Procrastination as Art

I have a giant tray of change near the front door. It lives there quietly accumulating coins, and every once in a while I dump it into a plastic bag and start trying to find a way to divest myself of it. One week I took 99 cents at a time to the bagel shop downstairs every day. I was feeling pretty good about it until I realized that a) the cashiers in the bagel shop dreaded my appearance, and b) the coins were not disappearing fast enough.

Another time, back in Arizona, I took the coins to a Coinstar machine which said it would give me an Amazon gift certificate without taking a percentage of my cash. But it lied--the machine was equipped to provide an Amazon gift certificate, but did not have any of the actual certificates (a feeble excuse, since there is no physical place to give Amazon the gift certificate and therefore all it needs to do is print the gift certificate code on, say, a strip of adding machine tape) so it gave me cash and took a fee for counting my change (which it wasn't supposed to do if you took the gift certificate). Oh, Coinstar machine, you traitor.

Lately, I've been considering something like this:


But that seems a little active. Really, when it comes right down to it, I'm pretty lazy. So I thought to myself, what if I got a larger receptacle for my change? And what if it were disguised in some way? Which is how I found this, and this, and this:



(Freakish and scary and unwelcome in my home, but still weirdly fascinating.)

Just in time, before threw good money after bad by purchasing an expensive bank or a pair of cargo pants and a belt, I discovered that the bank around the corner will sort my change and give me bills without taking a percentage. Whew! Still, that Tamagotchi thing looks like fun--I'm hoping Target will carry a cheap knock-off, because an $80 bank is sort of an oxymoron.

Speaking of Kevin Smith

Above is a link to an episode of "Wait, Wait, Don't Tell Me" in which Kevin Smith knows way too much about what makes a turkey excited. It's from 2007, so if you were thinking that he already knew more than he should, you've probably already heard it. The Kevin Smith bit starts a little more than a third of the way into it.

Of Heroes and Duds

I first became aware of A. O. Scott when Roger Ebert went into the hospital again for his cancer, and Roeper started shopping around for a new co-host. No offense to Roeper, but I think the best show would feature Scott and Kevin Smith. (I'm sorry. There's nothing wrong with Roeper, but I just never warmed to him. I miss Gene too much.) I loved Scott even though he seemed far too well-spoken to be a natural in front of a camera--as on-camera failings go, it's a hell of a lot better than any of mine--and I found him easy to listen to. I subscribe to his Tivocasts and read his reviews, and I really enjoy them.

This weekend finds a quick little ditty by Scott on the state of superheroes in film, and his assertion is that The Dark Knight represents a peak, to be followed by a decline, mostly because the genre has rules (that whole Good and Evil thang) that make the films a little samey.

I'm no comic book expert, but it seems to me that this represents an opening to look at some heroes who aren't household names. What of it, people? Are there no Dark Horse-type comics (or heroes even more off the beaten path) who could really give the genre a good shake-up? Don't you think the time is right for a "hero" who makes Batman look a little unambiguous and sunny? Someone who makes Hancock look like Annie doing her final chorus of "Tomorrow?"

Attack of the Dinglefrapps*

I know you're probably not a freelancer, but even if you're not, this is pretty sound (and extremely funny) advice for anyone trying to get their spending under control. Plus anyone who can write about budgeting and incorporate the sentence, "The future is here, and it has a Huge Unrealistic Goal squatting in the middle of it" deserves to be read.

*The word "budget" makes people uncomfortable, so in the great tradition of English speakers everywhere, Rogue Ink has decided that a budget shall be a dinglefrapp and that budgeting will be dinglefrapping. Dude, how could you not click that link immediately?

Why are you still here? You must click the link.

Is it still 1960?

On the advice of TV junkies I admire, I decided to Tivo the Season 1 marathon of Mad Men on AMC. It's definitely sharply written, and the art direction, like that on Friday Night Lights, is probably raising the bar--not only for television, but for film as well.

Traveling back to 1960 is disturbing, but I think the toughest thing for me was the shift in my perspective that happened around episode 5. For the first few episodes I was thinking 1960 was alien--it was like watching the moon landing or a travel program about somewhere else I've never been. "Look at that apron. Look at that alarm clock. Look at the women doing their hair so they can make dinner for their husbands."

But after a few episodes 1960 started to seem familiar in a very unsettling way. The more things change, the more they stay the same. These women live in a world of unrelenting chauvinism. There's not a single married couple that doesn't seem to feel like strangers at least part of the time. There are catty women who are twice as dangerous as the men who swagger around feeling entitled to whatever they want. Here and there a character struggles feebly to escape, but often the struggle fails before the third act. At first these things were as quaint as the kitchen curtains, but the more I watch, I can't help but wonder whether we've just driven these things a little further underground.

As Coward said, "Rocks are infinitely more dangerous when they are submerged, and the sluggish waves of false sentiment and hypocrisy have been washing over reality far too long already in the art of this country." Maybe our art is finally learning its lesson, even if our reality is changing less than we'd like to admit.

I'm back!

I'm really, really tired and really not all that coherent, but I have a computer that will access the internet and that isn't supervised by the Almighty Layoff Gods who wander, snarling, around my office. Not that I'm planning to avail myself of that much tonight, but I just thought I'd say that I've missed the blog, and thanks to Shifter for keeping the light on for me while I had my prolonged luddite phase. I will post, soon. But first, sleep, for it has been a long and arduous day of fighting with Dell and the Worst Delivery Service Ever, Which Should Be Banned Forever From Residential Brooklyn (I speak, of course, of DHL). (I know DHL was only protecting me, but not for nothing, I'm a little tired of people and organizations deciding what's best for me. Thank God my upstairs neighbor is a hot little 30-something charmer, that's all I have to say.)

Mitch Benn Raps Macbeth

The audio on this is awful, but it's spectacular anyway.

Victory!

I subscribe to the Sunday New York Times. It's huge, and it contains two items that interest me especially--the Magazine (on a good weekend about half the articles interest me) and the Book Review, which I'd read from one end to the other every single week if I only had the discipline.

Sometimes I don't have the discipline to finish either one of them off. I have a good novel going, or I have (gasp--say it's not so!) a social life. Sometimes I have that kind of Saturday date that inspires swoony flashbacks over my Sunday morning cup of tea. Sometimes I am seduced by the siren call of the television (especially now that Captain Jack is seducing my DVR regularly on Saturday nights--those blue eyes, those sure hands, and the ever-more-elusive glow of an actual script...). Let's just say that sometimes the Book Reviews pile up.

I know there's trouble when my Tivo stops responding to my commands. It has nothing to do with the Tivo--the Tivo would be happy to obey me if only it knew my mind--but it doesn't know its orders, because they can't be transmitted from my remote to its little command center through the dense pile of newsprint on my coffee table. This happened a few weeks ago, but somehow I wasn't inspired to make a dent in the pile of reading material. It continued to accrue until this weekend I had to raise the remote above my shoulder to make the Tivo do anything. It was time for drastic action.

I have read all weekend long. A new paper arrived this morning, and I read that, too. I have a paper grocery bag full of newsprint, and now I am taking it outside. As an added bonus, I am going to dust the coffee table. And I'm going to watch my Amazon Unbox movie, because now the Tivo will know that that's what I want to do. And so I'm safe from procrastination for...oh, a whole day, at least!

What's the Protocol?

For the past 3 hours there have been clothes in every washer and dryer in the basement. Now, I'm a reasonable person. I'm down with forgetting your laundry. I'm totally cool with falling asleep for a couple of hours on a Saturday afternoon. But it's 8:00, and I'm pretty damn sure that whoever left the clothes has actually gone out for the evening.

Am I allowed to remove their stuff from the dryer? I'll fold it and try to find a clean place to put it. Would it be upsetting to them if I actually dried their wet load of clothes? Because mildewed clothes are pretty disgusting, and you know, it's been a while since I did any random acts of kindness. But will it creep them out? Will they, like, attack me when I come home if they see that I've had my paws all over their undergarments or whatever else they left?

Seriously. I need to wash my bathmats and they won't dry by tomorrow unless I wash them soon. And I have an enormous pile of laundry to finish, too. And it's just mean to leave your stuff there all night long.

Yeah, I think in about fifteen minutes I'm going to go down there and fold their damn clothes so I can get on with my life. In the meantime, I'm just going to continue playing all my Netflix movies. Rock on, Bill Nighy, because I will never, ever get tired of you.

Samsung is Not My Friend

My new Samsung phone drops calls. Seriously, out of every three calls I make, it drops one (thanks, Samsung SGH A707).

And my new Samsung TV has a blinky sad pixel. Grrrrrrrrrrr.

A Coma Can Be Entertaining

If I asked you to read a book about a guy in a coma, you probably wouldn't be interested, but I have to tell you that The Coma was a pretty good read. Alex Garland's idea of what it would be like to be in a coma is more entertaining than some novelists' concepts of what it's like to be awake, and the woodcuts illustrating the book (by the novelist's father, Nicholas Garland) add to the surreal quality of many of the best passages.

It's a speed read (obviously, since my last post was about finishing Esme Lennox only two days ago), but some of its effects will definitely stick with me--notably a lingering paranoia about how bad my memory is....

Damn You, Edith Wharton

So I finished a couple of books this week. The first one was Perdido Street Station, by China Mieville, and I loved it. It wasn't an easy read (a good thing, mostly). I'll admit I found Mieville overfond of the word "troglodytic." (And why not, after all--it's a terrific word.) And it was satisfying, but not quite satisfying enough. If you're a reader, you know what I mean. It's good stuff, it's just not up there with the best I ever had. It's not like I'm on Amazon.com saying, "Bring me everything this man has ever written, and be quick about it!" I'm not scouring the internet for stories he wrote at summer camp. (Don't ask me if I've ever found a story that one of my favorite writers wrote at summer camp. Because you already know the answer.) I'll pick up another one of his books the next time I indulge my book fetish, and maybe one of them will light the fire that's dying inside me. For now, my addiction is merely controlled, not sated. Perdido Street Station is better than methadone, but it's not the stuff that could only make you happier if it killed you, because then you wouldn't have to live with the disappointment. Dear God, people, is that too much to ask?

The second book also came tantalizingly close to satisfying my craving. I should have known the delicious thrill would be short-lived when I saw the Edith Wharton quotation on page 1, but I was sucked in by "The Vanishing Act of Esme Lennox." Oh, yes. Maggie O'Farrell has the power. If only she would use it for good instead of evil. I was enthralled, fascinated, so rapt on the subway that I ignored a tall boy in Buddy Holly glasses who wanted to flirt with me. And then I got to the end. I wanted to throw the book across the room. Usually, that's a good thing. But not when you're on the last page. I mean, Thomas Hardy had the decency to make you throw the book across the room and then scramble to retrieve it from under the dresser, cursing yourself for not having thrown it with the bookmark wedged firmly up to its spine so that you could IMMEDIATELY read the next chapter. What's the point of making you want to throw the book at the wall at the END? I ask you?

Then again, plenty of people like Edith Wharton. Esme Lennox may be your kind of gal.

A Bad Thing To Discover on Monday Morning

Just in case you managed to drag your ass out of bed and decide you weren't sick today, you can always go to planarity.net and while away a few hours untangling network diagrams. (It doesn't sound like it will suck you in, does it? Yeah, go ahead and click it.)

Possibly the Best Ad for Internet Dating

Something else I found cruising the Information Aesthetics website:

Internet Wanderings

Tonight I watched "Stranger Than Fiction" again, for the first time since I saw it in the theater. After several hours of film-related googling, I'm aware that many Christians have used the movie as a springboard for a discussion of divine predestination, but personally I saw it as an existential manifesto. Po-tay-to, po-tah-to. The film has a rich cultural heritage in movies, literature, and philosophy, and it's hard for me to imagine a more satisfying 113 minutes.

The DVD includes a terrific featurette on the creation of the "GUI" that Harold uses to measure, understand, and interact with his world. (The conceit is that we can see illustrations of Harold's thought process as he compulsively counts brush strokes, notes angles and quantities, and visualizes spatial relationships.) The GUI is an inspired part of the movie that helps us get into Harold's head and understand both the comfort and the overwhelming detail that we find there. The fellas who designed it thought about it...a lot. In one scene, they make the point that a lot of geeks are compulsive truth-tellers, which, let's face it, is funny 'cos it's true.

Harold's wristwatch, by contrast, makes broad, qualitative observations (it sees the pretty girl Harold ought to be looking at, and it thinks the way he knots his tie makes his neck look fat--it nicely represents all the things that Harold has repressed under his sea of calculated observations). The story has to do with how the watch transcends its purpose and becomes the hero of its little life, and how Harold manages to stop compulsively measuring things for ten seconds and have a life before he dies (how Garp of him). Harold and his wristwatch are my heroes.

Don't even ask me what I googled to get here, but my fascination with the GUI led me to this site, which is fascinated with visual representations of information. There were dozens of wacky and interesting things here, but one that I think is my new home page is the Newsmap. Granted, no graphical representation is going to make the "news" that we spend money when we're feeling blue any more earth-shattering, but I still really like it.

New York--About to Be Stupid

I woke up this morning to NPR's story about congestion pricing in New York City, which is running the gauntlet for what seems like the 900th time since I moved here last year, only to meet almost-certain defeat in the legislature. The plan mirrors London's plan, and I remember following the debate about the London congestion charge closely. There was a huge brouhaha about it before it happened, and then immediately after it was implemented you never heard anything more about it. Londoners appeared to assimilate it with one or two minor bitches, and when I visited London after the charge was implemented, believe me, it had made a huge difference. You didn't even need any information about where the charge started--you could tell instantly by the fact that you could cross a street without feeling like you were taking your life into your hands. The noise, the traffic, and the stress decreased instantly the second you crossed the congestion charge border.

NPR thoughtfully interviewed some New Yorkers, most of whom deplore the congestion pricing idea. There were a dozen remarks, just to remind you that this may be one of the finest cities in the world, but that whenever someone's approached on the street with a microphone, their IQ probably drops 40 points. (I know this is true when I'm approached with a microphone--I say plenty of stupid things when I have a chance to think about them, let alone when I'm approached on the street.)

The grand prize was the woman who said, "I don't want to smell other people's smells or hear other people's iPods." Well, certainly, here you've hit on the chief allure of mass transit. God knows, there's not a single person on the subway who doesn't revel in the heady scent of someone else's armpit, or who doesn't prefer the tinny secondhand salute of the latest 14-year-old sex siren to their own music in their own living room. Guess what, lady--the congestion charge is for you--pay it with pride! If your personal comfort is that important to you, you can damn well pay a fine for the way that having thousands of extra cars packed into Manhattan every day makes the city less pleasant for the rest of us. And if you don't like that idea, you can just get over yourself and buy a metrocard. Does it take longer? Try reading--you might find out there's a whole world outside your carful of entitlement.

Excuse me, I have to go catch the subway so I can go smell some other people and listen to their iPods. 'Cos that's how I roll. It's better than coffee, let me tell you.

Potato Head Update

Apparently Mr. Potato Head is a longtime favorite toy for your captive octopus. This article also explains what would possess a person to give a Mr. Potato Head to an octopus. It had occurred to me that it might simulate breaking into something's shell to eat it, but it hadn't occurred to me that it might keep the octopus from getting bored and thus engaging in self-harming behavior.

But also, some of the photos in this story are...less cute and a leetle more scary.

Danny, I knew it was you

The second I saw that there was a TV program called "How to Start Your Own Country," I thought to myself, "Danny Wallace is at it again." Sure enough, it's Danny, off starting a country and pissing people off in the very first episode by attempting to invade their island. Should you want to join his country (now located in the less contested area of his flat), here's his website.

The whole enterprise is less inspired than his cult (excuse me, his "collective") "Join Me," but it's still reasonably good fun.

Naturally, when you think of Danny Wallace (and who doesn't?) you think, "What the hell ever happened to Dave Gorman?" Well, apparently, Dave has been working on a little film called "America Unchained," about traveling across America in a used car without frequenting any chain restaurant, chain hotel, or chain gas station. Mom & Pops all the way. I can only hope Dave put on some weight before he set off on his latest adventure, because in his natural state, he's uniquely unfit to make the journey from one non-Starbucks coffee-house to another in America--and if he eschewed chain gas stations, he'd be doing some serious walking. It sounds like fun (to watch, anyway)--and in fact, the film won the Audience Award for Best Documentary Feature at the Austin Film Festival last year. We love you, Dave. Go make Netflix carry the DVD of "America Unchained."

First Class Really Is Different

Whenever I fly, I've always sort of wondered how different first class really is. I mean, we're all breathing the same air, and we're all equally late and deprived of a decent bathroom. How different could it really be?

Once my friend and I got pulled off a flight from St. Louis to London (the flight was overbooked and we were students, and, I now realize, dupes), and as a paltry substitute for the money and free ticket they actually owed us, the airline put us on the next day's flight to London in first class. Apart from the legroom and the free booze (which was constant), I didn't think there was anything really different about it. Now that I've seen this site, I wonder if they didn't feed us economy food.

The site features photos and reviews of airline food taken by people that Dave Barry would call "alert readers." If you don't already resent the people in first class as you walk by them and they refuse to make eye contact, take a look at what they get fed. Honestly, it's amazing. This, my friend, is why they won't look you in the eye as you struggle to your tiny seat.

Next, read a random review of a first class meal (usually the reviewer gives it ten out of ten--maybe 9, and a popular comment is that the wine is subpar or, in a particularly snooty review, "undistinguished"), and compare it to a random review of an economy class meal (harder to pigeonhole--they range from people who clearly think McDonald's represents the zenith of American cuisine to people who ruthlessly declare that there was nothing edible served to them the whole time they were in the air).

Whether you're talking about the food or the people, there really is a difference.

This is Cute and You Can't Tell Me Different

How cute is it that a cephalopod likes Mr. Potato Head? (Does he see the resemblance?)

Louis, an 18-month-old Pacific octopus living at an aquarium in Cornwall, gets very excited when he sees Mr. Potato Head, and seems to like his shape and color. There is a picture, people, of Louis playing with Mr. Potato Head. I've been scared almost every time I've seen an octopus or a squid, ever since my dad lured me into a huge room of some museum where the entire ceiling was (if memory serves--I was very small) a preserved giant squid (at Yale, maybe?). I had no idea I was in the presence of a giant dead squid until I looked up and saw it there--good times! Still, I have to admit the photo is pretty darn adorable.

The keepers feed Louis fresh crab by putting it inside the Mr. Potato Head (sort of like a kong). He plays with Mr. Potato Head for about an hour at a time. I sure hope someone puts footage on YouTube.