and Progressive Glam (PRAM) hybrid. Some of the vocal inflections even recall Shirley Bassey !!!! and the keyboards could have come off late Eighties Brian Wilson solo work. Not sure why I love it so much and keep returning to it, but I do -Play it bloody LOUD!

Click below to hear this epic in its full glory

a dog's life

My mother has been crying over her dying dog, a white peek-a-poo (a cross between the territorial pekinese and the yappy poodle) whose fur around his mouth and paws has turned a strange maroon and pink and whose eyes are cloudy with age. Now that its kidneys are failing, it cannot eat. Still, it seems oblivious to its ill health and continues to try to lift itself up from its bed. My brother E, who is the original owner of the dog, is a stoic about the dog's dying. "I mean, it's led a good life thge past 13 years, there's nothing more we can ask for."

Of course, what is a good life is relative. The standards shift. Even the markers change.

For a dog, a good life probably means regular meals, regular walks, no abuse, and lots of human company and love.

Last evening, J and I braved the weekend crowds at Vivocity to catch Malaysian filmmaker Ho Yuhang's 3rd feature Rain Dogs. I haven't seen any film from across the border, except The Last Communist, but J had read about the film from the Serangoon Rd notetaker and it was enough to pique our curiosity.

Produced by HK Focus Films, Rain Dogs is extremely well-filmed (beautiful cinematography, not a scene out of place or mis-timed) Perhaps because we walked into the cinema with no expectations, we were pleasantly surprised by the sensitively paced film, and a well-casted ensemble that did not distract at all with any awkward over-acting and included "Ah Chan" (remember the actor for played the character"Ah Chan" in that famous Hk TV drama serial Man in the Net starring also Chow Yun Fatt?).

(Warning: Spoilers ahead...)
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First, an overview. It's a coming-of-age story in every sense of the genre. College-bound Tung catches a glimpse of the city grit when he visits his elder brother (who bears a resemblance to Taiwanese actor Zhang Zheng) in Kuala Lumpur. Elder brother then plans to buy a flat and re-unite his family in KL, bringing his mother away from a life of loneliness and desperate dependence on a money-hungry boyfriend. Tung later returns to his quiet Malaysian small town. But he is quickly called back when his brother is knifed to death in a snooker parlor brawl. This marks the film's turning point. For fatherless Tung, the good life has so far been his fishing excursions with an older man and midnight adventures setting off fireworks at the train station with friends. But the KL jaunt has initiated him into a world of macho fights and cigarettes. He tastes anger - always potent for a young man. After an argument with his mother, he runs away to his uncle's coastal town where he discovers the next likely misadventure for a young man - girls (and guns).

It is to Ho Yuhang and his scriptwriters' credit that they did not milk this story dry for all tragic possibilities. There is a sensible restraint, a good line back to the sort of understated realism of the Taiwanese indie. There is Odetta's "Sometimes I feel like a motherless child" refrain in the soundtrack, but this still doesn't qualify the film for melodrama. It is also to his credit that he shoots a Malaysia in all his city-town-country diversity and presents such a tropics so beautiful yet real.

But both J and I felt that there was something missing in the film. Maybe it was just too neat. The urban/rural dialetic running parallel with the corruption/innocence play - and the small town, in between, the stage for the individual's dilemma and struggle between the 2. Nature, beautiful and bountiful, does not harm. Like a parent or an elder sibling, it harbours, soothes and reassures - whether on a hot, humid night, or a quiet, easy afternoon's bicycle ride. Individuals who are set loose upon the world (like Tung's uncle, a sailor who is literally adrift and who is fatherless like Tung) alone, inevitably feel the need to protect themselves. They use guns, snooker cues, exploitative boyfriends. None of these satisfy. Instead, they bring about further estrangement from nature, love, family.

Like the Malaysian landscape Ho Yuhang captures, this neatness is part of the film's simple, unpretentious beauty. But for me, it becomes a weakness when the director decides, at the end of the film, to actually spell it out in 3 short closing sequences.

If not the landscape and the Cantonese dialogue, you would have thought this a Taiwanese indie. For me, this too was is part of the film's uncomfortable neatness of mood and form. If I walked into the cinema without any expectations, I also walked out with no surprises (except maybe a small pleasant one about our neighbour's film talents).

Still, this film is worth watching. You can watch the trailer here. And if you have no special feelings for cinema operators, you may want to just watch the film on VCD instead. It's a lot cheaper at $11.90, as J and I discovered tonight, too late, at your ubiquitous Poh Kim video shop!

(A+ guest post!) American Idol: Week 2 Cattle Call!

Hey folks. A+ again. Sorry for the delay. Onwards. This week, we begin in Memphis. They show us downtown, empty. Beale Street, empty. The trolley things, empty. Where is everybody? Why, auditioning for American Idol, of course! Oy. Anyway, they show like 100,000 people inside a stadium, screaming their balls off for the chance to be humiliated on national TV. It’s at this point that I always cringe at what the screaming is doing to their voices, but I guess one must sacrifice a great deal when attempting to out-whore an entire metropolitan area.

Also, I should say that the Memphis show is cut in half, to make room for the State of the Union Address. The first and last time I’ll ever honestly say this: Thank you, President Bush.

We begin with Frank Byers, a 21 year-old cheerleader/coach from Southern Arkansas University. He brought the entire freaking marching band, and the whole cheerleading crew with him. They annoy. Well, with all this hubbub, the cheers and fight songs and the special focus story, you’d think Frank would be awesome, right? Not so much. He sounds like the guy who might wow ‘em at a karaoke bar, but ultimately has no flexibility in his voice, a lack of control, and no falsetto (which is fine, but then… don’t do it, you know?) It doesn’t hurt to listen to; it’s just “not horrendous.”

Then this weird thing happens, that actually happens a lot on AI, so I’m assuming the producers instruct people to do it: When Simon says you suck, you respond by cutting him off – and singing another song, in just as mediocre a fashion as the last. He’s talking over you, you’re singing over him, he’s telling you it’s no use, you’re begging him to unchain your heart, and ultimately, it feels so undignified and pathetic. Yep, definitely the producers. Anyway, he doesn’t make it, and the crowd still does a cheer.

Next, Tamika Simms. This girl seems polite enough, but has such a flat affect it’s hard to watch her. I don’t know what she said, because I was literally snoring through it. There is, however, a non-hilarious part where she says she has a good voice and could be “A Maya.” Simon goes, “What?”

“A Maya.”

“A Mayor?”

“A Maya.”

“A mayor.”

“A Maya.”

Randy, chucking, says, “Maya’s a singer.”

“Oh. Maya.”

So she sings Ashanti’s “Rock With You,” horribly. Every molecule of air has been funneled through her nose. Simon tells her she sucks, and she asks if she can sing another song. He says no, so… she starts singing “Secret Lovers” by Atlantic Starr (Damn you, producers!). She blows.

Now we meet Chris Rivera, who sings “Superstition” by Stevie Wonder, and it sounds like he’s been singing through a vocoder, played through an LP with warps in it, so that in some parts it sounds all “Luke, I am your father” and other parts sound like Theodore Chipmunk. So weird. When they tell him to stop, he flourishes with a falsetto, “Whoa-oh!” That makes Randy and me chuckle. He doesn’t make it.

Now, here’s Alexis, who we’re supposed to laugh at because she has huge gums and small teeth with braces. Seacrest makes a pun on “bracing ourselves” for her, and I laugh so hard my lung prolapses. Except not.

Okay, here’s the thing about this audition. She does suck, I’ll give you that. But the audacity it takes to do an a cappella singing audition with Teena Marie’s “Square Biz” is so awesome, I can’t describe. If you haven’t heard the song, it sounds like one of those ones that was produced in itty bitty parts, basically verse by verse. When they’re put together, it’s an impressive flurry of words and stuff. But if you try to sing it live, you either have to slow it down, or risk asphyxia, because there is literally no space in between… anything. It’s like ninety straight seconds of wordwordwordwordwordword without taking a single breath. Needless to say, Alexis has to breathe. So it ain’t good.

Suddenly, it’s Sundance Head, son of Roy Head, of “Treat Her Right” fame (1965? Anyone remember?) He’s a cute chubby guy with spiky hair and a baby Scott Ian goatee. And he seems personable enough. So, with all of this hubbub, the human interest story, the mention of the musical pedigree, you’d expect him to be good, right? Well, he is. He sings “Stormy Monday,” and he’s a natural, soulful singer with a pleasant roughness. This is actually a good clip to watch for people who do too much acrobatics. His inflections, his musical choices – they sound artful and enhance the song. Anyway, he’s good and goes through. Simon mentions under his breath that this kid’s better than Taylor Hicks. Well, since Taylor’s only “pretty decent,” I’m gonna say, yuh-huh.

Next up is Wandera Hitchye, who sings “A Change is Gonna Come.” And I really like it. A Sam Cooke song, but with a little bit of Mary J. Blige. She has a really appealing, husky voice, and lots of control. Inexplicably, the judges cannot stand her. Simon’s excuse: the market is flooded with girls just like her. Because if American Idol stands for one thing, it’s definitely musical innovation. They literally say there’s nothing special about her. Honestly, I think it’s racist of them. Hear me out – I’ve never once cried racism, in all the seasons of American Idol (which, by the way, I have combed through like the freaking Zapruder film every episode since it began). But seriously, that’s the excuse? Nothing special about her? Well, what was special about Kelly Clarkson? Taylor Hicks? That Sundance kid that just came out? Even my baby Elliott Yamin? White people singing soul music? Elvis, anyone? So my opinion is, they said she wasn’t “next level,” wasn’t “unique enough,” wasn’t “special,” because she was a black woman singing soul music. And I guess talent isn’t enough of a gimmick to make it through.

And see, now I’m pissed at AI on two levels. One, I’m pissed because it sends a gross message, and two, because my getting riled up about it reminds me how seriously I take this piece o’ suck.

Hey, our first montage of suck! People are frowning, crying, sobbing, heaving, weeping. No one can believe they didn’t make it – on camera, that is. The sobbing? A sure-fire way to get your untalented ass on the AI. Well played, untalented friends. Well played.

There’s a spazzy dude named Travis who sings his own composition – a composition that, ironically, has no melody or rhythm. A sample lyrics: “Are you here, here, here? Are you there, there, there? I’ll never have you replace it/Getting so close I can almost taste it. Every time you ask to leave, I will say no no.”

Then we meet a blond girl named Dani who sings “Baby I Love You.” It’s not horrendous to listen to, but it’s not good enough to be an actual singer. It’s like, the hot chick at high school who people have convinced is talented, singing in her car with her friends. Also, she does two things that I cannot tolerate: One. She lacks soulfulness in her voice, so she replaces it with some contemporary pop-infused highly produced version of what country music was at one time. Two. She lacks soulfulness in her voice, so she replaces it with purring and sighing and orgasm sounds, in the hope that we won’t notice. I, not having a wiener, notice. Let me state in no uncertain terms: she is a worse singer, and infinitely more annoying, than Wandera. But they adore her, and call her (ready for it?) Unique. You know, I think it would actually be more effective if, on this show, they actually just took headshots and did the first elimination that way. I mean, let’s not harbor any illusions about what we’re doing here, right?

Some recently divorced guy comes on national TV and calls his ex-wife a bitch, then sucks up the place, and then a woman whose boobs are threatening to come out at any moment also gets the boot.

Then we meet a guy named Sean who says he gets called Castro a lot, and let me tell you, he kind of looks like a young, kindly, hippie Fidel. He sings a Johnny Cash song. If I were the judge, I wouldn’t put him through – surprisingly unsucky, yet not good enough. They liked him, Randy even going so far as to loudly proclaim, “It doesn’t matter what you look like, you can blow!” Because Randy lives on the Planet Testicularis, where that’s actually the truth.

Now, Melinda Dolittle, a backup singer who sings very, very well. She’s shy and lacks confidence while speaking, but while singing, it’s very lovely and masterful and pleasant. It is a bit weird to see Paula trying to convince someone not to be afraid of singing because she’s “really good,” (get it, because Paula can’t sing! Harr!). But Ms. Dolittle, whose Pygmalion-like transformation into queen diva will no doubt be concocted by producers should she make it to final twelve, passes through to the next round.

More well-meaning suck. Suck after suck of Hunka Hunka Burning Love, until my ears bleed. In fact, a montage of “weirdos” like Bad Dancer Guy, Visor-Wearing Dude, Way-Too-White Man, Black Guy In a Cowboy Hat, Flat Affect Dude, Gay People, Fat Chick. Ah, comedy.

We end Memphis with some dude with a shaved head who looks like a less-attractive version of Chris Daughtry. He left his pregnant wife to audition, and when he found out his daughter was born while he was away, he stayed at the audition. Classy. So he sings, and it’s not the worst ever, but it’s seriously weird sounding – like he’s tightening up his soft palate on the high notes. Remember Cameron doing Sloane’s dad on the phone to Mr. Rooney? It’s like that. On top of having this weird tone, he thinks he’s way, way better than he actually is. He makes it through, and only then does he return home to see his new baby. And we’re out of Memphis.

On to New York, baby! The guest judge for this round is Carole Bayer Sager, who wrote music or lyrics for Arthur’s Theme, That’s What Friends are For, Groovy Kind of Love, and I think that shitty Aerosmith Song from the movie where Ben Affleck sadly does not blow up.

We begin with Ian Benardo, who is a classic famewhore, having danced it up on So You Think You Can Dance this summer. He’s one of those nonstop talkers, but, uh, I think he’s kind of funny. Especially when Simon asks him why he’s there, and Benardo gives him a look like, “do you see all the cameras here?” Awesome. He’s not a good singer, but it doesn’t matter, because it’s a vehicle for the shtick, which surpisingly doesn’t bug me (although it lacks hilarity), because it’s antagonistic to the judges, which I’m always in favor of. Simon actually looks irritated, like his time is being wasted, which is, ah, how you say, rich. It actually is hilarious when Ian asks Simon for his work visa. And, buh bye.

There’s a crying pretty girl whose dad doesn’t want to support her dream of singing, which turns out to be a great tactic, as she blows more than Moby Dick. Some girl from Queens sings Toto’s “Africa,” and stinks up the joint like my cat Louie after she sneaks some teriyaki beef jerky (ahh, remember similes?).

A girl named Ashanti tries for the third time to get through. She sings Minnie Riperton’s “Loving You,” and she has a cute, kitten-like voice . Actually, she sounds kind of like Minnie Riperton (though not as good – Minnie was a Queen). She even goes for the super high notes, and does ‘em. They think she’s too old fashioned, and suddenly she hops into this weird Broadway acting bag, where she’s begging them to hear her out, and I can’t really tell if it’s put-on or what. The producers even put twinkly piano music behind Her Big Speech, which is kind of funny. Anyway, I have no idea what they have against her, but she doesn’t make it through.

Two almost staggeringly foul girls try to audition together, and because they are gorgeous, it doesn’t matter that the Ashanti woman sang circles around each of these girls. The dong, she is risen; the girls, they are through. Blech.

Some guy named Cliff comes out, and Paula starts, “So, it says here you work in a bank… is that… fun?” Yeah, Paula, it’s so awesome that I’m risking perpetual humiliation on national TV for the one in a billion chance that I’ll be a huge rock star.

A montage of suck follows, NYC style. Space man, Weird Hair Guy, Obese Peeps. Hilarious.

Not everyone sucked, however. A girl sang Ain’t No Way, and it was good enough to get the judges to shut the fuck up for a second. Carole Bayer Sager actually gives great advice to her, telling her that staying with the melody isn’t a sign of weak vocals, but of musicality. Yay!

A boy who looks like a little Tyson Beckford is intro’ed. This kid is only 16, but holy crap, he is gorge. His voice is okay – pretty good, not bad, whatever. But again, he is so utterly fantastic-looking that he is through.

Then, some super-bubbly chick who reminds me of me because of her lack of neck (it’s sad, really – what can I say, we’re 4’11”). For all her spazzity, she’s actually pretty okay. But she’s shorty short short and fatty fat fat, so her mediocrity is intolerable. She’s gone.

Then: the seriously bad who know they’re seriously bad, but apparently made some workplace bet to get on TV, and part of the bet was to act pissed when they don’t make it through. Some guy sings New York New York, and he literally looks about 47. Then, his name thing comes up, and it literally says, “47 years old” (hey, good guess, A+!). And this isn’t considered a tremendous waste of time? (BTW, the cutoff is 29).

A summary of the next 25 minutes:

Pretty pretty girls with okay voices, girls who are 21 but look 41, and the judges get a bunch of people’s names wrong. And then… The judges prove themselves the ultimate asses when a girl tells them her first name is Fong. Simon then addresses her as Pong, and Randy & Simon think it’s awesome. Randy corrects Simon, and then Simon, responds, “Honestly, Ping Pong, whatever your name is…” and Randy cracks up. Other cultures are weird and funny! Gah, shut it, you pud. At least Olivia Newton John (who, we haven’t seen before or after this moment) gets pissed.

Some girl named Rachel sings very well, and yet they kind of hate her, because they can’t put her in a box, and the tone changes with each song. To the judges, this isn’t versatility, it’s a problem. They don’t want versatile. P!nk, for example, would be their nightmare – putting out an R&B album, and then a rock album, then pop, disco, etc. They don’t know what to do with her. They put her through, though Randy makes no attempt to hide the fact that he loathes the sight of her.

Some more sounds of suck, and we’re out. Next week, Birmingham, home of Ruben Studdard! (Who? Exactly.) See you then!

annals of public sociology

Check out the review of Kieran's book in the NYT Sunday Book Review. Score one for public sociology served up without any icky self-righteous-preening aftertaste, and score one for sociologists with blogs as well.

Meanwhile, I was hanging out with a friend yesterday while she was reading Loïc Wacquant's Body & Soul: Notebooks of an Apprentice Boxer. I went back just now and looked up the 2003 NYT article on that, which includes:

"Body & Soul," which Mr. Wacquant says is only the first installment of his work on boxing -- a second, more ambitious book, "The Passion of the Pugilist," is under way

Does anyone know the status of this book? Wasn't the fieldwork for Body & Soul was done in 1988? I recognize there is no statute of limitations for ethnography, especially "carnal sociology" that is dependent on personal, embodied experiences that I'm sure can be easily recaptured in fully accurate vividness by a quick re-consultation of one's fieldnotes, but I was just wondering if there was any word on whether the second book would be out by the 20th anniversary of Wacquant's experience as a boxer.

mozy: the automated backup service that delivers moral dilemmas fresh to your inbox

I was recently in the market for a service that would provide an automated daily backup of files to a remote Web server, because FolderShare--miraculous as it is for keeping my files synced and thus backed up across various computers in Cambridge and Madison--only does continuous synching and so won't work with Outlook, meaning that I've been without reliable e-mail backup for awhile.* I finally settled on buying a one-year subscription to Mozy, which seems to work okay but has a clumsy interface that keeps me from giving it a clear endorsement. Anyway, I got this e-mail yesterday from them:

As some of you may have noticed, the month of December and early January was a challenging time for us. We were overwhelmed by the demand for the Mozy backup service, and had a difficult time keeping up. [...]

So, to try and make up for the problems we've experienced, and to thank you for hanging in there, we like to offer you the follow options:

If you had a really frustrating experience, click here to get 3 months free service added to your account.

If you hit some glitches, but everything mostly worked out for you, click here to get 2 months free service added to your account.

If things went just fine this last month, click here to get 1 month free service added to your account.

But if you'd rather just let us know you're doing okay and you don't need the extra month of free service, click here to let us know.

If you have any questions or feedback, don't hesitate to email me personally. We're here to protect your data - and we thank you for hanging in there during our growing pains.

-josh
Founder, CEO
Mozy.com, Berkeley Data Systems, Inc.

I think this e-mail is fascinating. Here, the company has apparently had service problems that have annoyed a bunch of customers. They decide that, rather than the expense of handling complaints case-by-case, they will just send out a mass e-mail offering free additional months of their service to everyone. But, then, they insert this humanity by their appeal by asking you only to take the number of months of additional service that you think you deserve (or, more accurately, the number of months they feel you deserve given your classification of the severity of problems you've had).

Sure, you are a faceless customer and this is a mass e-mail, but that doesn't mean you're not a human being. So we'll turn our screw-up into a chance to create greater pseudointimacy with customers by displaying our personal trust in your honesty. We're all cool here. Our product is named 'Mozy', after all.

So, what to do? I did have some problems with the initial upload, so maybe I could lay honest claim to one month, at most. Then again, this is someone who simultaneously identifies himself as CEO of a fully grown-up corporation and yet signs his e-mail with just his first name in all small letters. And he wants to minimize the transaction costs of their customer service problem by passing it off as a moral dilemma to me?

In the end, I clicked the option for two months. Me, in a nutshell: choosing the option that lets me feel both a little immoral and a little like a sucker.

I bet they are going to take the people who click the option for no extra service and sell their names to some marketing company that keeps a trusting-souls mailing list.

* More accurately, it doesn't work with the way I use Outlook, which is to open and close it frequently, and the files are too big for FolderShare to start sending them to all my machines each time. Of course, I could solve this problem by just leaving Outlook open all day. As if my e-mail habits are not unhealthy enough already.

Pantherman –Panther Walk

Pantherman –Panther Walk/20th Century Man –Polydor 2050337 (1974 NL)

Frank Klunhaar returns and stars in the further adventures of Pantherman with Panther Walk. Although it sports a suitably tribal Bo Diddley beat and a funky clavinet, Panther Walk smells like an uninspired sequel. It certainly lacks the single-mindedness, drive, hook and dare I say outright joyous stupidity of the first Pantherman single. Whereas Frank played all the instruments on the previous single, it sounds like he has a band backing him this time around. Don’t get me wrong it’s still good stuff, but after such a glorious first single, it’s hard not to feel disappointed. 20th Century Man is somehow more intriguing with it’s dead modern jet engine noises and it certainly has a better tune.

Click below for soundclip

Röyksopp - The Understanding (Deluxe Edition)

Artist: Röyksopp

Album: The Understanding (Deluxe Edition)

Year: 2005

Genre: Downtempo / Synth-pop / Electro

Lable: Toshiba EMI Ltd

Format: MP3 320 Kbps

Free download from filefactory

Tracklist:

CD1
01. Triumphant (4:21)
02. Only This Moment (3:56)
03. 49 Percent (5:12)
04. Sombre Detune (4:52)
05. Follow My Ruin (3:52)
06. Beautiful Day Without You (5:29)
07. What Else Is There? (5:17)
08. Circuit Breaker (5:25)
09. Alpha Male (8:12)
10. Someone Like Me (5:23)
11. Dead To The World (5:21)
12. Tristesse Globale (1:24)

CD2
01. Go Away (3:53)
02. Clean Sweep (5:17)
03. Boys (4:45)
04. Head (5:04)
05. Looser Now (6:04)

Download Röyksopp - The Understanding

After the success of their debut album, Norwegian electronic duo Royksopp must have known they’d have their work cut out for them on The Understanding. After all, Melody A.M. was that rare electronic music that appealed to fans regardless of their musical tastes, with its catchy playfulness and well-crafted songs. The Understanding album is less laid back than their previous ones, but it’s no less catchy or clever. If anything, The Understanding sounds like Royksopp have spent much of the time since their last album soaking in the continental sounds of bands like Air. The result is a dance album that’s surprisingly heavy on vocals, most of them by the duo themselves. But, in time-honoured dance tradition, there are also a bevy of female vocalists on hand, including Karin Dreijer from The Knife ("What Else Is There?") and new collaborator Kate Havnevik (single "Only This Moment" and "Circuit Breaker"). The Understanding is a much more grown-up album from Royksopp - it’s not dance music for the kids, but an album for after the kids have gone to bed.

where godiva and skippy collide

(this is literally the view from the back door of Eszter's office at the Center for Advanced Study in the Behavioral Sciences, except normally that view doesn't include me sitting in the tree.)

So, one of my pet phrases is "This is where the chocolate hits the peanut butter." I use it when I'm explaining something that requires me to first explain two seemingly unrelated things. I insert it as a preface immediately before explaining how the two things fit together, as apparently I believe this is a good moment to introduce an obscure distracting metaphor.

Anyway, it's a reference to these commercials from when I was a child where a man would be walking around with a chocolate bar and a woman would be doing the same with an open jar of peanut butter and through some collisional hijink the chocolate bar would end up inside the peanut butter, and the two would discover that in fact the combination tasted great and the voice-over for Reese's Peanut Butter cups would begin. (Being a child, the brazen sexual innuendo of this ad campaign was completely lost on me.)

I like Reese's Peanut Butter cups. They are traditionally my second favorite candy, in fact, with the first being chocolate-covered malted milk balls. So this past weekend Eszter and I were in Trader Joe's and what do I see: chocolate-covered peanut butter malted milk balls. I had never even imagined my two favorite candies could be combined before. And so I proclaimed, "This is where the chocolate hits the peanut butter!" I scarfed down something like a dozen between the checkout counter and Eszter's car alone.

The weekend was, I might add, the first time I'd ever been inside a Trader Joe's. I had heard it was a place full of strangely addictive curiosities. Even so, I had no idea.

a herd of clouds

illustration by J

The night sky doesn't have the same joyful changeability or the more obvious theatre as that of the day. More often than not, it is a impenetrable stretch of purplish black. Of course, there is some poetry with the moon - those dramatic nights when it hangs large and low.

Two nights ago, round about 9pm when J and I were getting ready to go grab dinner, I looked out of the bedroom window and there was a whole herd of clouds - greyish in the dark - surging forward. The air was still. Yet these distinct clumps of various sizes and shapes moved as if they were chased by something, swift, even urgent, but quiet and smooth.

Later that night I was chatting with Ru over msn. Preggie issues, sick family, spouses, impending babies, job (or jobless) woes, investment-savvy peers, mortgages, retirement (!) fears...I thought, grown-up troubles, how old we sounded!

Of course there's a certain beauty about the night. A stillness where even the traffic sounds seem distant. The air grows cool and light. There's the calm smell of sleep and the sufficiency of your own thoughts. Occassionally, the nights are marred by a certain frenzy over the day that's coming up, but it is not the frenzy of activity. Or at some points of life, the sufficiency of your own thoughts turn against you, and there's only the oppressive monotony of trouble and heartache.

J and I are rather pleased with 安普樂 [read An(1) Pu(3) Le(4)] as the Chinese name for ampulets. 安 is peace, 普 is complete/all and 樂 is joy. When I think of 安普樂, incongruous as it may be, I see in my mind a herd of clouds in the night sky.

beguine

I just got home. I finished the grant proposal I was working on. Which was not necessarily a gigantic thing in itself, but the way that it has intersected with other things I'm trying or allegedly trying to do here has made me feel like Boy Detective, Interrupted the last few weeks.

Anyway, this is the first post of the rest of my life.

Meanwhile, earlier this evening I was talking to a friend of mine who is considering a career redirection and I was trying to convince her to re-redirect into an entrepeneurial venture with me. As ever, I have trouble understanding how someone can recognize that I have a perfectly brilliant idea and yet still not be eager to devote her life on its behalf.

EndNote is supposed to save time, right? not crush your soul and jeopardize your meeting important deadlines?

If my normal mood was Boston proper and mundane frustration was Cambridge, I would be well past Wisconsin by this point, and perhaps into Montana. Maybe Seattle. Maybe Mars.

EndNote is great in the abstract. I have neither the time nor patience for the abstract right now. As some friendly practical warnings to fellow EndNote users, you should (a) keep all your references in one library, (b) not collaborate with other people, (c) not attempt to write complicated documents, and (d) not do any work that involves deadlines. Consider (e) fleeing academia and (f) finding peaceful work in a bookstore or as a barista.

i know i said i wasn't posting today, but someone has to step up and speak the truth to power on this

How many snowflakes do you think have fallen in the history of humankind? A trillion trillion seems to me an extremely conservative estimate. A trillion trillon snowflakes means half a trillion trillion trillion trillion pairs of snowflakes. If you think the number of snowflakes is more like a trillion trillion trillion, then we are talking half a trillion trillion trillion trillion trillion trillion snowflake-pairs.

Why are you so sure no two snowflakes are exactly alike?

i feel like an ugly stepsister

Working on this grant proposal. The text I have in hand being my right foot, and the NIH page limit being the glass slipper. One difference between me and Griselda is that I don't have the option of not somehow cramming my foot in there. Another, more fortunate difference, is that cutting proposal text is much less painful than shearing off toes and heel. But still, no easy feat!*

Anyway, I'm already postdating this to Tuesday 12:01am because there is no way the blog world is getting any other text out of me tomorrow. I am going to finish this thing by its Tuesday deadline, then I am going to take a day or two to catch up, and then I am going to write down (no, not on this blog) various lessons learned from experiences with this and some related recent matters.

* Pun intended, despite the large portion of my audience who winces at puns. Hey, if I have to suffer, you can, too.

UGE –Mad Charles

UGE –Mad Charles/Mad Charles Love Theme –WGW Records HMR-889 (1975 USA)

Not sure if this is going to be everyone’s bag, but in my opinion this is one of the most remarkable and truly insane releases from the Seventies. Mad Charles is a tin-helmeted Superhero (the world’s first karate robot!!!) who wreaks untold violence on the A side but gets all tender and squidgy on the B side. Greg Shaw may have coined it perfectly in an RPM review by calling it Garbage Psychedelia… I could even go one further and just call it plain retarded! Not sure who UGE is, but the label was based in Somerville, NJ and the credits indicate that this is a Laser Dynamics Inc production- there's even a picture of a laser machine on the label!

Thanks and curses to Collin for turning me on to this one! Now the really scary part: There may be another “B” side to this single entitled Sophie The Polish Chicken Hen. The flipside on this release has the letter C following the catalogue number, so in fact it may only be the C side… God forbid if there’s an unreleased album in the vaults of some derelict laser factory in New Jersey!

Listen to an edit of both sides of the single

blood: thicker than water, thinner than a big wad of benjamins

From ESPN.com:

Floyd Mayweather Sr., who has trained [boxer] Oscar De La Hoya since late 2000, said it doesn't appear he'll work for De La Hoya -- and against his son -- in the May 5 super welterweight title bout [between De La Hoya and Floyd Mayweather, Jr.] [...]

"If they want me to work against my son, then they're going to have to pay me," Mayweather Sr. told the Las Vegas Review-Journal. "My son and I, no matter what's gone down between us, he's still my blood. Hey, I'd work for Oscar if the deal is right, because that's my job and boxing is just a sport.

"But if you want me to tell you how to beat my son -- and I'm the only one who can tell Oscar how to do that -- then you need to pay me."

Isn't there some pseudo-apocryphal story about George Bernard Shaw sitting next to a man in a bar and saying, "If I paid you a million pounds, would you help me beat the living hell out of your son?" And the man saying quietly, "I guess I would." Then Shaw: "What about for twenty pounds?" Man, indignant: "What kind of father do you think I am?" Shaw: "We've already established that. Now we're just haggling." (For those unfamiliar with the reference, the merely apocryphal version of this story is here).

diszpatch from palo alto

(Eszter and me smiling in the face of unique danger!)

Working with Eszter in her research cabana at the Center for Advanced Study in the Behavioral Sciences near the Stanford campus. We're rocking out to the Tiffany cover of "I Think We're Alone Now," just after rocking out to the second-greatest-karaoke song ever, Bon Jovi's "Living on a Prayer."

While I've been here, I've been staying at the Stanford Guest House, which is located on the grounds of the Stanford Linear Acceleration Center, home of the world's first cyclotron and who-knows-what-physics-and-possibly-weapons-of-mass-destruction magic nowadays. When you enter, you have to show identification to a security guard, and immediately after there is a sign warning that: "Unique Hazards May Exist." I love the idea of staying at a site where they get to simultaneously warn you and let you know you are on grounds so special you could be subjected to special dangers unavailable anywhere else on the planet.

I'm taking the red eye back to Cambridge tonight, where I've got two full days of writing crunch time in front of me. I have a feeling the quality of those days will rest much on how well I sleep on the plane. Wish me slumberluck.

Update: Fabio correctly points out in the comments that SLAC is not the home of the world's first cyclotron. It is, however, home of the world's first web server, which has certainly proven a unique hazard in my own life.

Pheon Bear –War Against War

With a couple of copies of this single recently selling on ebay, it seemed a good time to upload a sound clip of this great single.

Below is my original review. It has since been pointed out to me that that it sounds a lot like Jesse Hector and I couldn’t agree more…Enjoy!

Click on title for the soundclip

Pheon Bear – War Against War/ 87th Precinct – Pye 7N 45232 (1973 UK)

The A side is a real loud cruncher falling somewhere between Freakbeat and Glam. It has ’66 Yardbird -like strident guitar breaks, feedback and a raspy shouted vocal performance from an angry Mr. Bear who just had someone spit in his porridge. The song itself is pretty basic, not moving too far from a 12 bar structure, but it’s chant-like chorus of Gotta keep up the war against war is pretty effective. But who the hell is this guy???. This came with a nice picture stamp on the label…a cheaper option to picture sleeves anyhow…

hill billies

The terrain on this island is mostly flat. Unlike our Indonesian neighbour, it is our good fortune to lie outside the ring of fire. There are no markers of violent past tectonic movements, no volcanoes, no sharp peaks.

But we do have little hills. The highest of these little hills being Bukit Timah, with an official height of just 538 ft. There's also Mt Faber for lovers, Mt Pleasant (which doesn't seem to have any elevation at all!) for its animal hospital, and Mt Sophia & Mt Emily, Singapore's own siamese twin peaks overlooking the Istana.

This evening J and I took a 3min walk up Mt Sophia Road, passing quiet condominiums and making a turn to find ourselves at the top of Mt Emily instead. There, between Mt Emily Park and a budget hotel , is an old bungalow that has been converted to be a centre for the arts and business.

Supposedly built by a wealthy Straits chinese, the house was later used as some Japanese HQ when we were occupied in WW2. At some point in its history, it was also the Japanese School, a girls' home, and more recently, 1 of 3 previous campuses of the Nanyang Academy of Fine Arts.

A group of artists and creative enterprises have now come together to develop the site into this:

Nestled amid the lush greenery of Upper Wilkie Road, Emily Hill is the first not-for-profit entity in Singapore that brings together artists and people whose businesses or lives are dependent on innovation and creativity. It is Singapore’s first prototype of a new partnership model wherein artists, arts groups and businesses support and sustain each other…and spark new ideas.

Its tenants currently include the Theatre Training & Research Programme (TTRP) of Practice Theatre, a hot glass factory that will also be offering public workshops, the studio of artist Sun Yu Li, the office of these musicians, the art gallery Monsoon Asia, a cafe/bar Wild Oats...and more. Today these folks held their open house and a small gathering for friends.

It does seem odd that for a small island, we don't have a habit of collaboration - whether among artists, neighbours or businesses. Am I right to call it a desire for exclusivity? Or maybe it is precisely because the pond is small, that everyone is so keen to mark and secure their own little part? Whatever the reason may be, the Emily Hill project is laudable for the courage of this very motley crew to not only co-locate, but to collaborate.


HDB sky well- image by J

While chatting with a friend B (one of the folks behind this venture), he shared this observation about space with us. Once he was watching a group of regular kids at a dance workshop being asked to "spell" their name using their bodies. Most of the kids did some shoulder/neck wriggle, and a few others twisted whole bodies. There were only 1 or 2 who leapt across the room, waved their arms and stretched and curled their bodies in expansive, broad strokes. He found out later the difference was that they were not Singaporean.

Ah, so this must be what drew us amps away from our HDB cubbyyhole to this old bungalow atop a hill - not the wine or the yummy fried chicken from this kitchen, but the possibility of a space that can be infinite if collaborative and inclusive. And of course, to wish the folks at Emily Hill all the best for their new venture!


other well wishers - image by J

=========
p/s If you are interested to sign up for some glass making workshops, dance/movement classes, photography & other lessons, check out the Emily Hill programmes.

i am sure this was the result of extensive polling and focus group work

Hillary Clinton's website refers to her just as "Hillary" whenever possible and only uses "Clinton" where it is more or less necessary. "Rodham" is nowhere to be found.

Again, the official JFW position is not so much to endorse a particular candidate at this point as to anti-endorse whatever Democratic candidates Republicans are really enthusiastic about seeing win the nomination. While "Hillary" does not bring quite the same GOP glee as a second Kerry candidacy, it's close.

sometimes i suspect i am a bit of a drama queen

Text message just sent to friend: "Yo, exhausted, considering faking my own death, otherwise fine."

hi, i'm trying to be an artist. you look dangerous. would you like to come for tea?

Turns out I'm separated by fewer degrees of separation than I would have imagined or preferred to SARK!, the artist responsible for such beloved books as Living Juicy and Succulent Wild Woman: Dancing With Your Wonder-Full Self!. Her famous "How to Be an Artist" poster hung on the door of bathroom at the vegan co-op I stayed in during one of my summers at Stats Camp. Partly due perhaps to the natural diuretic properties of some of the vegetables I was eating to stay in good standing at this co-op, I read this poster so many times that month that I have large parts of it memorized. Always, it makes me surly. The whole time, I wanted to take a giant Sharpie and write across it "PRACTICE. MAYBE STUDY SOME OTHER ARTISTS (not SARK!)."

Then again, what do I know?

Back when I was in graduate school, there was this woman who lasted a year in the program whose name was Miriam, but who wanted people to call her Rainbow. She was enrolled in a seminar with one of the older professors, and we wondered if he would call her Rainbow. He did. With a certain amount of relish, it seemed to me. SARK! would have been proud. Teaching juicy!

(A+ guest post!) American Idol: Week 1 Cattle Call!

Hi everyone, A+ here. Jeremy has kindly offered to let me guest-blog recaps of America’s favorite waste of time, American Idol. For those of you who couldn’t care less, I promise to always put AI in the title so you can skip the posts. But I hope you’ll ride the train, even if you don’t watch the show.

And so we begin season six with what I’ve read will be twelve weeks of cattle calls, before we get to the good stuff. Full disclosure: I actually really hate this part of the season. Watching people suck, or pretend to suck, or not know they suck, is an awful experience that I never seem to find as hilarious as the producers think I will. Also? I can’t possibly explain every inch of the FOUR HOURS A WEEK they insist on pelting us with, so I’ll just go over the highlights for now. Anyway. The show.

In a voiceover, Seacrest is quick to take credit for Jennifer Hudson’s recent Golden Globe win for Dreamgirls, despite the fact that when she was a contestant on the show, she was voted off relatively early, when Simon Cowell basically told her she was “out of her depth,” and instead chose to throw all his praise behind Diana Frakking DeGarmo. Who? Exactly.

Even more weirdly, all of this is done with the distinctly unsucky “Baba O’Riley” by The Who as background music. Yes, that’s irony. Predictably, they edit the song so as to avoid the repeating of the lyric, “teenage wasteland” over and over. Also ironic.

After the “who will win blah blah blah next American Idol blah blah,” we start seeing Minneapolis auditions. We also learn that Jewel will be the guest judge. Hooray.

Some girl who is a “makeup artist at the Mall of America” proclaims that Jewel is her idol, and already with the waterworks, before she even steps in there. Then she sees Jewel and starts crying again. After about 45 seconds of “prep,” she sings “You Were Meant for Me,” and although it’s hideous, it’s clearly awesome that she’s trying to sound exactly like Jewel, and doing a great exaggerated impersonation of all the little Jeweltones that irk so thoroughly. The baby-talk voice, the yodeling, the whispering. Awesome. The judges are predictably rude to her, laughing directly at her as Simon quips that it sounded “just like the record.” Jewel looks embarrassed for everyone and everything, except, oddly, the fact that “You Were Meant for Me” sucks anyway, no matter who sings it. Randy asks Jewel if it sounded just like her, but she ain’t talkin’. They tell the contestant that she sucks, and she. Is. Shocked. She literally goes, “Are you kidding me?” She tries whining and crying, but it's that cry-for-show that little kids do when they get a minor injury that doesn’t hurt, but they think you’re watching them and want something. In other words, a big, sobby, whiny temper tantrum. This is a girl who’s used to crying for shit. She finally leaves, and her entire family is there to console her, including her mother, who tells he that “there’s always next year.” Let’s all hope not. Next.

A montage of suck from America’s Heartland follows.

Next spotlight. A guy names Jesse comes in and says he has an incredible range, can hit notes Mariah Carey can hit, and music is his life. (By the way, proclaiming that music is your life, or that it “feeds” you, is the patented AI harbinger of being a terrible singer. Yawn.) He sings “My Heart Will Go On” as sung by my aunt and uncle’s leaky camping air mattress. He’s so horrible he doesn’t even have a sense of when the notes go up or down. Mid-song, he just walks out (probably insulted by being laughed at to his face). Suddenly, he reappears, and without talking, starts the song again. Everyone in America is irritated. They (sigh) ask him to sing another song, and he tries “Don’t Stop Til You Get Enough” with the same lack of pitch, breath, tone. This is what we call tone deaf, y’all. Bye.

More fools. Some guy dressed as if Uncle Sam were a boxer comes in and tells us that he’s going to sing an R.E.O. song in Italian. Scratch that. He means aria. Aw, man, I was looking forward to hearing “I Can’t Fight This Feeling” in Italian. He’s meh, actually, but he doesn’t make it through.

A 16 year-old from Madison, Wisconsin (hey-ohhh!) is given the focus sob story. She says that her mom has a drug problem, and she was born what was referred to as a “crack baby” (and I think still is referred to that way among less-enlightened folks, no?), but she’s thankful for her gift of song. She sings “And I Am Telling You,” and it’s nice. Let me just state for the record that I think that song is too big for any 16 year-old to sing, and that includes Miss Denise, although she clearly has talent. They love her, and she’s going through to the next round.

Next. A kind-looking woman with braids and a snappy tie sings “Kiss” by Prince. Sort of. She has a major meltdown with the lyrics, and… you know what, screw it. Here is a transcript of a portion of her audition, so you can see what I mean.

Women, no girls…
Women no girls, I want no women no girls…
[Pause]
I want women, not no girls…
I want women, not no girls, [speaking] Oh my God, I’m so [bleeped – I have no idea].
[Pause]
Women not girls, they rule my world, yes they rule my world
Got…
…no girls, yes they rule my world…
Yeaaahhh…..
No women, I want girls, I don’t want no girls ‘cause they rule my world. Yeah…
Women, ‘cause she rule my world…

This literally went on for two straight minutes. I’m not sure if this was edited funkily, or what, but she just wouldn’t stop. When they told her she sucked, she looked sincerely crestfallen and apologized to the judges. Then she tried to run out of there, but smashed against the “in” door on her way out. I hate this show.

Some skinny girl named Perla with a ton of hair and and a charming accent (she addresses the judges, “Well, Seemone…) sings “Call Me” by Blondie, and it blows in a meh sort of way. It’s that “Hey, I’ve got soul!” sound, where she actually doesn’t. Randy demands a verse of “Hips Don’t Lie,” and they like that much better, because know this, Perla. You are Latina, and in the world of AI this means you will sing nothing but Shakira, ever. Bleh, she sucks. But Simon and Randy’s wood was collectively strong enough to put her through to the next round.

We hear mediocre to excruciating versions of “Folsom Prison Blues,” a slew of the best darn singers in the Central High School Jazz-Slash-Show Choir, and a bunch of military service people (in uniform, natch) get through to the next round, because telling them they can’t sing makes the terrorists win.

One more montage of suck, and we’re off to the Seattle audition. Man, I love Seattle. Seacrest Seacrests on about how great The Emerald City is, and hey! It’s raining here! Isn’t that hilarious? Oh, Seattle, you fickle friend.

And suddenly, I’m exhausted. Some guy comes out dressed as Uncle Sam who’s not a boxer, and we find out he’s the same famewhore as the cop who slow danced with Paula last year. It’s hilarious, see, because he’s dressed like Uncle Sam. We also spot various full-figured gals with tight dresses on, that we’re supposed to laugh at. It’s hilarious, see, because they’re fat.

And then… a long string of people whose mental health I actually, seriously question. Some woman with platinum-bleached hair, bright red lipstick that has strayed far outside the parameters of what one would normally refer to as “lips,” and a thin satin shirt over no brassiere-like substance whatsoever, tells us how great she is. Her flat affect and earnest-seeming demeanor make this whole thing suddenly feel as if it’s been directed by Christopher Guest. On top of it, she sucks. They tell her as much, and she looks a little sad, but is ultimately good spirited.

Okay, here’s the thing. I can’t actually tell if this is a hoax or not. I guess I don’t really care, since they didn’t seem to laugh in her face or make her cry, but the whole thing actually made me feel uncomfortable. I don't actually enjoy making people look like fools, even ones who can't sing or put on lipstick.

Next, a very cute boy with a very cute afro and goatee sings and Amos Lee song quite sweetly, and although he’s not the best singer ever, it’s a pleasant change from the endless barrage of poo-flavored snacks we’ve been fed all week.

And then suddenly, it gets creepy. Do you remember the developmentally or emotionally disabled kid who was mainstreamed in with the rest of the assholes, so that every recess, lunch period, and gym class this sweet, well-meaning kid would be teased without even knowing it? The jocks would nude-nudge-wink-wink him about having sex with cheerleaders, to the delight of said cheerleaders, who would coyly flirt with him just enough to crack each other up. They were laughing at him behind his back, right in front of him, because he lacked the cynical douchebagginess to be in on the joke? Remember him? Well, he’s auditioning for American Idol, and the producers are desperately trying to make us the jocks, the cheerleaders, and the people who just stood there and watched. Fuck them. Their horrible singing voices are beside the point; I just hate how Randy and Seacrest ask them questions about what makes them so awesome, Paula hops between her kindergarten teacher and turn-her-back-and-snicker bag, and Simon refuses to look them in the eye, except when insulting them. There’s just too much douchebaggery for me.

This all comes to a head when Simon tells one guy, “you look like one the creatures who live in the jungle with those massive eyes… what are they called… bushbaby.” While Paula cracks up. The guy just stands there, looking at Simon with that exhausted face, the face you get when someone jokes about your height/weight/skin color/acne/boobs/hair/baldness/teeth/mole/unibrow for the ump-fucking-teenth time. Sigh.

On to brighter topics. A young woman from Texas, standing at what I think she said was 6’7”, charms the judges with spunk. She’s really cute, despite Simon remarking to Paula and Randy upon her exit, “You just put through a giraffe.” My belly is truly aching from all the laughter. Go Tall Texas!

A final montage of suck for the week, and we’re out. God, I hate this show.

So, for the initial cattle call, what would I sing? A tough one. You only have two minutes to show the judges your talent, as well as represent what you hope will be stylistic the box they’ll cram you into all season. Er, I mean, your “style.” I’d definitely go with Angel From Montgomery, for two reasons: One, it’s relatively simple, thus letting you, in the words of Paula Abdul, “make the song your own.” In my case, that would mean going thick on the blue-eyed soul, without the melismatic mess modern singing has become. Two, they won’t have heard it 3,000 times that day. If that song wouldn’t be allowable (they have to pass through the right-to-air hurdles), I’d just do Bye Bye Blackbird. Because on AI, jazz means cred. As I am both too old and too fat to be on American Idol, it’s basically a moot point, however.

What about you? If you were auditioning for the cattle call, what would you sing?

Saft – People In Motion

Saft – People In Motion/Albertine Hall –Polydor 2121093 (1971 German issue)

Saft were a Norwegian band from Bergen. I’ve never heard their other releases, but People In Motion sounds just like a late 60s Kinks outtake (it could have easily come off Arthur…). It sports a mighty fine tune, has a driving beat and the Mick Avory-like drum break precedes a cool instrumental dirge that is pure Muswell Hill. The B side Albertine Hall is also very accomplished and sits somewhere between Procol Harum and Badfinger, but lacks the bounce of the A side.

Click on title for a soundclip

annals of brute intellect and professionalism

Flew yesterday from Boston to San Francisco for a workshop at Stanford. As I waited for my flight, a young protoexecutive-middle-management-type was talking loudly on his cel phone near me. Overheard:

"I'm going to this meeting with a f*cking baseball bat and I am going to kick ass. I am tired of how this company is getting run by f*cking emotions instead of intelligence. I am sick of this b*llshit and am ready to go to the CEO and tell him this is unprofessional and he can go f*ck himself."

Because nothing conveys that intelligence has taken control back from emotions quite like showing up at a meeting with a baseball bat. Except, maybe, a hockey mask and chainshaw.

I was going to use my usual "[expletive deleted]" for the profanity above, but then this read confusing because of the different words involved, so I just asterisked the u's.

dan myers has 279 kiss songs on his iPod.

I was all ready to post something, but then I decided to check out some other blogs first. I promptly learned that Dan Myers has 279 Kiss songs on his iPod, more than twice as many as any artist other than the Beatles and Pink Floyd. My brain is now dominated by this fact. I can't even remember what I was going to post.

I know someone in sociology who once bought his girlfriend a scale for a present and now whenever I see him whatever else I think, "You bought your girlfriend a scale and presented it to her as a gift." Likewise, whenever I see Dan Myers, I will now think, "This man has 10,000 songs on his iPod, and still fully 2.79% of them are by Kiss." Not to draw any parallels between those two examples other than their being facts about people that, once learned by me, cannot be unlearned or even temporarily forgotten. 279 songs! By Kiss!

I had this roommate in college whose last name was spelled the same as mine but was not related and pronounced it so it rhymed with "crazy." His favorite bands were Kiss and the Beach Boys. I like two Beach Boys songs total, "Wouldn't It Be Nice" and "God Only Knows", and two Kiss songs total, "Detroit Rock City" and, um, "Detroit Rock City."* Once I put up a couple posters in our dorm with his name and phone number advertising for members for a band that would play Beach Boys covers while wearing Kiss makeup and dressing in superheroes Underoos. I remember it included the line "Must be able to gyrate, but do so only when the situation warrants and is tasteful." My recollection is that he was angry when he saw the poster, but then also sort of sad when it hadn't prompted any calls.

* "Detroit Rock City" is by Kiss, right?

recalling on sounds

playground at the mall - image by J

Last week, J and I finally made our way across the monster mall Vivocity to reach this bookstore, designed by the same architect for the Kinokuniya and the very first PageOne at Marina Square. Like the PageOne at taipei 101, entering this bookstore is like entering a forest (well, paper is from trees). Its slanting shelves of unequal height, overhead shelves and displays, crooked paths, uneven floor heights and hidden nooks where you could pause, sit and read - these give the store a labyrinthian quality. But PageOne is especially lovely because, for those who read Chinese at least, the Chinese titles are shelved alongside the English ones.

And in this way I chanced upon this book: <形象追憶> (Recalling on Image) by 杨卫 (Yang Wei), published by 宋莊 (the artist village to the more Soho-esque 798 galleries).

For a long time to me, Chinese contemporary art = Revolutionaries and a Prada logo + identical grinning men + bright green dogs = anachronistic pop art = trendy/sexy = big money = happiness for auction houses Christie's and Soethby's = another sign of China's renewed ascendancy.

But reading Yang Wei's reflections on the artists he knew at Song Zhuang and 圓明園 (Yuan Ming Yuan, another artist village) made me envious of their ability to relate to a history, to dialogue with a coherent past, hence chart a clear trajectory - for the individual, and later retrospectively, of a millieu. There is therefore a meaningful visual language to interpret, reshape, and even trade.

I have no such luck with language. Especially as I read these essays on art, what my eye sees my mind sometimes does not register! (Yes, so much for the bilingual policy). I have better luck when I read the essays out loud; as if the sounds of the words or their approximations would trigger another skein of memory, recalling those dubbed TV dramas, snatches of mandarin pop songs and even more vaguely, those radio plays on redifusion some sleepy afternoons.