California phenomenon: Torrential rain through bright sunlight. I've never understood how that works, but it makes the constant downpour almost cheerful.
All the better for sending The Semiotician on her way. Safe travels and great adventures to you, ma'am. We'll hold down the fort, living vicariously, until you come home.
February 28, 2006
February 25, 2006
Uplifted in D minor
I've been wondering on and off for years why blues music makes me happy.
A boatload of studies have been done on the human brain's reaction to various types of music. I haven't read very many, but one I remember from college concluded that certain sequences of notes fire off neural patterns that parallel certain emotional triggers.
So, running up a major scale might spark the same connection in your brain that makes you feel bright and energetic; while running down a minor scale might give you a sense of melancholy or lethargy. Other learned types say a song can make the listener feel joyful or terrible regardless of key—it's all about tempo. Slow tempo = sad. Fast tempo = happy.
But none of these explanations seem too compelling to me. It's all interesting to consider, but true depth of feeling isn't likely to be captured by a scientific instrument in a measurable quantity anytime soon. Especially given the limitless complexity and individuality of our brains.
The best conclusion I can rustle up is that blues make me happy because they offer empathy without complication. Blues is simple music. The greatest one-chord tunes in the world are blues. They're famously easy songs to write (my man done me wrong, my dog died, I got no home, I'm on the road) and equally easy to hear. Blues talk about universal experience. They don't need analysis. A beat is a beat. A wail is a wail. A strum is a strum is a strum.
The conscious, literate brain is pretty much irrelevant in blues. There's nothing intellectual about it. Blues could care less what's on your mind. They just hop in there, sit down in a rocking chair, and tap out a rhythm. They figure it won't take long until you join them.
4 bars for the feet, 4 for the heart, 4 for the hands, and you're all set. If you don't feel it, you're thinking too hard.
A boatload of studies have been done on the human brain's reaction to various types of music. I haven't read very many, but one I remember from college concluded that certain sequences of notes fire off neural patterns that parallel certain emotional triggers.
So, running up a major scale might spark the same connection in your brain that makes you feel bright and energetic; while running down a minor scale might give you a sense of melancholy or lethargy. Other learned types say a song can make the listener feel joyful or terrible regardless of key—it's all about tempo. Slow tempo = sad. Fast tempo = happy.
But none of these explanations seem too compelling to me. It's all interesting to consider, but true depth of feeling isn't likely to be captured by a scientific instrument in a measurable quantity anytime soon. Especially given the limitless complexity and individuality of our brains.
The best conclusion I can rustle up is that blues make me happy because they offer empathy without complication. Blues is simple music. The greatest one-chord tunes in the world are blues. They're famously easy songs to write (my man done me wrong, my dog died, I got no home, I'm on the road) and equally easy to hear. Blues talk about universal experience. They don't need analysis. A beat is a beat. A wail is a wail. A strum is a strum is a strum.
The conscious, literate brain is pretty much irrelevant in blues. There's nothing intellectual about it. Blues could care less what's on your mind. They just hop in there, sit down in a rocking chair, and tap out a rhythm. They figure it won't take long until you join them.
4 bars for the feet, 4 for the heart, 4 for the hands, and you're all set. If you don't feel it, you're thinking too hard.
February 22, 2006
"It's a great day at Sterlent!"
The phone ladies (yes, always ladies) at my car loan company actually have to answer the phone that way. The first time I called, I thought I might have misheard. Next time, I thought maybe they were kidding.
Oh no, they're not. They must all go home at the end of the day and throw heavy objects around, grunting, until they feel normal again. And we wonder why folks from other countries stereotype American friendliness as insincere.
Can I help you? Or maybe gnaw off one of my own limbs and escape?
Have a great day! Bye now!
Oh no, they're not. They must all go home at the end of the day and throw heavy objects around, grunting, until they feel normal again. And we wonder why folks from other countries stereotype American friendliness as insincere.
Can I help you? Or maybe gnaw off one of my own limbs and escape?
Have a great day! Bye now!
February 20, 2006
In a sentimental mood
"It is a truth universally acknowledged that a single man in possession
of a good fortune must be in want of a wife."
I admit it. I'm a total sucker for Jane Austen movies. Any movie made from a Victorian novel, really, but especially Austen and those feisty Brontës. As well as one of the greatest opening lines of all time (see above), Pride and Prejudice has all the ingredients for a tasty drama: surly but handsome hero with a garish income, stubborn but beautiful heroine who just won't act like a lady, conniving noblewomen, foolish mothers, wise fathers, giggly younger sisters, musical servants, refused proposals, reams of mixed messages, and a host of secondary characters who each get a good zinger in before the whole thing wraps up.
In Austen's world, nobody works (except the servants, but they love it so much they sing all the time) and everybody winds up in deep, infatuated, reciprocated love. I can't think of anything better to do on a sunny holiday afternoon than soak up that world for a couple of hours.
When the lights come back on, it's easy to stay convinced that every straight woman in the universe—regardless of inferior or superior birth, as they say—will inevitably trip over her prince at dawn sometime on the family estate. He'll declare his undying devotion, and you'll be so overwhelmed that you won't even notice his incredibly high-waisted riding pants.
Or maybe you will. But it won't take you long to get over it. Promise.
February 18, 2006
Oops
I guess it was bound to happen eventually. I discovered since buying a Golf that they breed like bunnies around here—every other car on the road looks just like mine, including three in the parking lot at work and two on my street at home.
The saving grace is that they're not usually the same pretty color as mine: Black and grey seem to be the most popular, with blue and red tied for second place. But every so often, I see another jade green four-door, and I feel like the driver and I are bonding somehow.
Except the driver of the car I accidentally got into the other night and tried to start probably doesn't want to bond with me. What can I say? It was two cars behind where I parked mine, and obviously looked exactly the same. And after I pressed the unlock button on my key, the driver's side door opened right up.
It probably should have tipped me off when my feet seemed to have too much room (um, no clutch), but I was tired and on auto-pilot, so I put the key in the ignition. Then the alarm went off. Amazingly, I still didn't get it. "That's annoying, must have pressed the alarm button by accident," I thought, and pressed it a few more times until the alarm stopped.
Then I tried to start the car. But the key didn't really fit, and it certainly didn't turn, and then the alarm went off again. Then I looked up and saw my Golf a few yards away. Leapt out of the wrong car, got in the right car where everything worked like it was supposed to, and drove on home, looking for flashing lights in my rear-view the whole way.
Yeah, I'm college edjumacated and all, but sometimes I need to be smacked upside the head. It's just a lucky thing the stars were aligned and the other car's owner (or Mr. McOfficer) didn't come by right then.
Sorry, fellow green Golfer. Didn't mean anything by it. But you might want to try locking your doors next time.
The saving grace is that they're not usually the same pretty color as mine: Black and grey seem to be the most popular, with blue and red tied for second place. But every so often, I see another jade green four-door, and I feel like the driver and I are bonding somehow.
Except the driver of the car I accidentally got into the other night and tried to start probably doesn't want to bond with me. What can I say? It was two cars behind where I parked mine, and obviously looked exactly the same. And after I pressed the unlock button on my key, the driver's side door opened right up.
It probably should have tipped me off when my feet seemed to have too much room (um, no clutch), but I was tired and on auto-pilot, so I put the key in the ignition. Then the alarm went off. Amazingly, I still didn't get it. "That's annoying, must have pressed the alarm button by accident," I thought, and pressed it a few more times until the alarm stopped.
Then I tried to start the car. But the key didn't really fit, and it certainly didn't turn, and then the alarm went off again. Then I looked up and saw my Golf a few yards away. Leapt out of the wrong car, got in the right car where everything worked like it was supposed to, and drove on home, looking for flashing lights in my rear-view the whole way.
Yeah, I'm college edjumacated and all, but sometimes I need to be smacked upside the head. It's just a lucky thing the stars were aligned and the other car's owner (or Mr. McOfficer) didn't come by right then.
Sorry, fellow green Golfer. Didn't mean anything by it. But you might want to try locking your doors next time.
February 14, 2006
'Tis the season
I went to Walgreens today to buy Draino for the kitchen sink (since you were dying to know), and the Hallmark aisle was packed to the hilt with desperate-looking guys who were just about coming to blows over the few remaining cards.
The whole scene was kind of hilarious. So is this holiday gem from McSweeney's.
Happy Valentine's Day!
The whole scene was kind of hilarious. So is this holiday gem from McSweeney's.
Happy Valentine's Day!
February 13, 2006
NIMBY
Well, hey there. I missed you. Glad to be back among people who don't work every hour of every day.
To be fair, I did find time this past week to go to a play, a bizarre party, and a very nice potluck dinner in a Victorian mansion. (Long story short: The Semiotician is endlessly resourceful.) But otherwise, I've been editing 24/7 like it's my job.
Yeah, so it is my job. Never you mind. Let's talk about my cowboy hat instead.
Last weekend, I decided to see what would happen if I wore it to Berkeley Bowl. Not the wildest thing anyone's ever done, granted, but I still thought it'd be an interesting way to check the local political pulse. Berkeley, original stomping grounds of the Yuppie with a Hippie Ethic, liberal haven extraordinaire. But can the lefties brace themselves and not pass judgment on a cowboy hat? You know, the kind our incredibly evil dictator/president might wear?
The unscientific answer: Sort of. Nobody said anything out loud, but the Sunday cart-pushers did shoot some daggers with their eyes. For the most part, it seemed more like, "Well, she's not from around here," than accusatory. But I'm a decent judge of what people are thinking, and I definitely got more than one what-are-you-doing-in-that-thing glance. Other folks were clearly just amused.
Too many soc classes in college? For sure. But with a grain of salt, consider this: I have it really easy in this life. I look about as unthreatening as a person possibly can to every social group in every region of the country. So, for a couple of hours, it was pretty interesting to have my neighbors look twice and visibly try to decide—on a basic knee-jerk level—if they could trust me, or if I were some freaky outsider who accidentally wound up in the wrong town.
Because in the hat, see, I might be one of them. The red-staters. Shudder.
To be fair, I did find time this past week to go to a play, a bizarre party, and a very nice potluck dinner in a Victorian mansion. (Long story short: The Semiotician is endlessly resourceful.) But otherwise, I've been editing 24/7 like it's my job.
Yeah, so it is my job. Never you mind. Let's talk about my cowboy hat instead.
Last weekend, I decided to see what would happen if I wore it to Berkeley Bowl. Not the wildest thing anyone's ever done, granted, but I still thought it'd be an interesting way to check the local political pulse. Berkeley, original stomping grounds of the Yuppie with a Hippie Ethic, liberal haven extraordinaire. But can the lefties brace themselves and not pass judgment on a cowboy hat? You know, the kind our incredibly evil dictator/president might wear?
The unscientific answer: Sort of. Nobody said anything out loud, but the Sunday cart-pushers did shoot some daggers with their eyes. For the most part, it seemed more like, "Well, she's not from around here," than accusatory. But I'm a decent judge of what people are thinking, and I definitely got more than one what-are-you-doing-in-that-thing glance. Other folks were clearly just amused.
Too many soc classes in college? For sure. But with a grain of salt, consider this: I have it really easy in this life. I look about as unthreatening as a person possibly can to every social group in every region of the country. So, for a couple of hours, it was pretty interesting to have my neighbors look twice and visibly try to decide—on a basic knee-jerk level—if they could trust me, or if I were some freaky outsider who accidentally wound up in the wrong town.
Because in the hat, see, I might be one of them. The red-staters. Shudder.
February 06, 2006
Gone freelancin'
Sorry I'm not available to blog for you right now. I'm busy putting out grammatical fires at my day job and editing a Europe guide for disabled travelers by night.
Please leave a message at the tone, and I'll get back to you after this brief masochistic period is over in a few days.
Thank you.
Beep.
Please leave a message at the tone, and I'll get back to you after this brief masochistic period is over in a few days.
Thank you.
Beep.
February 03, 2006
Hooked on a feeling
Know when you pull into a parking space right when the last notes of a song play, so it's like you magically have your own life soundtrack?
That rules.
That rules.
February 01, 2006
OK Chorale
Hey, li'l dogies, it looks like I joined a choir.
It all started with a family visit. We had dinner with some former students of my dad's (including the lady behind this tasty food blog) who moved out here last year, and one of them told me about the choir she found in their neighborhood. They needed people; did I want to audition?
I hadn't sung that kind of music since high school, when my a capella group was strong-armed into performing with the guys' group at Christmas Vespers and graduation every year, so I wasn't sure it would be my kind of thing.
But doing any music is better than none, and it's been a while since the band went on hiatus. So, I drank a bunch of tea and headed for the audition with a minor case of nerves and the beginnings of a nasty brochial infection. Even with those strikes against me, it went pretty well. Turns out my range is still on the hefty side, so that's good. I can't sight read worth a damn, but the director said I could join up if I agreed to learn the music via CD for their spring concert.
So far (two rehearsals), it's like taking a class. We're working on Carl Orff's version of Carmina Burana, a long, crashing piece you'd recognize from a thousand movies. The music is beautiful in an exhausting way, and Middle High German is bizarre but interesting. It sounds like the love child of Latin and Italian, with some guttural hacking thrown in for good measure.
The concert is sometime in March, so I'll let you know by then if I've drunk the Kool-Aid and become a total choir freak, or if the weekly commute to make formal noises in a freezing cold Mission church with a group of strangers has done me in.
It all started with a family visit. We had dinner with some former students of my dad's (including the lady behind this tasty food blog) who moved out here last year, and one of them told me about the choir she found in their neighborhood. They needed people; did I want to audition?
I hadn't sung that kind of music since high school, when my a capella group was strong-armed into performing with the guys' group at Christmas Vespers and graduation every year, so I wasn't sure it would be my kind of thing.
But doing any music is better than none, and it's been a while since the band went on hiatus. So, I drank a bunch of tea and headed for the audition with a minor case of nerves and the beginnings of a nasty brochial infection. Even with those strikes against me, it went pretty well. Turns out my range is still on the hefty side, so that's good. I can't sight read worth a damn, but the director said I could join up if I agreed to learn the music via CD for their spring concert.
So far (two rehearsals), it's like taking a class. We're working on Carl Orff's version of Carmina Burana, a long, crashing piece you'd recognize from a thousand movies. The music is beautiful in an exhausting way, and Middle High German is bizarre but interesting. It sounds like the love child of Latin and Italian, with some guttural hacking thrown in for good measure.
The concert is sometime in March, so I'll let you know by then if I've drunk the Kool-Aid and become a total choir freak, or if the weekly commute to make formal noises in a freezing cold Mission church with a group of strangers has done me in.
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