Everyone Knows It's Windy

Ironically, I was listening to the great hoary old pop-psychedelic number by the Association just yesterday. And today, we are having windstorms and fires and downed trees and power lines. Unintended coincidence is more like it.

I'm enjoying a quiet evening alone with my dog. The roomies and their assorted hangers-on [pluralized like "Attorneys General] are still in Las Vegas. And may they stay there.

I am listening to as much Theme Time Radio Hour as I can possibly can. That's Bob Dylan's radio show. You can learn a lot about things from Bob Dylan's radio show. But mostly you will hear great great music. You can download all of his shows from this site. What shines through most, I suppose, is the Master's wit. I wanna be Bob Dylan? Well said, Mr. Duritz.

The Red Sox are going to the World Series. The Cleveland Indians are going home. You could make a lot of money betting against the teams that I want to win.

My brother and his wife are buying what looks to be an unbelievably cool home in Carefree, Arizona. I'll post a picture. You won't believe it.

That's all I have for tonight.

One Big Thing

... is from the famous quote from Greek philosopher Archilochus, popularized by Isaiah Berlin in his long essay, "The Hedgehog and the Fox." That is, "The fox knows many things, but the hedgehog knows one big thing."

You can probably tell from reading this blog that I am not a hedgehog. I have lots and lots of little hedgy-wedgy friends, and it is a struggle for me to endure their hogged-ness. For the world, in its nearly infinite variety, so appeals to me. Or repulses me. Anew every day.

It is sad that Isaiah Berlin is so obscure generally. I delight in reading quality writing. I just finished "The Yiddish Policeman's Union" by Pulitzer-winning prettyboy, Michael Chabon. Such a great book. The language play reminded me of Martin Amis, perhaps Anthony Burgess ... the characters and plotting are somewhat more surefooted than in Chabon's prior works. I sometimes get the feeling that Chabon doesn't always appreciate the implications that arise from the worlds that he so energetically creates. As if these theoretical worlds only exist in flits as he writes, perhaps overwhelmed by the power of his own imagination. Ah, but I speculate. And much of his prose is as breathtaking as Fitzgerald's. You want to quote it to yourself aloud as you finish the sentence. Such a pleasure.

Why I don't need to watch TV: A co-worker posted the Serenity Prayer on her cube wall, in poster form. A very large poster. And - this was a nice touch - it contained attribution. So I noticed, and she said, "Yeah, I think he's the guy that founded AA." Of course, of course. That made me want to go out and have a drink. I mean, Reinhold Niebuhr, one of the most prominent and influential thinkers of the 20th century. And she had no idea of who he was, his impact, his writings. And further, she had no idea who Bill W. or Dr. Bob were.

I was gonna slam her further. But I will not.

I will however slam nearly all artists who include words / phrases in the artwork. If your name is not Magritte, don't even try it.

And I truly hate most public art, especially public art displays not done as either (a) part of the WPA, (b) done by Diego Rivera, or (c) both of the above. When I read articles like this one I truly become almost hysterical [not in the Freudian sense, though]. [That article brought me back to one of my favorite books, Ordinary Money, by Chabon's flatmate at UCI, Louis B. Jones.]

One day I will tell you about the "Child With Poodles" exhibit at SFMOMA by Katharina Fritsch. We'll have a good laugh, I tell you.

Fox enough for you?

Nothing Is Real, and Nothing To Get Hung About

My hold on reality has always been a little tenuous. Okay, a lot tenuous. And now, it's moreso.

That is to say that people - the people around me from day to day, my co-workers, friends, roommates - seem unreal to me. I'm traveling through a world of symbols, metaphors and cyphers.

For example, a co-worker was having a friendly argument with another co-worker about which one of them was more "contained." [I do not make this stuff up.] So I went to the white board in my cube and transcribed their recounting of who was most contained, and who was least contained [I was amongst the least, if that counts for anything.] And then they made further lists, that I transcribed, of who was funniest [I came in 4th], smartest [4th again], most successful in ten years [did not place] and so forth. We were about to make the list of who would be dead in ten years when the one with the most common sense [not me] called a halt to the list-making.

But in this endeavor, all I saw was the reflecting pool. The meaning this had to the lister. What were they really trying to say ... I felt as if I saw it clearly, the striving to express placement, esteem, to express some deeper question about their own identity and self-worth [in their own eyes.] To express their disapproval of "showy smartness" and their approval of "cunning and modest smartness". And so forth. It was a display of values, and really nothing more. And it pleased me to watch it play out, almost exactly as I expected.

In short, it delighted me to come in 4th. I wish it could have been even lower.

Let me elaborate even more. Where others see a young girl with a tattoo, I see a broken home. A young man driving a small foreign car tuned for performance? I see a deep-seated insecurity. A toupee? An inappropriately young mate? A fear of mortality. But the people become unreal to me. I only see their calling card.

So what is my calling card? I have two hot Norwegian girls as roommates presently. It is so very odd. But I think it is meaningless as it happened by unexpected happenstance.

Well, I have had to confront some long deep-seated feelings I have had ... deep seated feelings of resentment against ... socialistic European countries.

I have discovered, for example, that Norway has the 2nd highest standard of living in the world [What does that mean? If you make more money but pay most of it in tax, does that still count?] But for me, what is more impressive is that they have $300 billion dollars in a fund, invested on behalf of their citizens. Now, that may not sound like much. But it is. When your country has 4.7 million citizens. That's about $70k in CASH for every man, women and barn [that's Norwegian for "child" you idiot] in the freaking country.

I don't know about you but I would feel much better about my life & world if I knew that the government had $70k waiting around in a fund with my name on it. And this is a country that has a reproduction rate of 1.84 [that is, you get 1.84 little Norskies back for every 2 full-grown Norwegians you bet. So it's a losing proposition.]

[One day, I will write a blog entry about my saddest realization ever. Witnessing my friend Tony's white coat ceremony. And knowing that the room would not regenerate itself. Sad? Yes, criminally so.]

But let's wrap it about about Norway. Regularly, Leonard Cohen albums reach number one on the charts [do they not realize that the man cannot sing a note? He makes John Cale sound like Bono. I apologize for that Dennis Miller-like take. Sorry.]

Not much else to add. Go Angels. And Trevor Hoffman, wherever you are, I still believe in you. Coors Field is the Bermuda Triangle. It wasn't you.