NPR’s Song of the Day: Because listening to something new is good for you. It’s an easy way learn something about yourself, grow as a person, all that. Plus, it’s good for your brain.
Check out “St. Petersburg” by Brazilian Girls. Some descriptive words for you: snappy, dissonant, retro, multilingual, self-consciously cool, catchy, suited for awkward dancing, satisfying and with a full, floaty chorus.
I have jury duty.
I was summoned two weeks ago to a jury orientation session: I swore an oath, filled out some paperwork for the court’s bailiff and listened to the judge’s speech on civic duty. The judge is a good public speaker.
I call the court every week at an appointed day and time to see if I have to report later for jury selection. Every week until Dec. 31. If I serve on 10 trials I get to retire early from service. Last week I was excused from reporting for selection. Perhaps this will happen every week. Perhaps not.
Several of the other potential jurors at orientation were none to pleased to be there. Two asked if they could be excused because of mental illness; one claimed dementia and the other claimed an unspecified mental health problem. The bailiff, the court officer in charge of juror summons and orientation, asked them to submit a doctor’s note saying they were not fit to serve. A nursing mother brought her 6-month-old son hoping to be immediately excused, but she too was told to bring a note. One woman argued that she did not live in the county, her address notwithstanding. She lived just over the county line, she insisted. Bring me some proof, said the bailiff. Perhaps a utility bill?
Will I be selected for a jury? Will I star in my own live version of “Law & Order,” watching from the jury box as a Jack McCoy/Sam Waterston stand-in earnestly argues his side of the issue, furry brow knotted in concentration? Or, worse yet, will I be trapped in a room for hours with a stubborn, polarized juror debating the fate of a potentially guilty or potentially innocent person a la “12 Angry Men“?
This is as close as I ever hope to be to the justice system. I approach with curiosity and a touch of trepidation. We’ll see what happens.
Do you watch the national evening news on television? I’m not a regular watcher. I’m usually in the middle of my evening commute.
But I did get a glimpse of Brian Williams, anchor of NBC’s nightly news, during coverage of the 2008 Summer Olympic Games. Several glimpses, in fact. And he reminded me of someone … someone I couldn’t quite place …
Until suddenly I realized who Brian Williams reminded me of.
Guy Smiley.
Seriously, I don’t watch “Sesame Street” nowadays. Couldn’t tell you if Guy Smiley still makes regular appearances. But I’m fond of the memory of “Sesame Street” from my childhood. Accuse me of being nostalgic and you’d be right. As a kid I thought of the Muppets and their “Sesame Street” counterparts not as puppets but as real furry beings. And I was a fan. (Especially a fan of Grover. And Cookie Monster. And Count von Count.)
Do you see it too? The resemblance?
See, here’s Brian Williams.
And this is Guy Smiley.
And here’s Brian Williams looking mildly happy, just like Guy Smiley.
(And all these photos are different sizes because that’s just the way things are.)
Not that Brian Williams engages the nightly news audience with the same enthusiastic game-show abandon that Guy Smiley employs (employed? Does he still have a job on “Sesame Street”?). Don’t get me wrong. At the time of my insight I was watching Brian Williams report from China on Something Very Important. It was just something about the way he looked …
The Lace Reader by Brunonia Barry
3 BookMarks
Be forewarned: Some might consider what I’m about to write something of a spoiler. Find out what I think about this book after the jump.
Well, it’s very rainy here. Gustav is hovering over Arkansas and swirling his octopus-like tentacles in a counter-clockwise direction.
It’s a very blustery day. My umbrella struggled in the wind during our walk to the sandwich shop and back. According to Weather.com, the wind is blowing at about 21 mph and gusting up to 32 mph. Here’s a handy screen grab, accurate at about 12:35 p.m. CST.
Of course, this is very, very mild compared with the dangerous conditions residents in and along the Gulf of Mexico experienced. (Sometimes I really enjoy living inland.) Here, Gustav is just another rainy day.
Alternate Title: When I Was a Child, Dentyne and Wrigley’s Products Were the Only Chewing Gums in Existence, If You Don’t Count Bubblicious. Which I Don’t, Because It Was Reserved for Special Occasions, Like the Night Before a Dental Appointment.
I was at Walgreen’s last night buying a face cream that no other store in town carries (it’s not exclusive, just reclusive; it’s a Eucerin product, not exactly encrusted with diamonds or made from the tears woodland sprites) and so was caught in a jumble of on-your-way-out product placement. The counters, shelves and displays within a 10-foot radius of both checkout counters were packed with tiny amounts of myriad products, one of which was Big Red gum.
And I bought some. Which I haven’t done since childhood.
Of course, I did not buy gum as a child. It grew magically inside mom’s purse: Double Mint, Big Red and Juicy Fruit with their iconic silver foil wrappers and cinnamon Dentyne with its whisper-thin red and white striped papers. And my grandmother’s purse was good for a gum whose name has been lost to the ages, but I do remember its liquid center very clearly. I know there’s currently a liquid-center gum out there, but it’s just not the same today.
Mom was careful about avoiding those exceptionally sugary gums like Bubblicious and Hubba Bubba, reserving them for the occasional chewing experience. Too much sugar too often would corrupt our teeth. Orange Bubblicious was my favorite. They were the best for blowing bubbles, though. Can’t do much with a stick of Double Mint.
By the time I drove out of the parking lot my mouth burned from Big Red’s new Improved Flavor!, which tastes like cinnamon on fire plus more fire. Appropriately, the package sports a new icon: a devil sculpted from flame. Wrigley means it.
UPDATE: I just shared a piece of Big Red with a co-worker and she said it made her teeth hurt. Let this be a warning.
UPDATE TWO: I also saw myriad typos in this post after it was published. Apologies to all of you accepting the RSS feed.
Alternate Title: How I Was Brainwashed As a Child to Love the Olympics
Sports fan? Weeeeell … not exactly.
Olympic Games fan? Absolutely.
Every two years for 16 days I gorge on sports coverage I neglect without a second thought the rest of the time. Sports like curling or diving suddenly seem important. I’ll abandon activities, responsibilities and sleep to accommodate a wacky broadcast schedule. By the end I’ll be annoyed with Bob Costas, his news headquarters desk and his treacly interviews. I’ll have watched so many treacly three-minute human interest packages I could put one together in my sleep. But I’ll still come back next time. (Yes, I used “treacly” twice.)
I know athletes are still swimming at meets and participating at track and field events during the Olympic pause, but I pay attention with a vague and passing curiosity. If a gymnastics meet or ice skating event makes it to one of the six TV channels I receive with my set-top antenna, I’ll watch. But you won’t find me scouring the Internet for results.
I’m going to credit my Olympic fervor to a handful of documentaries I watched (on TV) as a grade-schooler. I understood “16 Days of Glory,” which chronicled the 1984 Olympic Games in Los Angeles, and its sequels (Seoul, Calgary) to be captivating slices of athleticism and history. They made participation in the Olympic Games seem like success unequaled and the Games themselves an important event for humanity.
Guess I can’t shake that feeling.
And that narrator’s voice. I’d know it anywhere — flat and dark and full of gravitas. Perfect for talking about Something Very Important.
Here’s a clip of “16 Days of Glory” featuring Carl Lewis in the 100-meter dash, courtesy of YouTube.
Jody Rosen has an eye for unprofessionalism. The Slate.com music critic has discovered that the Bulletin, a free alternative weekly in Montgomery County, Texas, used one of her (his?) articles without permission. Rosen has written about it here at Slate.com.
And it’s not the first time the Bulletin has done this, according to Rosen’s article. It seems this alt-weekly has published lots and lots of articles that were pieced together using stories ripped in part or whole from other publications.
“It was then that I realized, with a pang of regret, that Mark Williams is not my biggest fan—a reader so enraptured by Rosen’s prose stylings that he was driven to steal them. ‘Spring Fling’ has at least three sources: my Slate essay, Mansfield’s USA Today piece, and a Minneapolis Star-Tribune Miranda Lambert profile. And this is just the beginning of Williams’ collage-art music journalism.
Since 2005, the Bulletin has published dozens of stories under Williams’ byline that appear to be copied, whole or in part, from other periodicals.”
The Slate.com article goes on to showcase examples. I’m astounded that a publication would consistently plagiarise to fill its pages.
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[ Slate.com / Dude, You Stole My Article ]
Have you seen Wordle? Users enter the text or URL of their choice and the site creates a word cloud. The more times a word is mentioned the larger it becomes in the word cloud.
I typed in my blog’s URL and the results were surprising. I believe Wordle pulls entries from the URL’s RSS feed. I’m not sure how many entries. For some reason, I expected more about books and reading. Less “like.” Less “parking.”
Those tiny words on the right-hand side of the image are “impressed” and “awkward.” You can view a larger image of my Wordle here.
But I really think this is a cool application. What would a Wordle of an entire book look like?
I’m a nervous cook.
Being in the kitchen and encountering a new recipe is like encountering a text written in a foreign language — without an interpreter. And until I feel comfortable with the dish, every time feels like the first time: full of awkward movements and indecision and unknown outcomes and suspect chemical reactions and the possibility of ruined pans. Plus dangerous heating elements, sharp knives and the ever-lurking threat of food poisoning.
Weeks of repetition are required for any action to feel confident and natural, and in the beginning my mind often conjures urgent questions about the simplest details. ”How long before the water boils?” and “How will I know when to flip the chicken?” and “Does it matter how many holes I poke in these potatoes?” and “If I add the spices now will they burn on the bottom of the pan?” and ”If I wash this fruit and add the cream immediately won’t the water make the cream all weepy and ruin things?”
And sometimes, if a fair amount of time passes between our last encounter and the next, meeting the dish again is like meeting a distant and poorly remembered acquaintance, not a familiar friend. There is no homecoming of delicious anticipation. I assemble my pans and spices with mild apprehension, trying to remember the way each step is supposed to feel or smell or taste so that the end product is edible.
Even when recipes are marked “easy” it’s not hard for me to forget everything I’ve ever encountered in the kitchen and default to basic unease. “How does this blender work again?” and “What number on the burner’s dial corresponds with ‘medium’?” and “Should I let the olive oil get really hot before I add the vegetables?”
Because of this I tend to make the same simple dishes again and again, most of which require little skill: steamed vegetables, omelets, fresh fruit concoctions, basic chicken recipes, baked potatoes, holiday pies, two-step relishes. But I enjoy these foods.
Once in a while I feel adventurous and hunt new recipes. I may copy one down and affix it to the front of my refrigerator. Right now my fridge sports a recipe for honey-glazed chicken with mango salsa. Mango! Wherever will I find mango? But the rest looks like something I could muster the skill to attempt.
It’s because of my attitude toward cooking I was interested in this article from The New York Times. It seems the burger has become acceptable, even trendy, in Paris! French chefs working in the U.S. have put their own spin on the American classic and this has encouraged Parisian chefs (dare I say given them cultural permission?) to import a juicy, well-made version. Some of these chefs have put their own spin on the item, adding all sorts of spices like thyme or toppings like blackberry relish and holding back staples such as ketchup or cheddar cheese. Other chefs have mandated that classic American ingredients such as iceberg lettuce and a toasted sesame seed bun be used.
All of these recipes sounded delicious! And their experimental attitude was inspiring. Maybe it’s time to attempt that mango chicken and bring a little more deliciousness into my kitchen.
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[In Paris, Burgers Turn Chic/ Nytimes.com]
