Tom Colicchio unveiled his plans for a new restaurant which, like Brigadoon, will magically appear at designated intervals, then vanish from sight. It will be called Tom: Tuesday Dinner. But Mr. Colicchio appeared far from sold on the name, at one point saying, “If somebody can think of a better one, I’ll change it.”... The restaurant will probably serve about 80 diners a month, which is almost certain to make this one of the toughest tickets in town. Reservations will be taken by telephone six weeks in advance, and the price of the meal ($150 to $250 depending on the menu) will have to be prepaid with a credit card. Menus will only be announced about a week before each meal... And with that, we will take suggestions for a new name. Can anybody improve on “Tom: Tuesday Dinner”?
It's the New York Times's fault, not Tom's. They posted a short piece on his new idea, but right now isn't really the smartest time to even mention overpriced dinners to anybody, especially to a notoriously snarky and/or whiny readership with the ability to append comments to any article -- and to then ask them to rename the restaurant.
The most clear and direct zinger was I suppose the people attending these dinners will be the ones we bail out with our savings and our retirement funds. But while I am suspicious of the consumers, I respect the supplier. I worry that we might suddenly distrust any high style, cuisine, or art because we're nervous about the economy. Cultural treasures are sometimes the first to be destroyed when tax riots happen -- because they are visible and symbolic, even though their actual worth is dwarfed by the real soul-selling Wall Street nonsense. The people end up no richer, the real villains remain comfortable, and big bloody chunks get taken out of everything that is beautiful. And good food is art; Tom doesn't call it Craft for nothing.
That said, the new names are amusing so far: "Marie Antomette," "Let Them Eat Fake," "Guillotine," “Narcissist Nosh," "Cluelessly Conspicuous Consumption," "Elite Eats," "Let Them Eat Bailout," "The Emperor’s New Clothes," "Tom Much Money," "Tom: Yurt Dining Coming Soon @ $400 Per Plate," "Fool’s Diner," "Tom: Let’s Hope the Euro Stays High," "Arrogance, by Tom," "The Optimist’s Club," "Tom: No Rent Overhead... But Still Passing it Along to You," "Tom Foolery," "Sucker," "T.G.I. Tuesday's," "Wood-Fired Publicist."
Tuesday, September 30, 2008
Monday, September 29, 2008
In which the best little Matthew goes public
It turns out that I accidentally had at least two lurkers reading this weblog before I was ready to tell anyone about it anyway.
The Haste Land - I: The Burial of the Fed
THE HASTE LAND
(it's a gag on T.S. Eliot, click here to read the original, or just skip to my previous entry where I make a very funny and completely appropriate joke)
Nihil timor populi, nihil concursus bonorum omnium, nihil hic munitissimus
habendi senatus locus, nihil horum ora voltusque moverunt? Patere tua
consilia non sentis, constrictam iam horum omnium scientia teneri
coniurationem tuam non vides? Quid proxima, quid superiore nocte egeris,
ubi fueris, quos convocaveris, quid consilii ceperis, quem nostrum
ignorare arbitraris? O tempora, o mores!
I. THE BURIAL OF THE FED
September is the snidest month, reminding
Americans of our smallness, snatching
Votes and taxes, dragging out
Dull times with dullards.
Iraq and election buzz kept us busy, overgrowing
Wall Street in the shade of hedges, feeding
A weed or twelve with subprime mortgages.
Autumn surprised us,
Autumn certainly fucking surprised us, flooding over the Troopergate
With a torrent of actual seriousness; we stopped in the Starbucks
And stared at the flatscreen, muted with closed captioning,
And we were muted, and Paulson talked for three pages.
Blah blah crisis, blah blah rescue, blah SEVEN HUNDRED BILLION.
And I was like a child, because I thought someone
Would have at least mentioned this to me before the week before,
And I was frightened. Bill said, America,
America, hold on tight. And down we went.
In the Starbucks, we hold tight to our laptops.
I scan the job list instead of working, and consider Canada.
What is a hedge fund, what branches grow
Out of what is not there? Son of a bitch,
I could not say, or guess, for I had been shown only
A heap of broken images: lapel pins,
Hillaryites, car crashes, pregnant daughters,
And underinformed medical diagnoses. Only
There was a shadow of mounting crisis under it all,
(But I didn't know to look under that particular under it all),
And who knew that something different from either
Blahblah about change and not another four years
Or blahblah about experience and mavericks
Was the fear in a handful of headlines.
Their arms empty, their deal broken, I could not
Understand, and I really had heard of neither
Fannie nor Freddie before this, and I knew nothing,
Looking into the next Great Depression, or something.
Well I don't have any swimmin' in my show.
Suze Orman, my fiancee read her book,
I still don't understand, nevertheless
I know she's supposed to be readable for me,
Although I'm under 30. Here, said she,
Is your explanation: the Mortgage Thing,
(Those are parachutes of gold. Look!)
Here is Washington Mutual, that's your bank,
Or, it was your bank.
Here's an IRA (you don't have one), and a CD (same),
And here is the grad student, and his account,
In the double-digits, and some last ditch-help from his parents,
Which he is embarrassed to mention. I do not find
Any investments. You've got nothing to lose.
I see a House of Representatives, reaching across an aisle.
Thank you. If you see dear Mr. President,
Tell him I told him so:
But the new bailout will surely pass. It has to.
Unacceptable Swamp,
White dome beneath the red and yellow leaves,
These bitches takin' my money, still more,
I had not thought they could take even more.
Groans, loud, frequent, confused, were exhaled,
And each man fixed his eyes upon the hill.
Turned up the news, and down Pennsylvania Avenue,
To where Saint Mary Toolface had kept the hours
Assuring us that everything was fine.
There my great aunt Kate saw me, stopped me, "Matthew!
You who spent on grad school what I'd saved!
That corpse you planted last year in your garden,
Yadda yadda yadda. Will you eat this year?
Or will your ramen poisoning end it all?
Oh I remember the real Depression, Matt,
You're gonna wish that you had learned a trade!
Instead of learning French, you snotty shit!"
II. A DEBATE OVER DEBATING
The scrim behind them, like a sad Constitution,
Glowed different blues, a little darker where
At stage left, tie was crooked, lapel pin straight,
A lightened blue at right, above the white dome
(To keep him from looking too pasty pale),
Shined on and met the eye of Jim Lehrer
Who, though he felt the crisis coming on,
Was glad to see both candidates show up,
From suspension threats and witty quips;
At podiums of wood and plexiglass
They stuttered, proffered strange synthetic fumes,
Unguent, powdered, or liquid—troubled, confused
And drowned the sense in odours...
(To be continued later)
(it's a gag on T.S. Eliot, click here to read the original, or just skip to my previous entry where I make a very funny and completely appropriate joke)
Nihil timor populi, nihil concursus bonorum omnium, nihil hic munitissimus
habendi senatus locus, nihil horum ora voltusque moverunt? Patere tua
consilia non sentis, constrictam iam horum omnium scientia teneri
coniurationem tuam non vides? Quid proxima, quid superiore nocte egeris,
ubi fueris, quos convocaveris, quid consilii ceperis, quem nostrum
ignorare arbitraris? O tempora, o mores!
I. THE BURIAL OF THE FED
September is the snidest month, reminding
Americans of our smallness, snatching
Votes and taxes, dragging out
Dull times with dullards.
Iraq and election buzz kept us busy, overgrowing
Wall Street in the shade of hedges, feeding
A weed or twelve with subprime mortgages.
Autumn surprised us,
Autumn certainly fucking surprised us, flooding over the Troopergate
With a torrent of actual seriousness; we stopped in the Starbucks
And stared at the flatscreen, muted with closed captioning,
And we were muted, and Paulson talked for three pages.
Blah blah crisis, blah blah rescue, blah SEVEN HUNDRED BILLION.
And I was like a child, because I thought someone
Would have at least mentioned this to me before the week before,
And I was frightened. Bill said, America,
America, hold on tight. And down we went.
In the Starbucks, we hold tight to our laptops.
I scan the job list instead of working, and consider Canada.
What is a hedge fund, what branches grow
Out of what is not there? Son of a bitch,
I could not say, or guess, for I had been shown only
A heap of broken images: lapel pins,
Hillaryites, car crashes, pregnant daughters,
And underinformed medical diagnoses. Only
There was a shadow of mounting crisis under it all,
(But I didn't know to look under that particular under it all),
And who knew that something different from either
Blahblah about change and not another four years
Or blahblah about experience and mavericks
Was the fear in a handful of headlines.
What I need -- from you -- because--Yet when they returned, late, from convening,
You're the bosses of the town essentially, and I know that
Is -- this is so hard. I mean there's
There's nothing easy about this
You know, this is like, you know
When you're gettin' your legs waxed
And they whip that thing off, real fast
That's what this is like. I need
More money. Okay. What I need
Is a hundred thousand dollars.
Their arms empty, their deal broken, I could not
Understand, and I really had heard of neither
Fannie nor Freddie before this, and I knew nothing,
Looking into the next Great Depression, or something.
Well I don't have any swimmin' in my show.
Suze Orman, my fiancee read her book,
I still don't understand, nevertheless
I know she's supposed to be readable for me,
Although I'm under 30. Here, said she,
Is your explanation: the Mortgage Thing,
(Those are parachutes of gold. Look!)
Here is Washington Mutual, that's your bank,
Or, it was your bank.
Here's an IRA (you don't have one), and a CD (same),
And here is the grad student, and his account,
In the double-digits, and some last ditch-help from his parents,
Which he is embarrassed to mention. I do not find
Any investments. You've got nothing to lose.
I see a House of Representatives, reaching across an aisle.
Thank you. If you see dear Mr. President,
Tell him I told him so:
But the new bailout will surely pass. It has to.
Unacceptable Swamp,
White dome beneath the red and yellow leaves,
These bitches takin' my money, still more,
I had not thought they could take even more.
Groans, loud, frequent, confused, were exhaled,
And each man fixed his eyes upon the hill.
Turned up the news, and down Pennsylvania Avenue,
To where Saint Mary Toolface had kept the hours
Assuring us that everything was fine.
There my great aunt Kate saw me, stopped me, "Matthew!
You who spent on grad school what I'd saved!
That corpse you planted last year in your garden,
Yadda yadda yadda. Will you eat this year?
Or will your ramen poisoning end it all?
Oh I remember the real Depression, Matt,
You're gonna wish that you had learned a trade!
Instead of learning French, you snotty shit!"
II. A DEBATE OVER DEBATING
The scrim behind them, like a sad Constitution,
Glowed different blues, a little darker where
At stage left, tie was crooked, lapel pin straight,
A lightened blue at right, above the white dome
(To keep him from looking too pasty pale),
Shined on and met the eye of Jim Lehrer
Who, though he felt the crisis coming on,
Was glad to see both candidates show up,
From suspension threats and witty quips;
At podiums of wood and plexiglass
They stuttered, proffered strange synthetic fumes,
Unguent, powdered, or liquid—troubled, confused
And drowned the sense in odours...
(To be continued later)
Saturday, September 27, 2008
In which Matthew tries a special blend
1.
Pringles Can Designer Buried in His Work:
Cremated remains of Fredric J. Baur stored in iconic snack-food container
(Associated Press, June. 3, 2008)
CINCINNATI - The man who designed the Pringles potato crisp packaging system was so proud of his accomplishment that a portion of his ashes has been buried in one of the iconic cans.
Fredric J. Baur, of Cincinnati, died May 4 at Vitas Hospice in Cincinnati, his family said. He was 89.
Baur's children said they honored his request to bury him in one of the cans by placing part of his cremated remains in a Pringles container in his grave in suburban Springfield Township. The rest of his remains were placed in an urn buried along with the can, with some placed in another urn and given to a grandson, said Baur's daughter, Linda Baur of Diamondhead, Miss.
Baur requested the burial arrangement because he was proud of his design of the Pringles container, a son, Lawrence Baur of Stevensville, Mich., said Monday.
2.
Pringles Can Designer Buried in His Work:
Cremated remains of Fredric J. Baur stored in iconic snack-food container
(Associated Press, June. 3, 2008)
CINCINNATI - The man who designed the Pringles potato crisp packaging system was so proud of his accomplishment that a portion of his ashes has been buried in one of the iconic cans.
Fredric J. Baur, of Cincinnati, died May 4 at Vitas Hospice in Cincinnati, his family said. He was 89.
Baur's children said they honored his request to bury him in one of the cans by placing part of his cremated remains in a Pringles container in his grave in suburban Springfield Township. The rest of his remains were placed in an urn buried along with the can, with some placed in another urn and given to a grandson, said Baur's daughter, Linda Baur of Diamondhead, Miss.
Baur requested the burial arrangement because he was proud of his design of the Pringles container, a son, Lawrence Baur of Stevensville, Mich., said Monday.
2.
In which Matthew finds a nuclear ray of hope
More than anything, Mr. McCain seemed intent on presenting Mr. Obama as green and inexperienced, a risky choice during a difficult time. Again and again, sounding almost like a professor talking down to a new student, he talked about having to explain foreign policy to Mr. Obama and repeatedly invoked his 30 years of history on national security (even though Mr. McCain, in the kind of misstep that no doubt would have been used by Republicans against Mr. Obama, mangled the name of the Iranian president, Mahmoud Ahmadinejad, and he stumbled over the name of Pakistan’s newly inaugurated president, calling him “Qadari.” His name is actually Asif Ali Zardari.). (New York Times)
And yet. In the midst of all this financial panic, a ridiculous election, and all of it, it occurred to me this morning that all participants in last night's debate pronounced the word nuclear correctly and consistently.
And yet. In the midst of all this financial panic, a ridiculous election, and all of it, it occurred to me this morning that all participants in last night's debate pronounced the word nuclear correctly and consistently.
Friday, September 26, 2008
In which Matthew buries a leprous laptop
8/25-8/31: Amy arrives and we all go down to San Diego, where Ara performs. We come back but everything remains in vacation mode for Amy's visit. Classes begin.
9/1-9/7: I bounce back from vacation mode with backed-up dissertation and teaching-prep work to do. "I will get this prospectus draft done by the 9/5 deadline if it kills me," I say.
9/8-9/14: I get a partial draft in, just before my mom arrives for a visit and everything goes back into vacation mode. The timewarp torque of any parental visit is always felt, but we have a good time, and I am a fabulous host. When she leaves, I must bounce back again into backed-up work. "I will get this grading done by Monday if it kills me," I say.
9/15-9/21: It kills me. I become violently ill (at times this is nearly literal) and somehow the symptoms spread to my laptop. It had been held together with a rubber band (literally again) for months; now keyboard letters were popping off at random and cracks were growing in the chassis. Light movement causes the battery to disconnect. My advisor's comments arrive, and they are very helpful, but they send me back to the drawing board in a more intense way than I'd expected. But all I can do is order a new computer.
9/22-present: My health improves. The new computer arrives. It is wonderfully distracting, especially now that I finally can play Portal. I am still behind on my work.
9/1-9/7: I bounce back from vacation mode with backed-up dissertation and teaching-prep work to do. "I will get this prospectus draft done by the 9/5 deadline if it kills me," I say.
9/8-9/14: I get a partial draft in, just before my mom arrives for a visit and everything goes back into vacation mode. The timewarp torque of any parental visit is always felt, but we have a good time, and I am a fabulous host. When she leaves, I must bounce back again into backed-up work. "I will get this grading done by Monday if it kills me," I say.
9/15-9/21: It kills me. I become violently ill (at times this is nearly literal) and somehow the symptoms spread to my laptop. It had been held together with a rubber band (literally again) for months; now keyboard letters were popping off at random and cracks were growing in the chassis. Light movement causes the battery to disconnect. My advisor's comments arrive, and they are very helpful, but they send me back to the drawing board in a more intense way than I'd expected. But all I can do is order a new computer.
9/22-present: My health improves. The new computer arrives. It is wonderfully distracting, especially now that I finally can play Portal. I am still behind on my work.
Thursday, September 25, 2008
aphorism 2
History is when huge, stupid, and easily preventable things are done to you without your consent. It reminds you how little agency you have. Except in those rare sweet moments when you rise up in anger: and so the only way you can effect even a little change is in sacrificing your agency to a mob.
[Midnight, after Ara and I (with much work) finally started to parse and understand the financial crisis (and couldn't help but also think of our experience seven Septembers ago)]
[Midnight, after Ara and I (with much work) finally started to parse and understand the financial crisis (and couldn't help but also think of our experience seven Septembers ago)]
Wednesday, September 24, 2008
pop riddle 7
As of early October, 2008:
Le Blue était seize.
Alors Le Blue était dix-huit.
Et bientôt, Le Blue sera dix-neuf.
Tragedy has struck twice, and it's about to strike again. Figure out what the tragedy will be.
[Outside research is always allowed on riddles, and is often necessary. If you'd like to guess the answer, please post it in the comments box. If you want a clue, or want me to give you the answer for free, post your request in the comments box.]
Le Blue était seize.
Alors Le Blue était dix-huit.
Et bientôt, Le Blue sera dix-neuf.
Tragedy has struck twice, and it's about to strike again. Figure out what the tragedy will be.
[Outside research is always allowed on riddles, and is often necessary. If you'd like to guess the answer, please post it in the comments box. If you want a clue, or want me to give you the answer for free, post your request in the comments box.]
Saturday, September 13, 2008
pop riddle 6
I am the one who rips the laws.
I am the one who sets the fish on fire.
But I am not the one.
Who am I?
[Outside research is always allowed on riddles, and is often necessary. If you'd like to guess the answer, please post it in the comments box. If you want a clue, or want me to give you the answer for free, post your request in the comments box.]
I am the one who sets the fish on fire.
But I am not the one.
Who am I?
[Outside research is always allowed on riddles, and is often necessary. If you'd like to guess the answer, please post it in the comments box. If you want a clue, or want me to give you the answer for free, post your request in the comments box.]
Friday, September 12, 2008
In which Matthew's dreams change
My mother arrived in the Bay Area last Saturday: the first time, since I've had my own home, that she has ever stayed at my home. It was a nervous experience for both of us, I think, but most things are nervous experiences for us.
When Mom got off the plane, her friend (also in town visiting her son) couldn't get over how Mom wouldn't leave her purse unwatched for a second, even on a plane. The woman in the next seat over didn't look shifty per se, she said, but Mom didn't really like her attitude.
But I probably wouldn't have left my purse behind either. This was one of many stories over which my Mom and I bonded during her visit, as one item or another had to be re-cleaned, fixed, or double-checked on. We smiled as we bought disinfectant together (which Mom would surreptitiously use in case her friend tried to share headphones again on the flight home).
The way Mom puts it: Everybody gets on my case, and yours, apparently, for not being trusting, for not trusting the universe to take care of me. They're right -- why should I trust to random people who I do not care about and who don't care about me? It doesn't mean I'm any less happy, or any less at peace in my life. I take care of myself, and I'm a realist.
Last night I dreamed one of my classic violent chase dreams -- used to be more frequent than they are now. At one point I was running from a killer who had already chopped off my head. But just at the end, when the killer had laid hands upon Ara, something drastic changed from the usual model: we actually caught and stopped the killer. And it was because we had chased him, who carried and was about to snuff Ara, out onto the street. It was dawn, and a small truck was parked in the street nearby to make its deliveries. Just as I ran out (too late) to find Ara with the garrote around her neck and the killer on top of her, the driver looked up, saw what was going on, and turned on his truck. As he ran over them, according to dream-physics, Ara was unharmed because she was beneath the bad guy. But the killer was crushed -- terribly -- between her and the tires. Ara had a stunned "Well, that happened" look on her face, but she was safe.
When we took Mom to Cafe Gratitude, the hippie server asked us to meditate on and discuss a question while she prepared our orders: Who provides for you?. My mom said "God"; I said "strangers." I have learned to always depended on their kindness: it is the tendency for people to try to do right by their fellow humans, or at least to err somewhat outside of full-on apathy, which has gotten me through countless tight and embarrassing spots.
When Mom got off the plane, her friend (also in town visiting her son) couldn't get over how Mom wouldn't leave her purse unwatched for a second, even on a plane. The woman in the next seat over didn't look shifty per se, she said, but Mom didn't really like her attitude.
But I probably wouldn't have left my purse behind either. This was one of many stories over which my Mom and I bonded during her visit, as one item or another had to be re-cleaned, fixed, or double-checked on. We smiled as we bought disinfectant together (which Mom would surreptitiously use in case her friend tried to share headphones again on the flight home).
The way Mom puts it: Everybody gets on my case, and yours, apparently, for not being trusting, for not trusting the universe to take care of me. They're right -- why should I trust to random people who I do not care about and who don't care about me? It doesn't mean I'm any less happy, or any less at peace in my life. I take care of myself, and I'm a realist.
Last night I dreamed one of my classic violent chase dreams -- used to be more frequent than they are now. At one point I was running from a killer who had already chopped off my head. But just at the end, when the killer had laid hands upon Ara, something drastic changed from the usual model: we actually caught and stopped the killer. And it was because we had chased him, who carried and was about to snuff Ara, out onto the street. It was dawn, and a small truck was parked in the street nearby to make its deliveries. Just as I ran out (too late) to find Ara with the garrote around her neck and the killer on top of her, the driver looked up, saw what was going on, and turned on his truck. As he ran over them, according to dream-physics, Ara was unharmed because she was beneath the bad guy. But the killer was crushed -- terribly -- between her and the tires. Ara had a stunned "Well, that happened" look on her face, but she was safe.
When we took Mom to Cafe Gratitude, the hippie server asked us to meditate on and discuss a question while she prepared our orders: Who provides for you?. My mom said "God"; I said "strangers." I have learned to always depended on their kindness: it is the tendency for people to try to do right by their fellow humans, or at least to err somewhat outside of full-on apathy, which has gotten me through countless tight and embarrassing spots.
Tuesday, September 9, 2008
In which Matthew retreats into parody
Subject: Re: Melding together the Old English and Paleography reading groups From: [the snazzy new medievalist first-year]
Date: Mon, September 8, 2008 6:29 pm
To: [me]
Cc: [other medievalists who, like me, I am sure, knew just about jack regarding the texts mentioned below until they turned to wikipedia in a panic]
Great!
I was going to organize the paleography by date/script and start with the Epinal Glosses, Codex Aureus, and a few other early MSS. I will probably do the Chronicle in week three because it provides a good example of changing scripts in late ASE.
What do you think about making the first meeting a combo-intro meeting? We'll do a bit of both, maybe translate the famous short passage in the codex aureus that describes how the book was saved from the heathens!
Anyways, I'm glad you like the idea! I'll put together an announcement and send it to you.
Thanks,
[snazzy first-year]
-------
Subject: Re: Melding together the Old English and Paleography reading groups From: [me]
Date: Mon, September 8, 2008 6:29 pm
To: [another medievalist]
Cc: [not the snazzy new first-year, because I'm embarrassed... even though the medievalist I sent this to ended up telling the first-year anyway]
!!!
Where did we FIND this guy?
Also:
Saints' lives, vitae, sermons by Aelfric
Unh, the way he colloquizes the alph'bet
Beats the boys when they tryin' ta talkback
But if Alfred had had him he'd have betta Latin
Oh, oh, the Saxon monks be seethin'
The way the Danes invade and keep on repeatin'
Can't read this handwritin', call Henry Sweet in
I'm pretty glad we saved this book from the heathens
Whatchu know 'bout Bede
Whatchu whatchu know 'bout Bede
Whatchu know 'bout Bede
Whatchu whatchu know?
They say my Epinal Glosses poppin'
My Epinal Glosses cool
Codices be hoppin'
in Anglo-Saxon school
That's how I cope with never having heard of the Epinal Glosses before. Please tell me you know Lil' Mama's song "Lip Gloss". Otherwise the above makes no sense.
Best,
[me]
Date: Mon, September 8, 2008 6:29 pm
To: [me]
Cc: [other medievalists who, like me, I am sure, knew just about jack regarding the texts mentioned below until they turned to wikipedia in a panic]
Great!
I was going to organize the paleography by date/script and start with the Epinal Glosses, Codex Aureus, and a few other early MSS. I will probably do the Chronicle in week three because it provides a good example of changing scripts in late ASE.
What do you think about making the first meeting a combo-intro meeting? We'll do a bit of both, maybe translate the famous short passage in the codex aureus that describes how the book was saved from the heathens!
Anyways, I'm glad you like the idea! I'll put together an announcement and send it to you.
Thanks,
[snazzy first-year]
-------
Subject: Re: Melding together the Old English and Paleography reading groups From: [me]
Date: Mon, September 8, 2008 6:29 pm
To: [another medievalist]
Cc: [not the snazzy new first-year, because I'm embarrassed... even though the medievalist I sent this to ended up telling the first-year anyway]
!!!
Where did we FIND this guy?
Also:
Saints' lives, vitae, sermons by Aelfric
Unh, the way he colloquizes the alph'bet
Beats the boys when they tryin' ta talkback
But if Alfred had had him he'd have betta Latin
Oh, oh, the Saxon monks be seethin'
The way the Danes invade and keep on repeatin'
Can't read this handwritin', call Henry Sweet in
I'm pretty glad we saved this book from the heathens
Whatchu know 'bout Bede
Whatchu whatchu know 'bout Bede
Whatchu know 'bout Bede
Whatchu whatchu know?
They say my Epinal Glosses poppin'
My Epinal Glosses cool
Codices be hoppin'
in Anglo-Saxon school
That's how I cope with never having heard of the Epinal Glosses before. Please tell me you know Lil' Mama's song "Lip Gloss". Otherwise the above makes no sense.
Best,
[me]
Sunday, September 7, 2008
In which Matthew remains on the same loop
From: [me]
Date: Sun, September 7, 2008 11:37 am
To: [name omitted, just for courtesy]
Hi [name],
Drop me a line and we'll grab some tea on the 20th, gladly. As for how
I'm doing: meh. I'd set a draft deadline for my already overdue
dissertation proposal for Friday night, and only got it half done by 5am,
when I sent it to my advisor. Haven't heard from her yet, but I'm
petrified that she won't approve and it will be back to the drawing board
once again. It's an emotional rollercoaster at this stage of the process,
and I have a sneaking suspicion that it will be an even more nauseating
rollercoaster at the next stage, but I am tired of being endlessly
"pre-proposal" and just want to get to the project itself! We'll see...
Looking forward to seeing you,
Matthew
Date: Sun, September 7, 2008 11:37 am
To: [name omitted, just for courtesy]
Hi [name],
Drop me a line and we'll grab some tea on the 20th, gladly. As for how
I'm doing: meh. I'd set a draft deadline for my already overdue
dissertation proposal for Friday night, and only got it half done by 5am,
when I sent it to my advisor. Haven't heard from her yet, but I'm
petrified that she won't approve and it will be back to the drawing board
once again. It's an emotional rollercoaster at this stage of the process,
and I have a sneaking suspicion that it will be an even more nauseating
rollercoaster at the next stage, but I am tired of being endlessly
"pre-proposal" and just want to get to the project itself! We'll see...
Looking forward to seeing you,
Matthew
Friday, September 5, 2008
In which Matthew writes to Wright
Dear Will Wright,
So now you've made SimCity, SimCity 2000, SimCity 3000, SimEarth, SimLife, SimCopter, SimAnt, The Sims, and, today, you released Spore [I had considered buying myself a copy as a reward for completing a dissertation prospectus draft today... but as the day drags on I'm wondering whether that draft will ever get finished]; under your name or following your lead, we've had sim civilizations, sim rollercoasters, sim sex.
All of that shit is brilliant, obviously, but it has no storyline. I was hoping maybe you would start work next on SimTroy. Think of it: major poetic minds in various European cultures have told stories that unfold during the same finite historical moment in or around the same city walls: Homer, Virgil, Giovanni Boccaccio, Geoffrey Chaucer, Robert Henryson, William Shakespeare, Brad Pitt. With your help, we could tell all the Trojan stories at the same time, in real time. The user, a random Trojan or Greek, could wander through the city and overhear (or join) any one of these dramas -- because part of the thrill of them is that they all happen simultaneously. Step inside the walls and help Pandarus bring together two young lovers. Step outside and battle alongside or against Achilles or Ajax. Join the funeral games. The trick is that all the NPC in-game dialogue would be translated as directly as possible from the great poetic works, creating a Troy that is a mishmosh of various cultures (and populated by a bunch of antisocial gamers).
Also, I think you might do well to switch hairdressers. Right now, your message seems only to be "behind simulation after simulacrum after simulation, all there really is is terrible, terrible hair."
All best,
Matthew
So now you've made SimCity, SimCity 2000, SimCity 3000, SimEarth, SimLife, SimCopter, SimAnt, The Sims, and, today, you released Spore [I had considered buying myself a copy as a reward for completing a dissertation prospectus draft today... but as the day drags on I'm wondering whether that draft will ever get finished]; under your name or following your lead, we've had sim civilizations, sim rollercoasters, sim sex.
All of that shit is brilliant, obviously, but it has no storyline. I was hoping maybe you would start work next on SimTroy. Think of it: major poetic minds in various European cultures have told stories that unfold during the same finite historical moment in or around the same city walls: Homer, Virgil, Giovanni Boccaccio, Geoffrey Chaucer, Robert Henryson, William Shakespeare, Brad Pitt. With your help, we could tell all the Trojan stories at the same time, in real time. The user, a random Trojan or Greek, could wander through the city and overhear (or join) any one of these dramas -- because part of the thrill of them is that they all happen simultaneously. Step inside the walls and help Pandarus bring together two young lovers. Step outside and battle alongside or against Achilles or Ajax. Join the funeral games. The trick is that all the NPC in-game dialogue would be translated as directly as possible from the great poetic works, creating a Troy that is a mishmosh of various cultures (and populated by a bunch of antisocial gamers).
Also, I think you might do well to switch hairdressers. Right now, your message seems only to be "behind simulation after simulacrum after simulation, all there really is is terrible, terrible hair."
All best,
Matthew
Thursday, September 4, 2008
In which Matthew remembers the Titanic
A week ago, I was bored, so I texted Brandi six times in a row. Each text contained a different-sized section of the lyrics to Celine Dion's "My Heart Will Go On." Three of them were cut so as to end with the words "go on," separated by a series of spaces, as if introducing the text that followed. The final one ended with "go on/and on." One message was just the word "near"; one was just "far." The whole performance was very spare and evocative. She was touched. I really do hate her so very much.
And today, I came across Paul Strohm's riff on a similar theme (Theory and the Premodern Text, 2000): "Troilus [and Criseyde, Chaucer's poem about love during the Trojan War] executes writing's most solemn cultural assignment, which is to connect the past with the future. It is always about the burdens of its own prehistory: the abduction of Helen, the narrowed options imposed by the precondition of the Greek siege. And it is no less about its own unhappy future: the end of love, the fall of Troy, Troilus's own death. It is founded in a moment of enlarged temporal vision -- the prophet Calchas's recognition of Troy's inevitable doom -- a recognition it always tries to forget and never succeeds in forgetting.
"One might say, drawing on a more recently popular image: this ship's iceberg was already out there when it set sail; an aspect of destiny rumored, discussed, but never embraced ('taken on board?') as an inevitability. I mention this 'schlock icon' in order to suggest that our culture has its own fascination with the concept of a present held hostage to the past and future. A present that, however banal, gains a certain luminosity from our retrospective knowledge of its ephemerality. Just as I was writing this essay I encountered a story in the New York Times about the very high auction price of a boarding card for the Titanic. The boarding card (framed, auctioned by Sotheby's, reverenced) is the icon, or mark, of a wound in time, a moment when time is fractured or divided within itself, a major part of its meaning reliant upon retrospective illumination."
And today, I came across Paul Strohm's riff on a similar theme (Theory and the Premodern Text, 2000): "Troilus [and Criseyde, Chaucer's poem about love during the Trojan War] executes writing's most solemn cultural assignment, which is to connect the past with the future. It is always about the burdens of its own prehistory: the abduction of Helen, the narrowed options imposed by the precondition of the Greek siege. And it is no less about its own unhappy future: the end of love, the fall of Troy, Troilus's own death. It is founded in a moment of enlarged temporal vision -- the prophet Calchas's recognition of Troy's inevitable doom -- a recognition it always tries to forget and never succeeds in forgetting.
"One might say, drawing on a more recently popular image: this ship's iceberg was already out there when it set sail; an aspect of destiny rumored, discussed, but never embraced ('taken on board?') as an inevitability. I mention this 'schlock icon' in order to suggest that our culture has its own fascination with the concept of a present held hostage to the past and future. A present that, however banal, gains a certain luminosity from our retrospective knowledge of its ephemerality. Just as I was writing this essay I encountered a story in the New York Times about the very high auction price of a boarding card for the Titanic. The boarding card (framed, auctioned by Sotheby's, reverenced) is the icon, or mark, of a wound in time, a moment when time is fractured or divided within itself, a major part of its meaning reliant upon retrospective illumination."
Tuesday, September 2, 2008
In which Matthew celebrates Reevesday
A Most Excellent Reevesday to one and all! Today is the annual day, across the world (and various realities, but particularly in Beirut, Toronto, LA, my own private Idaho, and Minnesota), when devotees gather to celebrate the life and work of an international superstar. Once a year, you might say the whole earth stands still.
The day involves a range of cultural activities including readings and dramatizations from Bill and Ted's Excellent Adventure, cocaine-addled pub crawls and high-speed bus chases. Enthusiasts often dress in black leather and Oakleys to celebrate Reevesday, and they hold Dogstar sing-a-longs in overstuffed phone booths. Hard-core devotees have even been known to attempt marathon readings of the entirety of The Matrix, The Matrix Reloaded, The Matrix Revolutions, The Animatrix, Enter the Matrix, The Matrix: Path of Neo, The Matrix Online, The Matrix Comics Vol. I, The Matrix Comics Vol. II, and The Lake House, while Laurence Fishburne rolls his eyes in dismay.
The first celebration took place in 1964, and a major five-month-long festival (A Most Excellent Feeling Minnesota 2004) took place in St. Paul between 1 April and 31 August 2004. On the Sunday in 2004 before the 40th birthday of their hero, after a night of ice hockey and demon rides, 10,000 people in St. Louis meditated in a postmodern pseudo-Buddhist trance on whether the sound "whoa" (their equivalent of "om") really does sound like a cool breeze over the mountains, then swallowed fistfuls of red-dyed pills and died suddenly.
The day involves a range of cultural activities including readings and dramatizations from Bill and Ted's Excellent Adventure, cocaine-addled pub crawls and high-speed bus chases. Enthusiasts often dress in black leather and Oakleys to celebrate Reevesday, and they hold Dogstar sing-a-longs in overstuffed phone booths. Hard-core devotees have even been known to attempt marathon readings of the entirety of The Matrix, The Matrix Reloaded, The Matrix Revolutions, The Animatrix, Enter the Matrix, The Matrix: Path of Neo, The Matrix Online, The Matrix Comics Vol. I, The Matrix Comics Vol. II, and The Lake House, while Laurence Fishburne rolls his eyes in dismay.
The first celebration took place in 1964, and a major five-month-long festival (A Most Excellent Feeling Minnesota 2004) took place in St. Paul between 1 April and 31 August 2004. On the Sunday in 2004 before the 40th birthday of their hero, after a night of ice hockey and demon rides, 10,000 people in St. Louis meditated in a postmodern pseudo-Buddhist trance on whether the sound "whoa" (their equivalent of "om") really does sound like a cool breeze over the mountains, then swallowed fistfuls of red-dyed pills and died suddenly.
Monday, September 1, 2008
In which Matthew fantasizes about a chick fight
There's an empty glass podium with a tasteful reading light and coral drapes in the background. There's the click of sensible heels approaching. And Hillary Clinton steps up to the plate. And she looks fabulous, and surprisingly relaxed. The cameras roll.
"My fellow Americans, and dear supporters: I fought my way into a near win in the Democratic primary despite my gender -- I dealt with double standards in the party, the opposition, the press, and certainly the voting public. And in the end I bowed out gracefully. Relatively gracefully.
"Senator McCain has chosen Governor Palin, meanwhile, because of her sex, and only because of it. That is not progressive. That is sexist, and insulting. McCain has turned his vice presidential nomination into a vain publicity stunt, timed perfectly to eclipse press attention on Barack's big second-act opener. And he did steal the headlines briefly, until God (obviously a Democrat) staged a bigger stunt in response, stealing the RNC's thunder and dropping it just outside New Orleans. Not enough to do too much damage, but enough to remind us and the press of Katrina, and of who the GOP really is and has been. I can't shake the mental image of Governor Palin, face frozen in a smile, doing a stilted beauty queen wave on a parade float that is actually floating up Bourbon Street thanks to a party who is constantly on vacation, who refuses to even take the vice presidency seriously, openly referring to it as 'a job that involves attending funerals and checking on the health of the president.'
"How the irony stings, when Sarah Palin has the gall to try and take up my mantle, to break a glass ceiling which I've only cracked -- by positioning herself to take away my right to choose.
"I've already gone on record and said 'No way, no how, no McCain.' I don't know how I could make it clearer to my former supporters, especially the women, that a write-in vote for me, in this close election, could send our rights back into decades that predate women's liberation entirely. Here's one last try: if you are a former supporter of my campaign, and you withhold your vote from the Democrats, or vote Republican, out of spite or a vendetta or bitterness over my unfortunate but fair loss of the primary, you are a fucking retard. I will personally come to your pathetic lonely home, backhand you across the face, kill your cats, and tear down with nails of rage any posters or buttons or shrines which bear my name. You have no right to them.
"As for my supposed successor, who was busy popping out baby after baby after baby after baby after baby at home in North Bumblefuck while I fought for women's health and rights across the globe, but now has pretensions to even make reference to my campaign as she builds her own: I know you'll soon be trounced by Joe Biden and everything. He'll come out looking like a mean old man and it'll probably win you votes.
"But a week before the vice-presidential debates, let's do one of our own. For the ladies. You and me. Lincoln-Douglas style. Next Wednesday, here in New York State, at the motherfucking Susan B. Anthony House in Rochester, bitch. I will show you, and my daughter, what a real feminist, and a real woman, can do. And you are of course welcome to invite Track, Trig, Pippi, Wippi, Trip, Tralala, and however many other kids you'll have popped out by that point. Bring it the fuck on. Thank you."
"My fellow Americans, and dear supporters: I fought my way into a near win in the Democratic primary despite my gender -- I dealt with double standards in the party, the opposition, the press, and certainly the voting public. And in the end I bowed out gracefully. Relatively gracefully.
"Senator McCain has chosen Governor Palin, meanwhile, because of her sex, and only because of it. That is not progressive. That is sexist, and insulting. McCain has turned his vice presidential nomination into a vain publicity stunt, timed perfectly to eclipse press attention on Barack's big second-act opener. And he did steal the headlines briefly, until God (obviously a Democrat) staged a bigger stunt in response, stealing the RNC's thunder and dropping it just outside New Orleans. Not enough to do too much damage, but enough to remind us and the press of Katrina, and of who the GOP really is and has been. I can't shake the mental image of Governor Palin, face frozen in a smile, doing a stilted beauty queen wave on a parade float that is actually floating up Bourbon Street thanks to a party who is constantly on vacation, who refuses to even take the vice presidency seriously, openly referring to it as 'a job that involves attending funerals and checking on the health of the president.'
"How the irony stings, when Sarah Palin has the gall to try and take up my mantle, to break a glass ceiling which I've only cracked -- by positioning herself to take away my right to choose.
"I've already gone on record and said 'No way, no how, no McCain.' I don't know how I could make it clearer to my former supporters, especially the women, that a write-in vote for me, in this close election, could send our rights back into decades that predate women's liberation entirely. Here's one last try: if you are a former supporter of my campaign, and you withhold your vote from the Democrats, or vote Republican, out of spite or a vendetta or bitterness over my unfortunate but fair loss of the primary, you are a fucking retard. I will personally come to your pathetic lonely home, backhand you across the face, kill your cats, and tear down with nails of rage any posters or buttons or shrines which bear my name. You have no right to them.
"As for my supposed successor, who was busy popping out baby after baby after baby after baby after baby at home in North Bumblefuck while I fought for women's health and rights across the globe, but now has pretensions to even make reference to my campaign as she builds her own: I know you'll soon be trounced by Joe Biden and everything. He'll come out looking like a mean old man and it'll probably win you votes.
"But a week before the vice-presidential debates, let's do one of our own. For the ladies. You and me. Lincoln-Douglas style. Next Wednesday, here in New York State, at the motherfucking Susan B. Anthony House in Rochester, bitch. I will show you, and my daughter, what a real feminist, and a real woman, can do. And you are of course welcome to invite Track, Trig, Pippi, Wippi, Trip, Tralala, and however many other kids you'll have popped out by that point. Bring it the fuck on. Thank you."
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