tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-73222783311804987162024-03-13T14:37:38.083-05:00Universal GravitationWhere we sacrifice our grades and well-being for your entertainment.Comrade_Bazarovhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15780981633695863136noreply@blogger.comBlogger234125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7322278331180498716.post-3501496941952292052016-06-18T21:39:00.001-05:002016-06-18T22:50:30.569-05:00On the Sublime in the Works of the Dead<div class="MsoNormal">
Sometime in
the second century after Christ, the Greek author Longinus left behind for us a
cryptic philosophical work. Its title is commonly translated into English as <i>On the Sublime </i>– and if you’re
unfamiliar with the concept, we can think of the “Sublime” as “that which is
excellent beyond customary description”. Simply put, it’s a circumstance where
some item, thing, idea, joke, insight, color, shape, form, void, essence has
obvious greatness, even perfection, but understanding <i>why </i>its perfection works defies our ability to use words to tell
ourselves <i>how</i> it does so. No wonder
that Longinus continues to confuse and frustrates students of Greek (by the
way, the Greek title for <i>On the Sublime</i>
is <span style="font-size: 12pt;">περι ‘υψος</span>, pronounced “Peri – Hoop – Sauce”, which will be the name of my
basketball blog should I ever create one), or even the souls that approach his
work in English – it attempts to describe that which, by definition, cannot be
easily described. </div>
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<br /></div>
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i style="font-size: 12.8px;">Up here! The Sublime's up here, assholes! Why isn't anyone paying attention?<br />Suits me for not assigning a final in Sublime class.</i></td></tr>
</tbody></table>
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Which is what we’re doing today, through the medium of modern
music. Specifically, tunes from about 1977-<st1:metricconverter productid="85, in" w:st="on">85, in</st1:metricconverter> the context of recent deaths.</div>
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First, an
aside about the sublime, through the medium of humor, which traffics in the
sublime by nature. Confusion of meaning, genre, definition, referent, all these
stand among the building blocks of humor. Considering the puzzling nature of the sublime, a familiar instance might be useful. As an example of a sublime joke, an
example from the Dave Chappelle Show, in the skit of the “Player Haters
Ball”: the situation is that the “Haters” are presented with pictures of celebrities,
whom they then “roast”. All is well until they react to an image of Rosie
O’Donnell:</div>
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“She wears underwear with dick holes in ‘em” is an amazing
joke, and apparently unscripted (you can see the other comedians cracking up immediately before the cut).
But if you think about the logic behind the joke, it makes no coherent sense.
Obviously the celebrity’s sexuality (homosexual) is in play. But what has
caused the hole? Is the joke insinuating that O’Donnell possesses a penis, and that
it has worn through her underpants (which penises do not do)? That she has cut
holes in her underpants to which to pass a penis, real or fake? Or has the
penis bored through from the outside in some fashion? Probably best to not
fixate on the permutations, because they are not the point. The holes form a sort
of fractal, a logic problem, that is best experienced as an impression from a greater whole, and the shock
of the initial impression matters more than the precise travel from A to B.
Yes, we have no problem labeling this joke “sublime”, although perhaps we are
no closer to answers.</div>
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Now one key
to approaching the sublime is recognizing that the Sublime does not encapsulate
the “excellent”, or the “well-crafted”; it is commonplace for objects of
intense craftsmanship, expertise, and devotion to not fit the parameters of the
Sublime, though they may deserve acclaim and general approval. Longinus and
others from the ancient world who percolated on this topic (and perhaps later
ones, as my knowledge of intellectual history ends with the Goths: Visi-, not
Anglo) admitted that even works considered “failures” could still be sublime –
one need only think of a work of media one loves despite its obvious flaws. And
we all could. </div>
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In line
with our context, let me present an item from category one (brilliant but not
sublime): Metallica’s “Creeping Death” from <i>Ride
the Lightning</i>. </div>
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<br /></div>
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A hyper-competent song, with memorable music, a suitable yet
creative metal theme, in this case the biblical plagues, and fine musicianship.
But if you look closely, the seams of its construction show and can be broken
down and nitpicked. The lyrical structure is nothing special; the bridge
perhaps slows down excessively and becomes repetitive, as do the component
words. That said, none would question its basic excellence as a representative
member of its genre. A classic, but not sublime.</div>
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From
category two (flawed and yet with a hint of the sublime), Black Sabbath’s
“Never Say Die”, off the album of the same name.</div>
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<br /></div>
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In this case, the production
comes through as a mess. The main riff is suspiciously off time, Ozzy’s vocals
slightly off key, and the instrumentation much more mundane than our above
specimen. Yet the overall package transcends its broken parts in a musical
Gestalt. The weak yet professional inter-weaving of the vocals and the music, and the
undoubtedly faked energy behind it all, create a whole greater than the sum,
and one of my favorite songs from the band’s later years. It helps to
comprehend the similarly fragmented nature of the group at the time as mirrored
in the track; the band split soon afterwards.</div>
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Capturing
the sublime involves surrender to the law of diminishing returns: the larger
the framework you draw, the harder the sublime becomes to capture. No wonder
that the instant of the Chappelle joke succeeds where songs tend to fail. Often
the sublime pertains to a single element of a larger whole. On one slightly
hazy evening on a colleague’s balcony, an inebriated enemy of mine, in an
unpredicted moment of appreciation, affirmed that the color of my shirt was
sublime. I could not help but agree: an off-blue, neither deep, sky, nor
powder. </div>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i>This is the first Google Images search result for "transcendent blue".</i></td></tr>
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An odd moment. But it remained one element of an otherwise nondescript
formal shirt, whose sleeves, cut, and buttons escaped no constraints of the
shirt genre. So with that aspect of the sublime forward in our minds, to the music
of the dead.</div>
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David
Bowie’s music certainly has many spots which a more ambitious reviewer could
catalogue as sublime, but let us focus on one moment. 1977. Burned out at the
start of the Berlin Trilogy, experimenting with electronic music in the company
of Brian Eno, <st1:city w:st="on">Bowie</st1:city>
begins his album <i>Low</i> with roughly
four minutes of instrumental music, starting with a song called "Speed of Life", and capped off by the opening guitar line of
the second track, “Breaking Glass”:</div>
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<br /></div>
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The same riff repeats three times with minor variations, and
the opening warble resonates with a soulful air, a quality that resounds at
several other times in the space of its relatively few notes. Obviously the
produced result comes from the vibration of several bent strings, but it
carries with it an implied emotion, something that reaches down into the
individual and vibrates inside them as well. At this point the audience has yet
to hear a spoken or sung word, and this repeated line creates the bridge between
them. From this sublime moment we move on to the lyrics, fine in and of themselves,
including the profundity of “You’re such a wonderful person/ but you got
problems/…I never touch you”. I’m not the first person to read this as a wry
encapsulation of modern love, something Mr. Bowie had multitudinous words about.</div>
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Onward to a
different type of the sublime in the work of the recently deceased Prince. On
his greatest achievement, <i>Purple Rain</i>,
perhaps his best song is “When Doves Cry” (although I have and will be a
partisan for “Let’s Go Crazy” and the title track). Good luck finding an online
version of it, however, as the estate of Mr. Nelson famously and zealously
guarded his music copyright even before his passing. Enjoy this for the week it'll be up on Youtube:</div>
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<br /></div>
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“When Doves Cry” remains
an odd song in form and timbre; the bass never kicks in throughout even after
the listener expects it, and the second half devolves into a perfectly fine if
not exceptional dance instrumental. You could argue that the entire track fits
our definition of “sublime”, and you are free to in your own forum. But I would
argue that in the depths of this unusual song, its oddest moment is indeed its
most sublime. Think of it as the musical equivalent to the Rosie O’Donnell
joke. Here we are mid-verse, the second verse of the song (starting at :50):</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Dream if you can a courtyard</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
An ocean of
violets in bloom</div>
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Animals
strike curious poses</div>
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They feel
the heat, the heat between me and you</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<i>Transition to chorus</i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Let’s pay attention to the third line. This song, unlike
many others, clearly aims to be heard and understood by the audience: its vocal
performance verges on simple speech. Via the expectations of us, the listener,
think about the vocal <i>deixis</i> (what
the poetry directs us to envision and focus upon). We see the courtyard, the
flowers, fairly logically connected to one another, and typical romantic
imagery. Then we include animals, apropos of vary little and with little
introduction, and immediately learn that they “strike curious poses” – once
again, the issue of interpretation lingers: are the poses themselves curious,
or do they indicate the animals’ curiosity? Only in the following line do we
receive the explanation for their behavior; without it, the third presents a
puzzle without obvious solution, and a disorientation, via the decomposition of
meaning, which verges on the sublime.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Consider also,
if you have the track available, the manner in which Prince sings the line. He
pronounces “Animals” with a strange emphasis on the final syllable, nearly
eliding the "L"; the rest of the line continues with an elongation of most
syllables, including the final one of "poses". Once the line is over, the diction snaps back to normal. We’re led
into a moment of curiosity as to what precisely is occurring, signaled by
wording and “animals”; in that moment we find the workings of the sublime. This
is even without mentioning the puzzle of <i>why</i>
animals should react in this fashion to human behavior, and why the artist
decided to craft this detail into the song itself.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Finally, an
example from American punk, specifically the band “X” and their song “<st1:place w:st="on">Los Angeles</st1:place>” from the
album of the same name. To my knowledge, no members of the band are deceased,
but if rock is dead (a fair hypothesis), certainly punk is the deadest, having
lapsed into self-parody for most of the last 20 years. Anyway, the sublime to
be found in this excellent track (finding out this track was on the soundtrack
to GTA V certainly made my morning) comes in the manner of subverted
expectation, near the track’s very start:</div>
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We know that the track is called “<st1:city w:st="on">Los Angeles</st1:city>”, and so we anticipate the title,
the name of the city, to be mentioned, a sense only heightened when John Doe sings
“She/ had to leave…”. What will follow should most likely be “<st1:city w:st="on">Los
Angeles</st1:city>”, and as a rock song, the delivery of the words “<st1:city w:st="on">Los Angeles</st1:city>” should
follow the bounce of the rhythm. However, nothing of the sort happens.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Instead, we
have a sequence of eight “chugs” – well, not actually. We have seven, and the
eighth hit removes a drum and has instead a more muted tone. When we return to
vocal, our delivery defies expectation: the singer changes to Exene, so far
unheard on the track, and instead of following the beat, she wails the city’s
name off-beat, in a different register, slightly after it logically should
occur. The sublime lies in the moment of waiting, of uncertainty, as we stop to
ascertain whether or not “<st1:city w:st="on">Los Angeles</st1:city>”
will occur, and in what way.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Perhaps I
have not explained well the sublime. Perhaps the instances of the sublime in
such pieces of music cannot be really recognized as such by others than myself
– certainly critical taste diverges between people, even among widely accepted
masterpieces. And, perhaps most critically, perhaps the effort to explain the
sublime fails to capture what specifically the sublime is, and its key
components. Would then that “quine” (a term I learned from Gödel, Escher, Bach
to refer to statements that describe themselves), and make our analysis,
itself, sublime?</div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
No, I think
not.</div>
Socrates Johnson, M.D.http://www.blogger.com/profile/00794373666037502228noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7322278331180498716.post-21638529349401512142016-04-03T02:24:00.000-05:002016-04-03T02:24:18.968-05:00Bud Light Platinum: nectar of the demigods<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
I've already gone on the glorious record (where else but here?) calling coffee (oh sweet sweet coffee) <a href="http://theuniversalgravitation.blogspot.com/2013/03/coffee-drink-of-gods.html">drink of the Gods</a>. So obviously the next drink I want to talk up will have to do being nectar of the mere demigods. That drink is none other than Bud Light Platinum (or BLP, as it is reverentially known among its devoted followers) - a top notch offering of <strike>St. Louis' </strike> Belgium's very own <strike>Budweiser </strike>InBev SAB Miller.<br />
<br />
Launched with much fanfare in early 2012, BLP became an instant sensation with its sleek shape, deep blue color with bold silver accent, and - more importantly - 6% ABV. The beer was in short supply (probably intentional?) in the initial weeks to the point where any schmuck who brought a six pack to a house party was the instant center of attention. I can personally attest to that, by the way. Oh the joys of wielding such power over the thirsty masses clamoring for a taste, nay just a sip of the sweet nectar!<br />
<br />
Think I am exaggerating? Just look at the image below. Go on, spend a good two, three, five, eight, thirteen minutes staring at it and you'll see what I am talking about.<br />
<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://www.beerfm.com/wp-content/uploads/2012/02/Bud-Light-Platinum.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="http://www.beerfm.com/wp-content/uploads/2012/02/Bud-Light-Platinum.jpg" height="320" width="240" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">mmmmmmm<br /><br /><br /><br /></td></tr>
</tbody></table>
Budweiser describes BLP thus - "Bud Light Platinum is a premium light beer with a bold taste and a smooth, slightly sweet finish. From the moment you grab one of our signature cobalt blue bottles, you’ll be ready to make it platinum."<br />
<br />
Quite possibly for the first time in history a company may be underselling its product. BLP is not just a light beer with a bold taste. It is a light beer that provides a truly life-altering experience the first time you touch that bottle to your lips, tilt the bottle and go glug glug glug. It has a silky smooth taste with just the perfect amount of intensity to it that you feel right as it hits your throat. Looking to go all out on the town with your friends? Blaze through a six pack right before and they'll thank you for it. Hosting the perfect super bowl party? Grab a 24 pack off the shelf and pass them out as generously as you would salsa for the nachos. BLP is the ultimate versatile beer with the same good taste each time. (Speaking of which, I am available to write copy for your ads if you are hiring, InBev. I am already a convert so I don't even have to lie!)<br />
<br />
Now the snobs will all get themselves in a tizzy over this. Bud products have been called everything from 'pisswater' to 'water' to 'an insult to beer'. That's ok. You can let them froth all over while you relax on your recliner nursing your ice-cold BLP.<br />
<br />
Something happiness is as simple as enjoying the simple things in life.<br />
<br />
So next Friday night treat yourself to a BLP (6% alcohol, 137 calories, 0g in fat and just 4.4g in carbs). For a glorious moment you too will live like the demigods. </div>
Comrade_Bazarovhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15780981633695863136noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7322278331180498716.post-53025669013543710272015-12-31T13:00:00.000-06:002015-12-31T13:00:16.254-06:00End of the year stuff: 2015 <div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
In the past when this blog ran like a well-oiled machine end of the year posts were a thing. Mostly random musings (are there any other kind, btw?) and lists of books, TV shows and movies: typical end of the year fare.<br />
<br />
So coming at you from 35000 feet (yeah I am in a plane above an undisclosed location - not because I am secretive but because I really have no clue where I am) 2015 in summary.<br />
<br />
What happened this year? Well I dicked around in lab. A lot. I think there might have been times where my undergrad worked more than I did. If you want to know whether a man can browse reddit for six hours straight I am your guy (the answer is yes, in case you were wondering). A decent number of people I started med school with are residents now, meaning there is a good chance some of them will supervise me when I am a lowly clueless third year med student (is there any other kind?). Other than that the year just flew by, not unlike an F-22 at a college bowl game (sorry). Oh and I became a coffee and a scotch snob. Good times.<br />
<br />
<br />
The four best books I read in 2015:<br />
<br />
4. <a href="https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/The_Dresden_Files"><b>Dresden Files by Jim Butcher</b></a>: </div>
Kinda cheating here since this is a series of not one, not two, not three, but FIFTEEN books with more in the works. Even for a fantasy series this is quite an achievement. I not a fantasy fanatic by any means but Jim Butcher has created a great world here. If you were to split hairs (how thin would your ax need to be for that?), DF falls under what those in the know call 'urban contemporary fantasy', seeing as it is set in modern day Chicago. Basic premise of the series is that magic and supernatural coexist in our world and our protagonist Harry Dresden is a private investigator making his living solving petty magical mysteries. As the series progresses he finds himself caught up in epic magical wars that have been raging for millenia. Brisk pacing, witty banter and a well-developed magical system make this a fantastic series.<br />
3. <a href="http://www.amazon.com/Martian-Andy-Weir/dp/0553418025/"><b>The Martian by Andy Weir</b></a>: <br />
By now we have all seen Matt Damon play The Martian, growing potatoes using his own shit as fertilizer. As is often the case, the book is far superior to the movie. Andy Weir infuses the right amount of suspense, believable science, and dark humor to make this an enormously entertaining novel. There are some pacing issues with the plot, but that is understandable seeing how the book was originally serialized on the web by Weir.<br />
2. <a href="http://www.amazon.com/Americas-Game-Michael-MacCambridge/dp/0375725067/"><b>America's Game by Michael MacCambridge</b></a>: <br />
I may not be a fantasy fanatic but I sure am a football fanatic, specifically the NFL (college football is a waste of time). Every Sunday I have games on multiple screens as well as couple devices monitoring twitter feeds. Hell, I think I could call the game better than Phil Simms does. My love for the game is why I absolutely cherished this sweeping history of the NFL. MacCambridge does a masterful job of tracing the origins of professional football, its trials and tribulations through the 1950s and its thorough dominance of the sports scene from 1960 on. He traces lineages of the most storied NFL franchises and gives brief bios of some of its most colorful characters (Lamar Hunt, Al Davis, Pete Rozelle etc.) The cover image alone makes this a book worth buying.<br />
*Drum roll*<br />
<br />
1. <a href="http://www.amazon.com/The-Alchemists-Three-Central-Bankers/dp/0143124994"><b>The Alchemists by Neil Irwin</b></a>: <br />
Not to be confused with Paulo Coelho's shitpiece, this is a book that does the impossible:make central banking look sexy. As a result of the financial meltdown of 2007 central bankers have become celebrities of sort. People like Bernanke and Yellen have found themselves thrust into the limelight, sometimes glaringly so. Here Irwin traces the origins of the concept of central banking, the creation of the Federal Reserve system in the US and the creation of the Euro before launching into a chronological account of the steps three major central banks (the Fed, Bank of England and European Central Bank) took to douse the raging fires of 07-08. He quotes speeches, memos and meeting notes to diligently explain the reasoning behind this complicated series of maneuvers. I came away wiser and more enlightened than before (which I understand isn't a tall order, but still).<br />
I am not going to do a thing for TV shows because I didn't follow that many this year to justify a list, but I will put a plug in (though it hardly needs one at this time) for Fargo. Stop what you're doing, stop reading this damn blog and go binge watch both seasons 1 and 2. I know it's become a cliche to say we live in a golden age of television, but shows like this are making it harder and harder not to believe that moniker.<br />
<br />
Have a happy 2016 everybody.Comrade_Bazarovhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15780981633695863136noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7322278331180498716.post-18900600813005049702015-12-15T01:13:00.000-06:002015-12-15T01:13:22.165-06:00Three iconic images<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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<br /></div>
They say a picture is worth a thousand words. I suppose that makes a gif worth a million, amirite? hahaha. BTW who is 'they', this mysterious cabal that seems to issue pithy one-liners and aphorisms at an alarmingly regular frequency? If you happen to know 'them', please introduce me. I would be delighted.<br />
<br />
Anyway back to regularly scheduled programming here.<br />
<br />
I've been thinking about the topic of iconic images for a while (well for almost two years, I suppose, considering my last post was in Febru-frickin-ary 2014).<br />
<br />
I've chosen three here representing different eras and ideas. These are images that capture your attention, give you goosebumps, make you contemplate your mortality and your place in the Grand Universe, and maybe even cause a tear or two.<br />
<br />
In no particular order then:<br />
<br />
<b>'Pillars of creation' by NASA</b><br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">If you squint hard enough you can spot a wolf hidden in there! Or maybe that's just me hallucinating again</td></tr>
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This breathtaking image is actually a composite of several images (with added color and some other technical enhancements) taken by the beloved Hubble telescope some time in the 90s. The image proved to be so popular NASA published an updated version several years later after upgrading the Hubble.<br />
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So what's going on here? We are looking at the essence of creation. This is the Eagle Nebula, the birthplace of stars, located approximately 7000 light years from us. The clouds are composed mostly of molecular Hydrogen and interstellar dust. To get a sense of the scale, each pillar is approximately 4 light years across (!!) and just the tips of these pillars are larger than our solar system.<br />
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I get legit goosebumps when I look at this image but instead of feeling insignificant I feel a renewed sense of purpose and legit pride at being able to glimpse at something so profound.<br />
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<b>'Raising a flag over the Reichstag' by Yevgeny Khaldei </b><br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://reconsideringrussia.files.wordpress.com/2015/05/soviet-flag-reichstag-berlin.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="282" src="https://reconsideringrussia.files.wordpress.com/2015/05/soviet-flag-reichstag-berlin.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Careful there buddy, don't trip over<br />
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Taken on May 2,1945 as the war was about to end, this is easily one of the top three most iconic images to come out of WWII. The Eastern Front was, and remains, the bloodiest battlefield in human history. 30+ million people lost their lives on both sides. So in terms of sheer symbolism it's hard to top this:the lone Soviet soldier nobly protecting the Fatherland by driving his flag right through the heart of the might Reich. <br />
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But as with all things Soviet there is an interesting backstory to this one. There are conflicting accounts of almost every aspect of the image including the identity of the soldier and even the photographer himself. There is even some speculation that the image was airbrushed to remove a second wrist watch (stolen from a German corpse) on the soldier's hand.<br />
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Despite all of that this remains a powerful and evocative image, simultaneously juxtaposing carnage and ruin with solemn triumph.<br />
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<b>'First selfie in space' by Buzz Aldrin</b><br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://www.olapic.com/wp-content/uploads/2014/08/Bs3fYfPCMAAFmx9.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://www.olapic.com/wp-content/uploads/2014/08/Bs3fYfPCMAAFmx9.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Shoulda used a sepia filter<br />
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Selfies are all the rage today, and are generally seen as a public nuisance. I get bile up to my throat at the mere mention of the words 'selfie stick'. But this here, this is different. It's got my man Buzz Aldrin, professional badass and part-time moonwalker. Here he is, half-shrouded in shadows, proudly grinning (at least we assume he is, because we can't really see his mouth) outside the Gemini 12 in 1966, all in front of a stunning backdrop in the form of the earth. </div>
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Aldrin himself <a href="https://twitter.com/therealbuzz/status/490293546851635201">tweeted </a> this image out, which; a) shows how hip he is and b) how badass he is. End of story. </div>
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Comrade_Bazarovhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15780981633695863136noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7322278331180498716.post-3507118553281169682014-02-11T21:49:00.001-06:002014-02-11T21:49:58.742-06:00The terrifying specter of death by car wash<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
Not many things on this planet, material or otherwise, scare me. I am not afraid or terrified easily. Valor is practically my middle name and courage my favorite drink. In fact I am regularly known to indulge in acts of bravery and daredevilry (I once jaywalked in Washington, DC! A mere two blocks from the White House!). One might safely say that I live and thrive right on the edge. <div>
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But that's not what I am here to talk about today. Today it is time to discuss my fears. Fears with a capital F. FEARS.</div>
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Now you may wonder - why is this guy blabbering about his fears? </div>
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And I will counter right back - what is braver than discussing our deepest fears, our strongest foibles, our starkest shortcomings? Take the case of the philosopher/vigilante billionaire Bruce Wayne. He embraced his fears and look where that got him. </div>
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On that note, let's move on. </div>
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Car washes absolutely terrify me. My fear of them (and not, as you might simplistically assume, my stupendous laziness) has led me to not visit a single one in more than four years. I am confident several of them have gone belly up in the St. Louis area since 2011 due to lack of business...from me. </div>
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Car washes are pure evil. They lure you in with the seductive promise of making your car look sleek and shiny, but in reality they are hulking houses of destruction slowly and silently plotting to take over the world one car at a time. </div>
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Just look at the terrifying bowels of this dastardly place:</div>
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As soon as you enter in the door clangs shut behind you with a ominous thud. Your car snakes forward, your heart already in early tachycardia. Very next instant your visibility plummets to zero as ginormous brushes splatter suspiciously sudsy liquid all over the windshield. You are then engulfed by a cacophonous clamor created by ancient hydraulics and punctuated by whirring of winches. Every deafening crunch strikes honest fear in your heart; every crunch could be your last as you and your puny car get mercilessly crushed by the devious machinery. Tell me this isn't the stuff of nightmares. The last time I visited a car wash I couldn't sleep for days. True story. </div>
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Still don't believe me? Just ask our good old friend Edvard Munch (pronounced moonk, btw). I am like 99% sure he was thinking of car washes when he painted this masterpiece:</div>
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And that is precisely why I wash my car the natural way - rain. Just the way it was intended. <i>Au naturel</i> baby. </div>
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Here's a bonus factoid: when I was younger, I really scared myself by wondering what would happen if everyone in the world decided to blink at the same time. Think of all the car accidents, plane crashes and falls this would cause! </div>
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Comrade_Bazarovhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15780981633695863136noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7322278331180498716.post-14846480785641354802014-02-05T23:35:00.000-06:002014-02-05T23:35:33.669-06:00The five most badass quotes of all recorded time <div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
Quotes. Everyone has them, everybody loves them. In this day and age of internet memes, corny motivational posters, and shitty self-help books with untenable nonsense, quotes are a dime a dozen. They have flooded our cultural psyche, polluted our minds.<br />
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Let us then harken back to simpler times (when the life expectancy was south of 35 and the food scarce and bland) when quotes actually mattered. Nah I am just kidding. These quotes are taken from all eras - fictional and not. Enjoy.<br />
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Coming at a comfortable #5...<br />
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<b>5. "The game is afoot"</b> <b>by Sherlock Holmes (though originally coined by Billy Shakespeare):</b><br />
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Sherlock Holmes occupies a position of great importance in modern culture. Arthur Conan Doyle's misfit genius inspired (and continues to do so) all successive generations of detectives, making misanthropy and general aloofness seem cool. The TV landscape is littered with protagonists all made in his mold. This quote is the perfect encapsulation of the nervous energy bubbling inside Holmes at all times. He is an addict and solving cases helps feed his addiction. That is why anytime a case heats up, he gets all excited and worked up.<br />
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I understand the internet is a huge fan of Benedict Cumberbatch, the
bloke who plays Sherlock in the latest iteration, so I included a
picture of him for your edification. You are welcome:<br /><br /> <br />
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<b>4. "Mr. Watson - Come here - I want to see you" by Alexander Graham Bell </b><br />
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Widely acknowledged as the first words ever transmitted over a telephone, these words sparked the revolution that would (over the course of a hundred years) lead to an explosion of technology, allowing us to communicate with modalities so dazzling and impressive that a visitor from the past would be completely nonplussed. Here's a picture of Bell's science notebook where he made a record of this historic quote (at the very bottom of the left page):<br />
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Worth mentioning here is also the very first telegram sent long distance by Sam Morse in 1844: "<b>What hath God wrought" </b>taken straight from the Big Book itself.<br />
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And at #3 we have:<br />
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<b>3. "Eh...What's up doc?" by Bugs Bunny </b><br />
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Bugs Bunny is the most badass bunny in history. The studied nonchalance exemplified by his nonstop chewing of that never-ending piece of carrot, that confident yet casual stroll, those clever and perceptive eyes that reveal only a hint of the mischief lying underneath - Bugs is...just so cool. Here he is saying his trademark catchphrase in all manner of circumstances:<br />
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<b>2. "Mother died today. Or maybe yesterday" by Albert Camus </b><br />
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This is the very first line of the English version of Camus' (Camus's?) most famous novel, <i>The Stranger</i>, a slim existential masterpiece that raises (and barely answers) some deeply unsettling questions about the nature of good and evil, emotional attachment, remorse and consequences of actions. The cruel way in which Meursault, the protagonist, says "or maybe yesterday" is shocking and sets the tone for the events that unfold later in the novel.<br />
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And we are at #1, finally. Drum roll please:<br />
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<b>1. "Veni vidi vici (I came, I saw, I conquered)" by Julius Caesar</b><br />
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Caesar is <i>reported</i> to have said this, and of course he is not around for us to confirm if he actually said this or not. But that doesn't matter, because we can all agree this is a pretty badass thing to say. The brevity reflects both his self-assurance and his supreme arrogance. Also worth noting here is this version by the (in)famous web-comic <a href="http://explosm.net/comics/2182/">Cyanide and Happiness</a>. (Mild warning: the comic might be a little too crude and/or vulgar)<br />
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And there we have it. </div>
Comrade_Bazarovhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15780981633695863136noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7322278331180498716.post-28380221466903401272014-01-12T11:39:00.000-06:002014-01-12T11:40:23.482-06:00The magnificent beard of Andrew Luck<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
As many people around these parts know, I am a fanatic of the NFL. And no, before you ask, I don't root for or support or cheer for one particular team. I am a fan (hey here's something I just noticed - 'fanatic' has 'fan' built right into it! Coincidence? I THINK NOT) of this beautiful, intricate game as a whole. The parity in the league, the superstars who entertain us consistently, the intensely contested games week in and week out - this all makes for an enthralling experience.<br />
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Three years ago I would blog a lot about the NFL. Every week I published an update. I stopped doing that eventually because the internet doesn't need <i>yet</i> another NFL blog. But I have to make an exception here. As you may (or may not) know it's playoffs time [insert obligatory Jim Mora playoffs?! rant here]. Some crazy shit went down last week in the wild-card round. In comparison yesterday's games were a tad tame. One thing stood out to me, however: the magnificent beard of Andrew Luck. Now I can grow and successfully rock a mean beard myself, but Luck's beard makes me feel inadequate. I can stare at that thing for hours, mesmerized and in utter awe of its magnificence.<br />
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This season Andrew Luck played like a beast. Despite throwing three potentially game breaking picks last week against the Chiefs, he engineered an epic comeback (the stuff that transforms men into legends), making for a scintillating viewing experience (probably not for Chiefs fans). Yes he got bulldozed by the Patriots run game (!) yesterday, but his beard made everything alright.<br />
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Take a look for yourself:<br />
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In some corners of the internet Andrew Luck has been given the unceremonious nickname of 'Hodor' (from Game of Thrones), the simple-minded giant whose sentences usually go "Hodor hodor hodor". I think jealousy is at play here. Someone who probably grows an embarrassingly patchy tuft of facial hair most likely came up with nickname.<br />
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In my humblest of humble opinions Andrew Luck's magnificent bushy beard puts him right in the league of some legendary Civil War-era generals:<br />
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So fret not Andrew Luck: you can make yourself valuable this off-season by participating in war re-enactments or even get yourself a guest spot on the 'Amish Mafia'. You would fit right in.<br />
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Comrade_Bazarovhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15780981633695863136noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7322278331180498716.post-14389432302529018252014-01-06T15:48:00.000-06:002014-01-06T15:48:40.552-06:00PSA: This winter protect yourself with a ski-mask<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
<i>Note: This post is about winter. If you are a Californian, you need to read any further. But I know you will read anyway because, let's face it, you will clamor to read any drivel I write. </i><br />
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A massive winter storm (fancifully named "Ion" - while we are at it, can we stop naming these storms please?) has hit large swathes of the country leading to havoc, chaos and destruction everywhere. Ok I might be employing a slight exaggeration but that's mostly because I am bored sitting in my half-empty lab staring out at the sun glinting off mounds of snow. Most of St. Louis is shut down. Even my medical school classmates who are on rotations (you know, saving lives, helping people etc.) got the day off.<br />
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But I made a valiant effort to get out of bed, clean up and come to lab. All for the noble cause of SCIENCE. No sacrifice too big at this giant altar, as I often proclaim. With me, on this journey, was one crucial item (of clothing, I guess you could say) without which I would be floundering on the icy streets bracketed by ominous piles of fluffy snow.<br />
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In fact for the last 2+ years that I have been in St. Louis, this humble item (of clothing, I guess you could say) has protected me unfailingly from biting cold and many a chilly nights. I present to you the all-vital, all-sustaining <a href="http://www.amazon.com/gp/product/B000MF4JH8/ref=wms_ohs_product?ie=UTF8&psc=1"> ski mask </a>:<br />
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Also goes by the name of a balaclava, snow mask, snowmobile balaclava etc. For only $11.27 this majestic item could be yours! (gosh I sound like a QVC schmuck). This bad boy has let me roam the streets of St. Louis at all sorts of odd-hours on my bicycle in the months of winter. IN YOUR FACE COLD WEATHER! Put on a beanie, fit this mask snugly over your face and zip-up - you are ready to go. Gloves and two layers of upper outerwear recommended.<br />
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Sure weak-willed skeptics will shy away from wearing this thing. They will say things like: "OMG you look so creepy" or "You like you could rob a bank". Pay them no mind. This thing is magical. Sure you will get the occasional weird look from pedestrians when you go walking out at 9 in the morning with this on, or the occasional hastening of steps of people around you at 11 at night when they see you, but who cares? While they are huddling in their scarves or whatever, you are walking tall and strong with the zip all the way up!<br />
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So heed my golden advice, go over to Amazon and order it right away. You will not be disappointed. Hands down THE best thing since sliced bread. And YouTube. <br />
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Comrade_Bazarovhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15780981633695863136noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7322278331180498716.post-1552262283931228692013-12-21T21:05:00.005-06:002013-12-21T21:07:34.268-06:00Dim Sum and Social Consciousness (A Fragment) . . . struggling with game effort to participate in a conversation laden with a subtext born of a particular standard of living and the accommodations which (only naturally, you see) follow from it, which could be called 'privilege' if only that word weren't so vague, and to be honest, diluted by its place in modern semantics - connections leading to jobs, easy networking, career decisions bound up in self-gratification, with the base underlying assumption being that life is meant to result in perfect happiness and satisfaction, for everyone, that is, everyone we know, and that one could switch careers and priorities until you arrived there. Which is all well and good, since we all want happiness for ourselves and those we care about, but my classist (god, what an awful-sounding word) mind couldn't but envision it as entitlement - entitled to ultimate happiness, which you could find, ultimately, by mobilizing your plentiful resources and falling gracefully back onto them when and if plans took unexpected or unpleasant turns. And it became a reminder of my own lack of resources, the lack of resources in my mother's life, in the lives of the people I became an adult alongside, and how scraping and clawing and living in the cheapest apartment I could find and eating little but the cheapest food and always making do had for me only resulted in one opportunity, which I didn't have the luxury of abandoning.<br />
But that was not a viewpoint I could voice, giving that it was a polite luncheon, after all, and it was in general pleasurable, beyond the annoyance of my friend inviting another friend uninvited, and the quills of my seat, psychosomatic manifestations of being the third wheel in the conversations of others, who would most likely stare with disdain and mild surprise when the measured rage inside me came to light . . . Socrates Johnson, M.D.http://www.blogger.com/profile/00794373666037502228noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7322278331180498716.post-64247474624473102002013-10-26T14:16:00.000-05:002016-06-19T02:03:15.717-05:00Pilgrim's Progress<i>If that a Pearl may in a Toad's head dwell, </i><br />
<i>And may be found too in an Oyster-shell;</i><br />
<i>If things that promise nothing do contain </i><br />
<i>What better is than Gold; who will disdain,</i><br />
<i>That have an inkling of it, there to look,</i><br />
<i>That they may find it? </i><br />
<i>-John Bunyan, Apology of Pilgrim's Progress </i> <br />
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I'm not sure what the American Dream is (as with many dreams, it hazes over in the memory), but in my profession, the method of achieving the image of success, as reflected in the funhouse mirror which is the CV, is to participate in a multitude of advisory institutions, editorial boards, reading and research groups, department councils, and above all, conferences. All of which boils down to an unceasing procession of glorified meetings.<br />
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In the conference presentation, one of which I traveled across the country to deliver not-too-long-ago, you speak for fifteen minutes about a facet of your research and your conclusions. The value of the exercise comes in refining your work, your speaking style, receiving feedback from other scholars, networking - all good things, none of which shows up on the CV. Your talk might have stunk worse than a decomposing warthog after six days in a marshy root cellar, but you get to keep those two lines on the one-page encapsulation of your life. And good for those other scholars, because if you could Yelp colleagues for their speaking and organizational ability, quite a few of my compatriots would be sitting on three stars or less.<br />
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After suffering through some travel delays that proved quite improvident (as a friend put it, there is no more grim or tacky place than the Newark airport), I arrived in Rhode Island and awaited the hotel shuttle. One fitting the general description arrived almost immediately, and I asked the driver (then in the process of pulling away) if it was for the Hampton Inn Providence. He said no and sped off, giving me a good view of the logo for the Hampton Inn Providence emblazoned on the vehicle's side. So, puzzled, I called the hotel, and they said they were sending the correct shuttle. Cue me waiting another half-hour, having watched myriad shuttles go by, before the original van reappeared. Driver again denied being for the hotel I wanted, telling the other departees that he hoped the right one came soon, since I'd been there a long time. Cue me comparing contact info with another traveler and finding that the van was indeed the van for my hotel. Apparently it lay in a place called Warwick, which led to the driver denying my attempts to arrive at the Hampton Inn Providence, since I actually wanted what was technically titled the Hampton Inn Providence/Warwick.<br />
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You son of a b*****<br />
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After that shameful display, I boarded the shuttle and was driven roughly 200 yards to the hotel, which stood in clear visual range of the airport itself.<br />
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Despite the five hours of sleep I somehow managed, the conference itself went rather well: while I combated jitters at the podium and won convincingly, most of the effort had been expended in reading my paper over and over on the plane, smoothing over rough edges and becoming increasingly and intimately aware of its flaws. However, since it was a diachronic (read: we'll take anybody) conference, the only people aware of the flaws were my co-panelist, who surely had her own foibles to worry about, and the faculty respondent, whose critique comprised mostly 'industry lingo' and was thus incomprehensible to most of the audience.<br />
<br />
So fresh off what I must only slightly tongue-in-cheekly call an escape, I experienced the best part of the conference junket. Once you're done, and the conference continues, all you find is catered food, free dinner, and more or less intriguing conversation with exhausted, intelligent people. Which all culminated in me using a spare day at the tail end of the conference (an extra day in the hotel being cheaper than the cost difference between flying out Sunday and flying out Monday) walking around the charming, pint-sized city of Providence.<br />
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Each of these buildings are 3" tall.<br />
<br />
So at the end of it all I sat in the hotel jacuzzi, reading a copy of Bunyan I'd bought for three dollars at a rummage sale to benefit the Brown MFA students, avoiding the siren song of cable television in my room, readying myself for the travel snafus to come (and come they did) on the way home, waiting until the last minute to pack my shabby clothes in the nice luggage my grandparents had bought me a decade prior, and wondering what to make of it all. <br />
<br />
<i>Sound words I know Timothy is to use,</i><br />
<i>And old Wives' Fables he is to refuse;</i><br />
<i>But yet grave Paul him nowhere doth forbid</i><br />
<i>The use of Parables; in which lay hid</i><br />
<i>That Gold, those Pearls, and precious stones that were</i><br />
<i>Worth digging for, and that with greatest care. </i><br />
<br />Socrates Johnson, M.D.http://www.blogger.com/profile/00794373666037502228noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7322278331180498716.post-2229099834746209262013-10-17T11:09:00.000-05:002013-10-17T11:09:05.875-05:00Kanye West is a visionary and other critical musings <div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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<a href="http://cdn.pastemagazine.com/www/articles/kanyewestlead.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="http://cdn.pastemagazine.com/www/articles/kanyewestlead.jpg" /></a></div>
<br />
<br />
Take a good deep look at that chiseled face. I'll wait. <br />
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That, my friends, is what visionary looks like. Now I'll admit, I am not a huge rap/hip hop person. Sure I do love me some old school Snoop 'doggy doggy' <strike>Dogg</strike> Lion but I am not what one would call a fanatic. Occasionally I listen to some Jay-Z as well. <br />
<br />
But Kanye? Man he blows me away. His songs are symphonic. Perfect blend of melodies, rhythm, lyrics creates a pretty powerful experience. I understand he probably has a whole army of sound engineers, sound technicians, sound advisers, sound managers, sound quarterbacks whatever tweaking every little note but the finished product still carries his stamp of authority and approval.<br />
<br />
Here's 'Homecoming', a great example of what I mean by symphonic:<br />
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<iframe allowfullscreen="" frameborder="0" height="315" src="//www.youtube.com/embed/LQ488QrqGE4" width="420"></iframe><br />
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The dude from 'Coldplay' is on the piano and the song begins with a beautiful piano riff that forms the backbone of the whole piece. It was everything, the clever puns, a catchy refrain, good meaningful lyrics. Pretty powerful song, really, that stays with you long enough and succeeds at evoking strong nostalgia and a tinge of wistfulness.<br />
<br />
John Coltrane, the legendary Jazz innovator and renowned saxophonist, pioneered a technique called <a en.wikipedia.org="" heets_of_sound="" href="http://www.blogger.com/%3Ca%20href=" http:="" wiki="">http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Sheets_of_sound</a>"> 'sheets of sound'</div>
with his improvisation and creative arrangements. I think Kanye does something similar with his songs. He puts in a lot of thought, a lot of effort into creating the right blend of sound. Pick up his new album 'Yeezus' and listen to any of the songs on there (<a href="http://youtu.be/xuhl6Ji5zHM">'Black skinhead'</a> is my favorite) and you'll see what I mean.<br />
Kanye may be a jackass, as President Obama so memorably called him in an off-the-record remark during a routine interview, but damn he is a visionary.<br />
<br />
And since I promised other critical musings in my title to the post, you will be rewarded aptly:<br />
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<li>WHY ARE PEOPLE SO DAMN IMPATIENT TO CROSS THE STREET?!! Everyday I see this. We'll all be waiting at the light, passively watching the flow of cars or twiddling our thumbs or daydreaming. People will start crossing as soon as the light turns yellow without waiting for the walk signal to come on. Really? It saves you like 10 seconds. Maybe. The worst is when they start walking and cars who have the right of the way due to the left turn arrow have to wait for them to cross. OBEY THE SIGNS PEOPLE. </li>
</ul>
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<ul style="text-align: left;">
<li>Truck commercials are now getting brawnier by the day. First of all there's way too many of them. I spend my entire Sunday propped up on my magnificent leather couch watching the NFL and I swear, every third commercial is about some stupid truck. And they all play the same. Slow motion of big wheels gritting through some swamp with water splashing all over. A panoramic shot of an extremely rocky road (seriously, who lives in places like these), dust billowing all around and boom! there's a Ford cutting through the dust cloud. It's always a gravelly voiced guy sounding all solemn and important as he rattles off the specs: "50 billion horsepower, 5000 gauge tires, til' the end of the universe warranty". Such transparent attempt at projecting hollow machoness. </li>
</ul>
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Alright I think I will leave you with all that. I guess it's time to go back breeding mice and running endless gels. </div>
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Comrade_Bazarovhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15780981633695863136noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7322278331180498716.post-54646813031484606122013-10-06T13:37:00.000-05:002013-10-06T13:39:22.956-05:00Adventures in Technical Support; Or, Resisting the Abdication of Self-Reliance<br />
Like, I imagine, many children of the digital age, I have achieved a basic understanding of the modern computer without actually having any cohesive insight into its true workings. When my family received our first computer in the medieval wastes of 1998, my brother and I garnered a practical education in what computers can do, what one should not do (in my brother's case, delete the system.ini file), and how to fix one's typical problems, such as finding files in the computer's internal labyrinth, getting the printer to connect, updating drivers, booting the computer through startup, getting damaged floppy disks to read onto the drive (mostly by hitting the computer case), and dealing with viruses. Oh god, the viruses. Of course that means that my parents still believe their spawn are computer Svengalis who can magically fix their every error. <br />
<br />
So the result of all this is that, in the rare cases where a computer problem falls outside my domain of pragmatic fixes, I tend to know immediately that outside help will be required. Monitor broken? Go to Best Buy. Monitor breaks again, almost instantly? Back to Best Buy. [Note: this does not constitute approval for Best Buy's selection, business model, or prices. Trust that I have not been paid off by generous, morally upstanding, compassionate overlords there.] Liquid cooling system brimming with eels? Call your local spear-fisherman. And so forth.<br />
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<a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-hCLEo8r16q8/UlGjrVn55JI/AAAAAAAAAAw/sLZnookWwiE/s1600/Moray+eel2.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="212" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-hCLEo8r16q8/UlGjrVn55JI/AAAAAAAAAAw/sLZnookWwiE/s320/Moray+eel2.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
Nothing these bastards love more than a good mainframe.<br />
<br />
Anyway, in the not-too-distant past, I was listening to something mundane when the audio quality changed drastically from no apparent cause. Being that I didn't want to spend the next couple years listening to <a href="https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=uXZmK5o0xMM">Megadeth</a> rendered as either whale song or a child's tin-can telephone, this problem had to be solved. <br />
<br />
Unfortunately, audio drivers are about as far removed from my expertise as anything, so the simplistic scans and diagnostics from the Control Panel did nothing, and my efforts to find useful technical advice on web fora were fruitless. Imagine that. So what happened, in my darkest hour, was to turn to live chat with technical support on two separate websites. One was Microsoft itself, the other was something more generic (I can't remember its title offhand, but it might have been fixnow.us). <br />
<br />
So we went through a time-sink rigamarole with my information, and description of the problem, and an eternity later I entered tech support chat. As always, I am miffed by the possibility that I might be talking to a computer masquerading as an actual person, which resulted in my application of a lo-fi <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Turing_test">Turing Test</a> (consisting of variations on "Are you a human?" - let's face it, I was in need), which seemed to return the result that these entities were at least partially human.<br />
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Our worst-case scenario.<br />
<br />
Results were mixed. The Microsoft android (potentially) only said he couldn't fix the problem and that I would have to send the computer in to have it fixed for the low price of $100. I told him that was unreasonable and that he could find some other sucker, which he seemed to take in stride. For the non-corporate avatar, however, my problem was far worse. They accessed my computer remotely (which might not have been the wisest move for me to allow) and determined, via some fancy graphic, that my computer had been invaded by "polymorphic viruses" and it was critical that I have them inspect and repair it for the entirely reasonably price of $200. I don't know why all these prices come in multiples of 100, but it might have some significance.<br />
<br />
While that sort of terminology might have intimidated rubes and True Americans, I immediately determined it was hogwash and told them in no uncertain terms that they were not welcome in the conversation or on my computer. So, bereft of outside help once again, I paced and pondered whether to lug the desktop all the way to campus to the Student Technology Center (who had been helpful in virus removal years before, for affordable prices). As I was doing so, I doublechecked the connection of my speakers to the rear of the stack.<br />
<br />
Apparently movements of my feet or my desk had ever-so-slightly disconnected the cable from the jack. My audio started working perfectly.<br />
<br />
C'est la vie.Socrates Johnson, M.D.http://www.blogger.com/profile/00794373666037502228noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7322278331180498716.post-28338079134557987582013-10-02T12:44:00.000-05:002013-10-02T12:44:50.517-05:00For a suitcase of cash you too can be a marquis <div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
Contrary to public perception, <i>The Economist </i>doesn't always deal in dreadfully serious articles about, say, the state of the Swedish bank system (which is doing mighty fine thanks for asking) or the fragility of the cotton commodities market. The boffins who run this very British institution know their regular readers (and other casual bystanders) occasionally like to partake in a little spice here and there. I have alluded to this before (<a href="http://theuniversalgravitation.blogspot.com/2012/12/wtf-pictures-eastern-poland-is.html">here</a> and <a href="http://theuniversalgravitation.blogspot.com/2010/11/economist-is-so-damn-funny.html">here</a>).<br />
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
Take this week's issue. Did you know that for a mere $5000 you can be dutifully anointed a baron in Rwanda? Or for $130,000 you can triumphantly attach the lofty moniker 'Baron von' to your name? If you are brave (and rich) enough you can shell out $2 million and gleefully call yourself 'Prinz'. </div>
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<br /></div>
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<a href="http://econ.st/19DlSnL">It's true</a>! This is a thriving market around the world. </div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
Most of the allocators of these titles are people who were either: </div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
a) deposed by democratic governments in their countries (the Rwandan ex-king Kigeli) </div>
<div>
<br /></div>
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b) aides in former royal households (some Vietnamese dude now in Texas sells medals for $38 - shipping and handling separate)</div>
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<br /></div>
<div>
or my personal favorite:</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
c) pretenders to thrones ('Prince' Davit, a pretender to the Georgian throne which has been vacant since, like, the early 1800's)</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
You gotta hand it to these entrepreneurs. They have cleverly seized upon society's lamentable obsession with all things royal. </div>
<div>
<br /></div>
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Of course, dear readers, you and I both know there can only be one king, don't we? Long live you magnificent brooding bastard.</div>
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<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://askheatherjarvis.com/uploads/images/Elvis-Presley.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="240" src="http://askheatherjarvis.com/uploads/images/Elvis-Presley.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The real King</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<div>
Rest assured your humble blogger will never stoop so low as to buy fake titles. He will remain, through eternity, your comrade, true and always. </div>
</div>
Comrade_Bazarovhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15780981633695863136noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7322278331180498716.post-88507221841693445832013-09-28T22:52:00.000-05:002013-09-28T22:54:20.542-05:00Poem of the Week - 'Gunga Din' by Rudyard KiplingHi there. As a new contributor to this blog (broken in, as it were, by Steam/real-life friend Comrade_Bazarov) I thought that my first action should be to compose an entry in its most reliable segment, the intermittent Poem of the Week, and make my addition to this misleading sobriquet. In doing so I will doubtlessly earn your Internet trust.<br />
<br />
Like many poems that matter, at least to me, this one comes with a story. Maybe several stories. I bought the anthology of Kipling's collected verse, a fairly cheap, commonplace edition, at an upscale establishment called the <a href="http://lastbookstorela.com/">Last Bookstore</a> in downtown Los Angeles, buying the Kipling, a collection of Shaw's plays, and the Barenaked Ladies album <a href="https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=r98M1xSZLA8">Gordon </a>as spoken-word artists performed in the building's central enclosure (pretentious, like all spoken-word/slam poetry, but not unentertaining at times - and who am I to scoff at the notion that people might want to hear the stream-of-consciousness detritus of a stranger's brain) while enjoying an odd excursion out with my ex-girlfriend of the time. It was in a weird moment where we were transitioning explicitly out of relationship mode and into friendship, and not cleanly. Snappishness on both sides.<br />
<br />
The anthology sat on my end table, as I took one or two poems a night before going to sleep. But, as you might not know, Kipling was horrendously prolific, and I slowed several hundred pages into the 700-page behemoth. That's what happens with writing on a set schedule.<br />
<br />
Anyway, in one of the darker moments of my life, I didn't pass my first oral examination, and the possibility of that happening became apparent mid-exam. I'd been reading "Gunga Din" off and on while studying, trying to commit it to memory, and as I waited in the hallway, interminably, as I waited for my committee's decision, knowing that it lay in great doubt, being nervous and in great despair, I recited the poem to myself as a tool to eat time and ward off anxiety.<br />
<br />
Several months later, waiting in that hallway again, during a much shorter wait, I recited the poem correctly, end-to-end, for the first time. <br />
<br />
GUNGA DIN<br />
<br />
You may talk o' gin and beer<br />
When you're quartered safe out 'ere<br />
And you're sent in penny-fights and Aldershot it;<br />
But when it comes to slaughter<br />
You will do your work on water<br />
An' you'll lick the bloomin' boots of 'im that's got it.<br />
Now in Injia's sunny clime<br />
Where I used to spend my time<br />
A'servin' of 'er Majesty the Queen,<br />
Of all them blackfaced crew<br />
The finest man I knew<br />
Was our regimental bhisti, Gunga Din.<br />
He was "Din! Din! Din!<br />
You limpin' lump o' brick-dust, Gunga Din!<br />
"Hi, slippy <i>hitherao</i>!<br />
Water, get it! <i>Panee lao</i>,<br />
You squidgy-nosed old idol, Gunga Din."<br />
<br />
The uniform 'e wore<br />
Was nothing much before<br />
An' rather less than 'alf of that behind.<br />
For a piece o' twisty rag<br />
An' a goatskin water-bag<br />
Was all the field equipment 'e could find. <br />
When the sweatin' troop-train lay<br />
In a sidin' through the day,<br />
Where the 'eat would make your bloomin' eyebrows crawl,<br />
We shouted "Harry by!"<br />
Till our throats were bricky-dry,<br />
Then we wopped 'im 'cause 'e couldn't serve us all. <br />
It was "Din! Din! Din!<br />
You 'eathen, where the mischief 'ave you been?<br />
You put some <i>juldee </i>in it,<br />
Or I'll <i>marrow </i>you this minute<br />
If you don't fill up my helmet, Gunga Din!"<br />
<br />
'E would do t an' carry one<br />
Till the longest day was done;<br />
An' 'e didn't seem to know the use o' fear.<br />
If we charged or broke or cut,<br />
You could bet your bloomin' nut,<br />
'E'd be waitin' fifty paces right flank rear.<br />
With 'is mussick on his back,<br />
'E would skip with our attack,<br />
An' watch us till the bugles made "Retire",<br />
An' for all 'is dirty 'ide<br />
'E was white, clear white, inside<br />
When 'e went to tend the wounded under fire.<br />
It was "Din! Din! Din!<br />
With the bullets kickin' dust-spots on the green.<br />
When the cartridges ran out,<br />
You could here the front-ranks shout,<br />
"Hi, ammunition-mules an' Gunga Din!"<br />
<br />
I shan't forgit the night<br />
When I dropped behind the fight<br />
With a bullet where my belt-plate should 'a' been.<br />
I was chokin' mad with thirst<br />
An' the man that spied me first<br />
Was our good old grinnin', gruntin' Gunga Din.<br />
'E lifted up my 'ead,<br />
An' he plugged me where I bled,<br />
An' 'e guv me 'arf-a-pint o' water green.<br />
It was crawlin' an' it stunk,<br />
But of all the drinks I've drunk,<br />
I'm gratefullest to one from Gunga Din. <br />
It was "Din! Din! Din!<br />
'Ere's a beggar with a bullet through 'is spleen;<br />
'E's chawing on the ground,<br />
an' 'e's kickin' all around,<br />
For Fawd's sake git the water, Gunga Din!"<br />
<br />
'E carried me away,<br />
To where a dooli lay,<br />
An' a bullet come an' drilled the beggar clean.<br />
'E put me safe inside,<br />
An' just before 'e died,<br />
"I 'ope you liked your drink," sez Gunga Din.<br />
So I'll meet 'im later on,<br />
At the place where 'e is gone-<br />
Where it's always double drill and no canteen.<br />
'E'll be squattin' on the coals,<br />
Givin' drink to poor damned souls,<br />
An' I'll get a swig in hell from Gunga Din!<br />
Yes, Din! Din! Din!<br />
You Lazarushian-leather Gunga Din!<br />
Though I've belted you and flayed you,<br />
By the livin' Gawd that made you,<br />
You're a better man than I am, Gunga Din!Socrates Johnson, M.D.http://www.blogger.com/profile/00794373666037502228noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7322278331180498716.post-18265366185703560032013-09-25T17:38:00.001-05:002013-09-25T17:40:29.747-05:00Holy 100 grand hits Batman!<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
When the three of us started this blog to occupy a tiny blip-sized island in the vast limitless ocean that is the internet, our intent was to mostly write anything that came to our minds. The very first few posts on the blog were incredibly random (<a href="http://theuniversalgravitation.blogspot.com/2010/08/i-am-in-exceptional-spirits-today.html">cats </a>, <a href="http://theuniversalgravitation.blogspot.com/2010/08/bonjour-mes-amis-were-getting-political.html">heavy duty medical ethics,</a> <a href="http://theuniversalgravitation.blogspot.com/2010/08/america-saturday.html"> food recipes</a>) but over time life happened and people began to move on. We are at a point now when I am the only one left but even then, my output has been dismally low in the last year and a half.<br />
<br />
No matter though. Seems like the internet did not forget this humble little corner. Slowly and steadily (like that stupid tortoise from that stupid fable - God I hated that boring tale) the visitors kept coming, mainly to the post about hallucinations and ping-pong balls (here let me do some more gratuitous plugging and link you <a href="http://theuniversalgravitation.blogspot.com/2012/05/hallucinating-using-ping-pong-balls-and.html"> there</a>), a post I wrote up mostly out of sheer boredom and desire to be wacky.<br />
<br />
The blog stat counter officially crossed the 100,000 mark today. Now when you consider that even sites at the low end of the popularity spectrum still get hits in the several thousands <i>every day</i>, this number is nothing. But I think for a venture that grew out of some idle chit-chat three years ago it's more than what I (or the other two contributors, if they are still reading this) could have expected. I will be partying like a freshman at his first frat party tonight, that's for sure. This is an occasion for a bacchanalian revelry of epic proportions.<br />
<br />
So keep checking in every now and then because the mission here at UG has been, and will always be, sacrificing our well-being for your entertainment. I promise you that when I bike back home today with the wind rushing pleasantly into my face, a day's worth of mouse brain work behind me, I will think of nothing but that (actually I will be thinking of eating dinner, but hey your entertainment will still be on my list. Somewhere). </div>
Comrade_Bazarovhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15780981633695863136noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7322278331180498716.post-5872382630988396342013-09-17T15:27:00.000-05:002013-09-17T15:27:49.092-05:00The sensation that is Johnny Manziel<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
Let's take some time to talk some college football. Now normally I wouldn't even dream of devoting precious blog space to the mediocre world of college sports, but every now and then something happens that forces me to make an exception. This is one of those occasions.<br />
<br />
If you are a rare individual who (for some bizarre unfathomable reason) is not acquainted with this <strike>person</strike> phenom Johnny Manziel, here's a quick recap: he stormed the world of college football (and subsequently our collective psyches) with his dazzling on-field exploits last season. As a redshirted freshman (i.e. he is technically a sophomore who sat out his first year), he went on to win the Heisman trophy, an award that despite having not much predictive value does a reasonably good job of identifying good college players. All cool? I am feeling bubbly today, so let me throw in a Manziel highlights package for ya:<br />
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<iframe allowfullscreen="" frameborder="0" height="315" src="//www.youtube.com/embed/qauScC-JJKk" width="420"></iframe><br />
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You will notice this dude has a remarkable ability to escape the vicious clutches of multiple defenders and still throw explosive touchdown passes that leave you salivating for more action. Pretty soon the lore of Johnny took off. He attempted (and I believe succeeded) in getting his nickname trademarked - "Johnny Football". Don't we all wish we were blessed with such an awesome nickname?<br />
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<a name='more'></a><br />
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Controversy soon followed. There were reports of a previous arrest, grumblings about his off-field temperament, and rumors of diva-like behavior. He was kicked out of the Manning Passing Academy, a summer camp run by legendary Saints QB Archie Manning with cameos from his famous sons, got indirectly called a "turd" by Tom Brady on national television, and was found to have violated NCAA's labyrinthine rules by signing a bunch of <strike>sports junk</strike> memorabilia for money. All in all sounds like a fantastic offseason. He was suspended for (get this) <i>half an hour</i> for the season opener. For a full glorious thirty minutes, J. Football sat steaming on the Texan A&M bench. Then he got back into the game, picked up right where he left off and started scoring touchdowns left and right.<br />
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Here is Mr. Football, flagrantly taunting his opponents after scoring three TDs:<br />
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Those whispers about his attitude are now full-blown debates on the perpetual hype machine ESPN. Can Manziel be drafted? Does he have the right mindset? Does he breathe the right way?<br />
<br />
To hell with all that, Johnny boy. The man has got stupendous talent and the right kind of princely swagger to go along with it. If he maintains his talent and keeps working on it, he will be immensely successful in the NFL. For delighting us all with your electrifying presence on (and off) the field and for cultivating that inspirational brand of swagger, Johnny Football, I anoint thee the Badass of the Week. </div>
Comrade_Bazarovhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15780981633695863136noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7322278331180498716.post-18205178932942003262013-09-12T15:20:00.001-05:002013-09-12T15:20:27.121-05:00Poem of the week - 'Digging' by Seamus Heaney<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
Seamus Heaney, perhaps the most important Irish poet after Yeats, passed away recently. Heaney won the literature nobel prize in 1995. His translation of the Old English epic 'Beowulf' was widely lauded. I hadn't read any of his poetry until recently, when a friend of the blog emailed me this gem. Thought I would share it here.<br />
<br />
Here's Seamus Heaney with the beautiful, gritty 'Digging':<br />
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="background: white; color: #444444; font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 10.5pt; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">Digging<br />
by Seamus Heaney<br />
<br />
Between my finger and my thumb<br />
The squat pen rests; snug as a gun.<br />
<br />
Under my window, a clean rasping sound<br />
When the spade sinks into gravelly ground:<br />
My father, digging. I look down<br />
<br />
Till his straining rump among the flowerbeds<br />
Bends low, comes up twenty years away<br />
Stooping in rhythm through potato drills<br />
Where he was digging.<br />
<br />
The coarse boot nestled on the lug, the shaft<br />
Against the inside knee was levered firmly.<br />
He rooted out tall tops, buried the bright edge deep<br />
To scatter new potatoes that we picked,<br />
Loving their cool hardness in our hands.<br />
<br />
By God, the old man could handle a spade.<br />
Just like his old man.<br />
<br />
My grandfather cut more turf in a day<br />
Than any other man on Toner’s bog.<br />
Once I carried him milk in a bottle<br />
Corked sloppily with paper. He straightened up<br />
To drink it, then fell to right away<br />
Nicking and slicing neatly, heaving sods<br />
Over his shoulder, going down and down<br />
For the good turf. Digging.<br />
<br />
The cold smell of potato mould, the squelch and slap<br />
Of soggy peat, the curt cuts of an edge<br />
Through living roots awaken in my head.<br />
But I’ve no spade to follow men like them.<br />
<br />
Between my finger and my thumb<br />
The squat pen rests.<br />
I’ll dig with it.</span><o:p></o:p></div>
</div>
Comrade_Bazarovhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15780981633695863136noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7322278331180498716.post-39010750025738215792013-07-14T12:44:00.000-05:002013-07-14T12:44:28.909-05:00J.K. Rowling writes a well-reviewed detective novel under a pseudonym and almost gets away with it<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
Remember J.K. Rowling? Yeah her. Richer than the Queen, owner of a castle, writer of a children's series about magic.<br />
<br />
Last year she published a novel called 'Casual vacancy'. Got solid reviews and did pretty well on the charts. Then she retreated back into her cocoon. Around April a detective novel purportedly by a debutant author writing under a pseudonym was published in Britain.<br />
<br />
Called 'The cuckoo's calling', this novel was well received by all quarters. Reviewers praised its complexity and the sophistication. The author, 'Robert Galbraith', was said to be an ex-military officer writing under a pseudonym.<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="http://upload.wikimedia.org/wikipedia/en/thumb/2/2d/CuckoosCallingCover.jpg/200px-CuckoosCallingCover.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="http://upload.wikimedia.org/wikipedia/en/thumb/2/2d/CuckoosCallingCover.jpg/200px-CuckoosCallingCover.jpg" /></a></div>
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
The only problem was: the novel seemed way too well put together for a first-time author. Late last week, people at Sunday Times of London got some anonymous tip from (where else?) twitter that the author was actually J.K. Rowling. Further snooping revealed that the this book and 'Casual vacancy' shared an agent and an editor. Additionally computer linguistic analysis of one of the Harry Potter books and this novel revealed enough similarities to suggest that she was indeed the author.<br />
<br />
Today she fessed up in an article saying that being Galbraith was a "liberating" experience. As I write this, the book has shot up Amazon's bestseller list. Rowling has indicated a planned sequel is still in the works and will come out next year.<br />
<br />
Now of course this could all be part of an elaborate campaign by the publisher, but it is still borderline miraculous that something as monumental as this managed to stay secret for so long.<br />
<br />
Ponder this as I scoot away to buy a copy from my local bookstore. <br />
</div>
Comrade_Bazarovhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15780981633695863136noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7322278331180498716.post-48254402726262542092013-07-11T22:58:00.001-05:002013-07-11T23:00:28.590-05:00Poem of the week - "Alley cat love song" by Dana Gioia <div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
This somewhat irregularly recurring segment on this blog has proven moderately popular with outside readers who stumble here through google. I try to keep things fresh by posting poems across various genres, time periods, themes and genders. Haven't really posted any poems in a while, so consider this the triumphant return of this durable segment.<br />
<br />
This is an interesting poem for me because I kinda know the son of the poet. He played quizbowl (aka academic competition etc etc) at Harvard and I have met him at a few tournaments here and there. He is widely considered one of the best players of literature questions in the country. Genetics, I suppose.<br />
<br />
Anyway, here's Dana Gioia (who was the chairman of National Endowment of Arts, a marketing executive who avidly promoted Jello-O among other things) with his beautiful poem about love among cats:<br />
<br />
Alley cat love song<br />
by Dana Gioia <br />
<br />
Come into the garden, Fred,<br />
For the neighborhood tabby is gone.<br />
Come into the garden, Fred.<br />
I have nothing but my flea collar on,<br />
And the scent of catnip has gone to my head.<br />
I'll wait by the screen door till dawn.<br />
The fireflies court in the sweetgum tree.<br />
The nightjar calls from the pine,<br />
And she seems to say in her rhapsody,<br />
"Oh, mustard-brown Fred, be mine!"<br />
The full moon lights my whiskers afire,<br />
And the fur goes erect on my spine.<br />
I hear the frogs in the muddy lake<br />
Croaking from shore to shore.<br />
They've one swift season to soothe their ache.<br />
In autumn they sing no more.<br />
So ignore me now, and you'll hear my meow<br />
As I scratch all night at the door.</div>
Comrade_Bazarovhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15780981633695863136noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7322278331180498716.post-47028665867041878542013-07-09T23:54:00.000-05:002013-07-09T23:55:32.327-05:00Start the car and thank you for holding<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
David 'Bumble' Lloyd is one of my favorite cricket commentators. Btw please don't be Jennifer Lopez and confuse cricket with croquet (as she does <a href="http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=DomFtRC7GA4"> here</a>). If you, as a loyal reader of this blog, are also confused, do the following:<br />
a) Take a full minute to feel unbearable shame and<br />
b) Read some of yours truly's excellent posts highlighting this very excellent game <a href="http://theuniversalgravitation.blogspot.com/2011/02/ug-sports-11-cricket.html">here</a> and <a href="http://theuniversalgravitation.blogspot.com/2011/02/ug-sports-12-cricket-part-dos.html"> here</a>.<br />
<br />
He's an Englishman through and through and a bit of an extravagant joker. He played a few matches for England here and there, and coached for a few years before taking his talents to the much more lucrative (I presume) career as a commentator and a sports pundit. Bumble likes to the use the phrase 'Start the car' a lot and liberally peppers his sentences with that phrase, especially when he is on air. Bumble tweets <a href="https://twitter.com/BumbleCricket"> here </a>. <br />
<br />
Right then, onward.<br />
<br />
I recently had the distinct pleasure of moving apartments. Mercifully my new abode is a mere floor above my old digs so it wasn't as bad as it can get. The new place is exquisite. Since I am not a man prone to exaggeration, you better believe every word I say. Seriously, this place is huge. Massive. Gargantuan.<br />
<br />
It is lofty! (no literally - because it is a loft)<br />
It has a balcony!<br />
It has a wine rack! (not that I would every be caught dead putting anything in it)<br />
<br />
The biggest surprise about moving is the sinking realization how much random shit you've recklessly accumulated over the years. I bet if everyone in America were made to move every two months, consumerism would die a gory death overnight.<br />
<br />
The other dark side about moving is making calls to utility companies. I recently purchased new internet and made changes to my cable. All of that took me nearly five hours over three days. Seriously, we can put a man on the friggin moon but we can't come up with a better way to figure this shit out?! The metallic monotonous voice that greets you so blithely every time you call one of these entities gets so grating. Who in the right mind programs these things? And even the operators. Their obsequiousness is, quite frankly, unnerving. <br />
<br />
But that's all done with and here I am, sprawled across my majestic sofa, pecking away at my laptop like a boss.<br />
<br />
Before I go, here's a link to what has surprisingly turned out to be by far the most popular post on this damn blog: <a href="http://theuniversalgravitation.blogspot.com/2012/05/hallucinating-using-ping-pong-balls-and.html">post</a>. It is a silly little post about a little experiment I did where I pseudohallucinated using ping pong balls and static noise. As of this writing it is responsible for close to 20% of this blog's traffic. We've been getting comments from all sorts of random people in far-flung places. <br />
<br />
Do tune in from time to time for more jazz and pizazz! </div>
Comrade_Bazarovhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15780981633695863136noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7322278331180498716.post-42600104365613226802013-05-16T13:13:00.000-05:002013-05-16T13:13:49.323-05:00Back in black!<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
We're back! Back in black! Back in black baby! Ok I think that's enough. By the way, what does back in black even mean? If you ponder it hard enough you realize it makes absolutely zero sense. Thanks AC/DC for popularizing this meaningless term. Speaking of, here's an enjoyable AC/DC tune to keep you company (and no, it's not 'Back in black' - that would be way too obvious):<br />
<br />
<iframe allowfullscreen="" frameborder="0" height="315" src="http://www.youtube.com/embed/zakKvbIQ28o" width="500"></iframe><br />
<br />
Moving on. A little update on what's been going on lately. I finished second year of med school literally yesterday. And now I can operate on your brain and remove complicated pancreatic tumors. No, clearly not. But I can tell you 10 random facts about 'Chronic granulomatous disease' or 'Paroxysmal nocturnal hemoglobinuria' - two insanely rare conditions. So I guess that's an achievement of sorts.<br />
<br />
In less than 4 weeks, most of us will be taking an eight hour long test, the USMLE Step 1. Your score on this test <strike>marks the price of your soul </strike>is a crucial factor in ultimately deciding where you go for what specialty. Competitive fields like neurosurgery or dermatology traditionally require higher scores than others.<br />
<br />
Most of my classmates will then go on to the hospital to do clinical rotations, while I will head over to the greener pastures of basic science research, spending time amongst pipets, gels and ELISAs. Interesting times lie ahead. </div>
Comrade_Bazarovhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15780981633695863136noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7322278331180498716.post-33146816307110359362013-03-29T21:28:00.000-05:002013-03-29T21:28:22.823-05:00College basketball is boring and other random stuff<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
<ul style="text-align: left;">
<li>I am coughing a lung out over here in sunny Southern California, but I must soldier to feed the insatiable urge of my dear readers. The show must go on, as they say (btw who the hell comprises this murky "they"? Why don't they ever reveal "them"selves?)</li>
</ul>
<ul style="text-align: left;">
<li>For the first time ever, I deigned to fill out a bracket for march
madness. Why, I don't know. Just wanted to get a taste of, I guess.
Quite frankly, I am completely baffled by all the attention and hype.
Let's be real here people: college basketball sucks. The level of play
is obnoxiously abysmal, and the games are so boring and slow, even
espresso shots can't keep me up. These teams get a 35 freaking second
shot-clock and two 20 minute halves and yet games end with shitty
scorelines like 64-60. What the hell are these people doing? It's an
insult to the viewer. I would rather watch a far more superior product,
the NBA. Meanwhile, feel free to clog up my facebook newsfeed with your
inane complaints about bad coaches, bad referees and your desperate
analysis of a sub-par sport. </li>
</ul>
<ul style="text-align: left;">
<li>Just finished a block of exams. One more block to go. Infectious diseases was the biggest class of this block, and definitely had the most amount of stuff to learn/memorize. Which makes sense I guess, considering the myriad bacteria and viruses and <a href="http://theuniversalgravitation.blogspot.com/2013/03/ascaris-subtle-understated-badass.html"> badass worms </a> have it in for you. And oh man, the cats. So many diseases transmitted through cats. Moral of the class: stay the hell away from cats. They are cute little furry monsters of death. Speaking of which, here's a picture of a cute kitten: </li>
</ul>
<br />
<a href="http://girltomom.com/wp-content/uploads/2012/07/too-cute-kitten.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><br /></a>
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><img border="0" height="240" src="http://girltomom.com/wp-content/uploads/2012/07/too-cute-kitten.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;" width="320" /></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Patiently plotting world domination</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />
<br />
That's it for now. Have a Happy Easter. </div>
Comrade_Bazarovhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15780981633695863136noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7322278331180498716.post-10140864106003913392013-03-17T18:54:00.000-05:002013-03-17T18:54:16.207-05:00Ascaris: the subtle, understated badass<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
Nature is full of badasses. They come in all sizes and shapes and flavors. Some are big, obvious and downright terrifying: your leopards, cheetahs and other their ilk. Some are ruthless, relentless and overwhelm by the numbers. <a href="http://www.cracked.com/article_15816_the-5-most-horrifying-bugs-in-world.html"> Army ants </a> fall into this category. Never cross the path of an army ant. Some prefer to take the subtle approach. They display their badassery not by devouring you whole or laying eggs in your dead bodies or ripping you systematically apart. Nope. They believe in the power of invisibility. <br />
<br />
The badass on display is from this camp.<br />
It looks like this:<br />
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://upload.wikimedia.org/wikipedia/commons/7/7e/Ascaris_lumbricoides.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="http://upload.wikimedia.org/wikipedia/commons/7/7e/Ascaris_lumbricoides.jpeg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Ascaris: all-around badass</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />
<a name='more'></a><br /><br />
It goes by the name Ascaris lumbricoides. Or roundworm (although technically there are others that compete for this generic name also). Yawn. So prosaic, right? <br />
<br />
So prosaic in fact that it infects an estimated billion people worldwide (two, if you believe some of the more optimistic assessments). One Billion. A seventh of humanity.<br />
<br />
This mighty parasite lays eggs (and we're talking tiny microscopic eggs) and these eggs chill around in the water mostly. They can be in the soil and food products also. Unsuspecting human ingests these eggs (say, by drinking that water) and boom, it's in. Now these eggs are some of the hardiest and most durable things in biology. Dessication, chemicals, iodine - none of that usual abrasive stuff works on them. After ingestion, eggs hatch in the small intestine and cute little ascaris worms come out.<br />
<br />
Next destination: the lungs! These larva travel all the way to the lung (a pretty impressive feat because the digestive track is not directly connected to the pulmonary system. The worm has to travel in the blood). From here, the poor unsuspecting human coughs them out.<br />
<br />
Now the devious bastard comes up through cough and gets swallowed. And it ends up in the small intestine. Yet again. Satisfied with this sorcery, it finally matures to its adult worm. Now it puts down down payment for a nice house, buys a nice car, and settles down in your cozy gut.<br />
<br />
These things can grow up to 30 cm long. Push away your computers for a second and dwell on that impressive display of badassery. This thing lives in your gut, in all its brazenness, eats the same stuff you eat, and grows amazingly big right inside of you.<br />
<br />
Most infections are fairly asymptomatic, but sometimes it throws a tantrum and causes serious complications like bowel obstruction. Surgery is needed in extreme cases. Here's a nice video of valiant surgeons pulling out a handful of worms (they look like spaghetti!) from some unfortunate person's belly:<br />
<br />
<iframe allowfullscreen="" frameborder="0" height="315" src="http://www.youtube.com/embed/N4BlCBylUU0" width="560"></iframe> <br />
<br />
So next time you are visiting your local shrine of badasses, don't forget to lobby to include this intrepid havoc wrecker in that shrine.<br />
<br />
<br />
<br /></div>
Comrade_Bazarovhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15780981633695863136noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7322278331180498716.post-58738795757439700562013-03-16T11:16:00.000-05:002013-03-16T11:16:30.896-05:00Randomness of music on the car radio<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
Listening to music on the car radio carries hazards as well as rewards. Hazards first: you get stuck listening to absolutely terrible commercials or (heaven forbid) pitbull. Since radio stations (Top 40 especially) tend to play the same 40 songs over and over again, the songs start sounding really old and chewed up after a while. Some, of course, deny this and embrace the repetition. It all depends on whether you think Gotye's "Somebody I used to know" is an overplayed piece of shit or a soulful ballad of lost love.<br />
<br />
On the rewards side, it's always a pleasant surprise when a song that fell off the radio landscape resurfaces after several months.<br />
<br />
That's where Selena Gomez comes in. In the early months of 2012, "Love you like a love song" was all the rage. You couldn't turn on the radio or walk into a coffee shop without catching wisps of that song. It's your standard mass manufactured pop song: catchy beat, healthy dollop of auto-tune, moderately good voice and an overdone topic. I didn't mind it too much. Pleasant enough song. Then it fell off, like these songs do, to be replaced by the Carly Rae Jepsen juggernaut "Call me maybe" and a respectable onslaught by Gotye as well.<br />
<br />
So when it popped back again on the radio last week as I was driving to school, a slight smile crept up on my face. I guess I missed you like a love song. Well here is the link to the youtube version:<br />
<br />
<iframe allowfullscreen="" frameborder="0" height="315" src="http://www.youtube.com/embed/LupeGtJ3a3E" width="500"></iframe><br /></div>
Comrade_Bazarovhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15780981633695863136noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7322278331180498716.post-10208645814030451432013-03-12T22:28:00.003-05:002013-03-12T22:30:43.434-05:00Coffee: the drink of the gods <div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
The days are getting longer. The wind is getting nastier, sometimes enough to blow you off the bicycle or knock you off your feet. Most of the snow has melted but you always dread opening weather.com because, well, maybe the next storm is peeping around the corner.<br />
<br />
There are drugs to be memorized, an absurdly long laundry list of infections to commit to memory. And don't forget the zebras - your pheochromocytomas, your metachromatic leukodystrophies. Pesky undergrad neighbors are holding ragers well into the wee hours of Saturday. Don't these brats have anything better to do on a Friday night?<br />
<br />
Who do you turn to in this time of troubles? (which, by the way, is also the name given to an awesome period in Russian history. Do check it out <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Time_of_Troubles"> here </a> if you are into that sort of thing)<br />
<br />
Coffee. That smooth, bold liquid gold. Each drop infused with pure awesomeness. Ever sat back and just hear coffee brewing? The coffeemaker gurgles so deliciously. With each drop of fresh coffee made, it makes a deeply satisfying rich chortle. Decaffeinated coffee is an affront to human existence, a sin beyond
human comprehension. But you, you know the value of the pure stuff. No
creamer, no sugar. Why would you want to insult coffee? When it's all done, you take out the filter. You glance almost wistfully at the uniform mound of used coffee as you throw the filter in the trash. Can I collect it in a jar and store it? With each sip, each heavenly sip, each trouble melts away. The room smells of coffee. It smells of victory.<br />
<br />
So here is an ode to you, coffee, the drink of the gods. </div>
Comrade_Bazarovhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15780981633695863136noreply@blogger.com0