Yesterday was J.'s birthday; I asked what he wanted to do, since his migraine-avoiding diet excludes sodium, caffeine, and alcohol, thus eliminating the usual "go out to dinner" option. He said, "Can we go see 'Fahrenheit 9/11'?" It's been a loooong time since we went to a movie in an actual movie theater (maybe last December, unless it was the December before that); actually, I guess that makes it more of a special occasion than eating out. So I bought the tickets online in the morning for the 7:30 show, and by the time we got to the theater, both the 7:30 and 8:30 shows were sold out, and there was a line not quite around the block, but definitely a good way down it. People with political flyers and stickers and petitions were working the crowd, and the two guys behind us in line were carrying on a conversation about sociology and redistricting and various constitutional articles and hardly pausing for breath. Not, in other words, the same crowd that's gathering for, say, "Dodgeball."
I guess I should write about the movie itself, too, at some point; but I've used up way too much non-work computer time already today, and I'm not sure I can assemble anything really coherent in my head anyway. (I'm not sure Michael Moore can assemble anything really coherent either; his movies aren't so much sustained arguments as burst after burst of argument-fostering vignettes. Which is an entirely valid way to do it; just not an easy one for a viewer to fully assimilate.) I probably have to go see it again, actually, if I'm going to write about it, and take a notebook with me; my film-studies instincts are starting to tick again like an engine heating up in winter, and if I'm going to do it, I want to do it right.
In the meantime, however, in my continuing role as Font of Useless Knowledge, I've figured out that if you interpret Fahrenheit 9/11 as 911°F, it converts to other temperature scales thus:
488.33 Celsius
761.48 Kelvin
1370.67 Rankine
390.66 Reaumur
Wednesday, June 30, 2004
Tuesday, June 29, 2004
E-mail of the day
With the names obscured to protect our jobs, my office's e-mail of the week, regarding the projects we're doing with/for our not-very-partner-like partner company (hereinafter P———):
From the boss, to everyone:
From the boss, to everyone:
In order to do the [billing], I will need your hours on all E———, M———, L———, and other P——— projects work by tomorrow at 11am.Employee to boss (who then forwarded it to everyone):
Here you go:
E———, ......0
M———, ........0
L———..............0
Other P——— projects.......0
Total........0
Not having to work with P———.........priceless
(I did, however, listen to a lot of bitching during smoke breaks. Does that count towards anything?)
Monday, June 28, 2004
It's French, b!tch
(Before anyone takes offense at the entry title, it's from the Daily Show's fictional spinoff, "The Colbert Report"; the voiceover pronounces it "Colbare Repore," and Stephen Colbert fixes the camera with one of those arched-eyebrow stares and says "It's French, b!tch." We now continue with our regularly-scheduled entry.)
On a Food Channel show, a French-Canadian chef pronounced "jalapeño" as "zhelapenno," accent on the first syllable—I actually only knew what he was saying because he was holding a jalapeño pepper at the time.
Somewhat along the same line, about a month ago on one of the South Philly crosstown buses, I was sitting in front of two women who were speaking a language I absolutely couldn't recognize. I usually have a good ear for languages, even the ones I don't actually understand; I can pinpoint the Romance ones, identify the Slavic ones as Slavic (and narrow them down to "Ukrainian," "Czech," or "not Ukrainian or Czech"), and pick Chinese out from other Asian languages by the rising and falling intonations. Usually, in South Philly, the non-English languages you hear are Spanish, Italian, and Chinese, with some Russian or Polish and Vietnamese every now and then. And these two women weren't speaking any of them. Some of the individual syllables and short words felt like I should know them, but I couldn't put them together. I finally figured out, after the women briefly switched to English, that they were from the Caribbean, and the language they'd been speaking was a Caribbean dialect of French. It just didn't sound like French: none of the intonations or inflections you hear in the European or Quebeçois varieties.
It's odd how much of a language depends, not only on the words and phonetic pronunciation, but the way that pronunciation comes out. I know a flat-affect schizophrenic who has, literally, no intonation when he speaks, and it's surprisingly hard to understand him. And a British actor who does spot-on American English pronunciation will still sound a bit off if they don't get the spaces between and around the words exactly right. (Same with American actors doing British English, but I don't catch that as well as a native Brit would.) Listen, if you don't have anything better to do, to the difference between Gwyneth Paltrow's British-ish accents in 1996's "Emma" and 1998's "Shakespeare in Love"; and, if you can find it, the neglected BBC version of "Emma," with the actually British Kate Beckinsale. (I think Gwyneth's character in 2002's "Possession" is British, too [they did change the main male character from British to American, the bastards], but I plan to watch that movie shortly after the Demi Moore "Scarlet Letter," which will be never.)
On a Food Channel show, a French-Canadian chef pronounced "jalapeño" as "zhelapenno," accent on the first syllable—I actually only knew what he was saying because he was holding a jalapeño pepper at the time.
Somewhat along the same line, about a month ago on one of the South Philly crosstown buses, I was sitting in front of two women who were speaking a language I absolutely couldn't recognize. I usually have a good ear for languages, even the ones I don't actually understand; I can pinpoint the Romance ones, identify the Slavic ones as Slavic (and narrow them down to "Ukrainian," "Czech," or "not Ukrainian or Czech"), and pick Chinese out from other Asian languages by the rising and falling intonations. Usually, in South Philly, the non-English languages you hear are Spanish, Italian, and Chinese, with some Russian or Polish and Vietnamese every now and then. And these two women weren't speaking any of them. Some of the individual syllables and short words felt like I should know them, but I couldn't put them together. I finally figured out, after the women briefly switched to English, that they were from the Caribbean, and the language they'd been speaking was a Caribbean dialect of French. It just didn't sound like French: none of the intonations or inflections you hear in the European or Quebeçois varieties.
It's odd how much of a language depends, not only on the words and phonetic pronunciation, but the way that pronunciation comes out. I know a flat-affect schizophrenic who has, literally, no intonation when he speaks, and it's surprisingly hard to understand him. And a British actor who does spot-on American English pronunciation will still sound a bit off if they don't get the spaces between and around the words exactly right. (Same with American actors doing British English, but I don't catch that as well as a native Brit would.) Listen, if you don't have anything better to do, to the difference between Gwyneth Paltrow's British-ish accents in 1996's "Emma" and 1998's "Shakespeare in Love"; and, if you can find it, the neglected BBC version of "Emma," with the actually British Kate Beckinsale. (I think Gwyneth's character in 2002's "Possession" is British, too [they did change the main male character from British to American, the bastards], but I plan to watch that movie shortly after the Demi Moore "Scarlet Letter," which will be never.)
Saturday, June 26, 2004
Sacred, part II
Ooohhh, I'm so surprised: Britney Spears is having another go at marriage, that sacred institution to which she is already such a credit. Maybe it'll even last longer than 55 hours this time. (A factoid that escaped my apoplexy about her first marriage: the wedding license cost $55, making the marriage a dollar per hour. Cheaper than renting a hooker.)
The highlight of the particular article I've linked to is the part about Mr. Spears #2's most recent relationship, which I'll quote at unusual length, because it's just so good:
The highlight of the particular article I've linked to is the part about Mr. Spears #2's most recent relationship, which I'll quote at unusual length, because it's just so good:
The marriage also will be the first for Federline, 26, who, while a stranger to matrimony, is no stranger to other hallowed institutions, such as fatherhood. Federline has a two-year-old daughter with former Moesha star Shar Jackson. The ex-couple is expecting their second child in July.I realize the "gracious" is supposed to be sarcastic, but, given the situation, I think she actually is being gracious. More so than I'd be, anyway. For instance, the words "crapweasel" and "no-talent skank" don't appear in her comments; though maybe that's what she was saying before the quoted "made for each other"...
The gracious Jackson has been quoted as declaring Federline and Spears are "made for each other."
"You both smoke, you both drink and you both cheated on significant others after three years," Jackson told Us Weekly in April, apparently referencing herself and Spears' former beau, Justin Timberlake.
Jackson issued just one ultimatum to the twosome: "There are two little kids—she [Spears] better be prepared to babysit."
Friday, June 25, 2004
Pigeons
If you live in a city, I guess there's only two ways to feel about pigeons: either you really dislike them ("feathered rats," anyone?) or you become tolerantly affectionate of them. After four years in New Haven and...yikes, six in Philadelphia, I've swung over towards "affectionate." As long as they don't actually crap on my head, anyway.
So here are some pigeon-related things I've thought over the years:
One of my favorite things about living in a city is watching the male pigeons try to impress the females during mating season. They puff out their chests, they drag their tails, they bob and bow and coo, they put on the biggest show they can; and the females just hurry away, or even fly away, without looking at them. I know the males must be succssful sometimes, or there wouldn't continue to be more pigeons; but mostly, it's very entertaining to watch all that "look at me!" puffery met by complete disinterest.
***
It's true that pigeons have pretty much taken over everyplace urban; but it's not the fault of the pigeons that the environments we create for ourselves exactly duplicate their natural habitat. The common, feathered-rat pigeon is officially a rock dove; a dove that lives on rocks, on cliffs, under overhangs, among crags...or, in a pinch, among sidewalks, overpasses, and skyscrapers. (On the bright side, for pigeon-haters, peregrine falcons have also taken to the cliff-like skyscraper environment. Nature is nothing if not adaptable.)
***
Not that I'm superstitious, or a big believer in karma; but every now and then, I wonder if the urban ubiquity of the rock dove is cosmic payback for the extermination of the passenger pigeon. (It would serve us right; or serve our ancestors right, anyway. Me, I'll just avoid standing under telephone lines where pigeons perch and enjoy watching the males fail to impress the females every spring.)
So here are some pigeon-related things I've thought over the years:
One of my favorite things about living in a city is watching the male pigeons try to impress the females during mating season. They puff out their chests, they drag their tails, they bob and bow and coo, they put on the biggest show they can; and the females just hurry away, or even fly away, without looking at them. I know the males must be succssful sometimes, or there wouldn't continue to be more pigeons; but mostly, it's very entertaining to watch all that "look at me!" puffery met by complete disinterest.
It's true that pigeons have pretty much taken over everyplace urban; but it's not the fault of the pigeons that the environments we create for ourselves exactly duplicate their natural habitat. The common, feathered-rat pigeon is officially a rock dove; a dove that lives on rocks, on cliffs, under overhangs, among crags...or, in a pinch, among sidewalks, overpasses, and skyscrapers. (On the bright side, for pigeon-haters, peregrine falcons have also taken to the cliff-like skyscraper environment. Nature is nothing if not adaptable.)
Not that I'm superstitious, or a big believer in karma; but every now and then, I wonder if the urban ubiquity of the rock dove is cosmic payback for the extermination of the passenger pigeon. (It would serve us right; or serve our ancestors right, anyway. Me, I'll just avoid standing under telephone lines where pigeons perch and enjoy watching the males fail to impress the females every spring.)
Talking towards the TV
J., on a "Queer Eye" guy's transformation: "He's gone from 'Dude, you got some coke?' to 'Dude, you got a rum and Coke?'"
(A bit later: "Actually, he's gone from crack to powder." Which I don't get, but I'm recording it for posterity in case other people do.)
(A bit later: "Actually, he's gone from crack to powder." Which I don't get, but I'm recording it for posterity in case other people do.)
When there's smoke, there's no fire truck
Is anybody surprised that, two days after announcing enormous cutbacks to the fire department, the fire commissioner announced his retirement? He's getting a half-million-dollar early-retirement bonus, too; which is perhaps not such a terrible thing, because he hasn't exactly been a terrific fire commissioner. (Ask all the firefighters who got Hepatitis C on the job about their healthcare benefits, and be prepared to stand back.)
He says that cutting eight engine and ladder companies is okay, because they'll be replaced by eight medic units. Comment from one of the firefighters: "Great, now they'll be able to rush the dead people to the hospital."
If I had my way (yeah, I know, I don't), I'd pay firefighters and police officers and schoolteachers and nurses lots of money, because they're the ones protecting/saving the asses of all the rich politicians and administrators and executives who are busy closing companies and sending jobs offshore and giving themselves benefits and pay raises. If my house is burning down, I'd rather have one firefighter than all the CEOs in the city.
He says that cutting eight engine and ladder companies is okay, because they'll be replaced by eight medic units. Comment from one of the firefighters: "Great, now they'll be able to rush the dead people to the hospital."
If I had my way (yeah, I know, I don't), I'd pay firefighters and police officers and schoolteachers and nurses lots of money, because they're the ones protecting/saving the asses of all the rich politicians and administrators and executives who are busy closing companies and sending jobs offshore and giving themselves benefits and pay raises. If my house is burning down, I'd rather have one firefighter than all the CEOs in the city.
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