Friday, January 26, 2007

On Malapropisms: A Eulogy

I've not had many nicknames in my life. Three to be exact. One of which is it's own story -- the greatness behind any nickname -- and really, only one person ever calls me by it. My last name not sufficing like it does for other guys, I've pretty much always been called Aaron. That is, until recently, thanks to my nephew.

Over dinner one night, struggling with the word ice cream truck he also got tongue-tied on my name, calling me Uncle Anna. I immediately sought to correct him. And he, in my haste to correct him, noticed how much I did not like that name and proceeded to call me Uncle Anna for next few years. At times it even descended into Auntie Anna.

My aunt passed away this morning -- my Nana's older sister. For most of my life, I knew her also by a malapropism bequeathed to her in much the same manner as my own, though in a time much before mine. She was my Auntie Apple. And growing up I knew her only as Auntie Apple -- cards and gifts were always signed as such. I don't remember even thinking of whether her name was 'Apple' or not until my teenage years when I learned of the malapropism. Her name was actually Ethel.

As she aged she longed to be called Aunt Ethel again. So we corrected ourselves. But it was not easy. We struggled with it -- it was a difficult adjustment for all of us. And we understood the malapropism for the first time. Cards and gifts also reflected Ethel's wishes. Perhaps I understand why she wanted to be called Ethel again -- much like I wanted to be called Uncle Aaron again (and incidentally I am Uncle Aaron again).

But this morning, when my mother called to tell me of her passing, her words were: Auntie Apple passed away this morning. When I told my wife: Auntie Apple died today. As I think about her in my head, I remember her as Auntie Apple. And when I think about what I will miss, I will miss my Auntie Apple.

I am my own nephew.

Wednesday, January 24, 2007

With What

One my my favorite quotes. It involves Flannery O'Connor. One of the writers I'm currently fascinated by. Here's the back story and the quote:

Flannery was taken by some friends to have dinner with an accomplished author. This author departed the Church at the age of 15 and was a "Big Intellectual". Flannery didn't speak at all throughout the dinner party, "there being nothing for me in such company to say. Having me there was like having a dog present who had been trained to say a few words but overcome with inadequacy had forgotten them." The conversation did turn to the Eucharist, which Flannery, the Catholic, felt she should defend. This author said as a child when she received the host, she thought of it as the Holy Ghost, "He being the most portable person of the Trinity" and that "now she thought of it as a symbol and implied that it was a pretty good one." Flannery's response: "Well, if it's a symbol, to hell with it."

I was never brought up to take part in the Eucharist, though I regularly went to church. My church, the Salvation Army, didn't practice the sacrament, one reason was the belief that "All life is a sacrament". So to set aside special "sacraments" was, in some sense, unnecessary (I'm surmising Salvationist beliefs I know. Sally's out there indulge me). In fact, I didn't receive the Eucharist (Communion, Lord's Supper, Bread & Wine, etc.) until a college chapel service. And I did so not fully sure of the practice myself. The next few times it was offered, I refused it. Until, that is, I came across the subject in theology classes.

Now I won't get into consubstantiation and transubstantiation. Actually, I don't think I could anyway. But what the Eucharist has become for me is a deep spiritual experience. It is not an experience weighted in liturgy or concerned with intinction. It is an experience shrouded in the mystery that is the presence of God, the presence and reminder of Christ Himself, of His Sacrifice. I am utterly moved by the sacrament of Communion.

Back to Flannery. Perhaps I have not betrayed my Salvationist upbringing quite as much as I had once thought. Perhaps Catherine Booth simply said "to hell with it" because it had become a symbol. Even today, Christians have symbols they erect -- in some cases: the sacraments; in others: devotions; Christian music; the books Christians may read; the mission trips they go on. Events partaken in because they are to be the "symbols" to the world of the faith.

Then I say: To hell with them. For if they are JUST symbols -- then it is nothing; "it is all straw".

Monday, January 22, 2007

The Mourning After

How do I write about my despair. How do I put into words this abject sadness that fights to consume me over this cup of coffee. For most of last night and as I awoke this morning, I thought of all the plays we could have run differently. How Reche could've caught the ball. How if Evans had broken a tackle and scampered inside the 20 with 24 seconds to play. If Brady had gone to the sidelines instead of over the middle. How a non-pass interference call on Reche and a bogus roughing-the-passer call on Banta-Cain could have sealed it for us (Seriously. I hit my dog harder than Tulla hit Peyton. Not saying we would've of stopped them, but that type of a call cannot be made in those situations. Also, how is that the announcers mentioned it only once? It was arguably the biggest play of the game getting the Colts to the 11 instead of the at the 20?).

Then it occurs to me...all this "we" stuff. It's not like I had any control over what was happening. Despite not shaving, despite wearing the same clothes every Sunday through the playoffs, despite eating only certain foods, there was nothing I could have done to control the outcome of the game. Of course, this realization lead to complete helplessness for a short-time. Why is it that sports fans put themselves through it? I have no answers, not this morning. On October 28, 2004 I had answers for you. On February 3, 2002 I had answers for you. This morning, I have nothing.

On the morning after the Mets won the '86 World Series, I remember it was my mother who told me as I woke up and scurried into the kitchen. I remember the same feeling then, as a six-year-old, that I have now. Then, as a baseball player, I pondered in my head whether I should want to play for the Mets when I got older -- because they were the champs. Then it occurred to me that I couldn't do that because the Red Sox needed me.

Do the Patriots need me? Probably not. Though I've got pretty good hands. They don't need me in any physical, emotional or metaphysical sense. I don't have those delusions. What I've surmised is that being a sports fan is like riding a roller coaster. There's the waiting in line, anticipation as the cars climb to the top, and then the up-and-down-topsy-turvy ride to the end. Sometimes the end is less than satisfying. Sometimes it's over at just the right moment. Either way, you usually enjoy the ride and want to do it again.

I enjoyed the ride. And I want to do it again. Also, don't misunderstand me either, this entry is not cathartic in any way. I'm still upset. But in anticipation of next year's ride, maybe I should lay off the ice cream and chips.

Sunday, January 21, 2007

I'll Know You By The Ringtone

So I've had to get a new phone after I'd had it with my LG Cingular phone. Between dropped calls and bad reception, it was time to part ways. Without much convincing I selected the Motorola RAZR for only $25. It's a great phone.

One of the perks of the phone is Bluetooth, which means I can link up my phone and my computer (iBook G4 w/Bluetooth). After a few google searches last night I found how I could send music from my computer to my phone. How is this cool? Well, if you have iTunes it's pretty freaking awesome.

In iTunes, there's a function that let's you edit a song based on start and finish times you manually enter. Then by a simple conversion to MP3's, iTunes basically copies the truncated song to your music playlist. Then you can export that 10,15,25 second song (or however long you want it) to your phone via Bluetooth.

So, what all does this mean? Well it means I've got some pretty cool ringtones that I haven't had to pay for. And that I can configure any part of any song to what I want that reminds me specifically of a person and then assign that, again, truncated song as that person's Ringtone ID. Here's my current list along with the part of the song I've used:

The Mrs.: "Trouble" by Ray Lamontagne: "I've been saved by a woman and she won't let me go.

eric: "Jimi Thing" by DMB -- the intro only, you played it ALL the time in college.

Dad: "It's the words Red Sox fans have longed to hear: The Red Sox are World Champions!" by Joe Buck. I'll fess up -- I payed for this one.

Mom: "Where You Are" by Bebo Norman: "The child in me would say, home is where you are."

steve: "T-Shirt Song" by Derek Webb: "They'll know us by the T-shirts that we wear."

mig: "A Little While" by U2: "A little girl, with Spanish eyes."

tim: "Into the Fire" by Bruce Springsteen: "Up the stairs, into the fire."

becky: "Piano Man" by Billy Joel: "Sing us a song you're the piano man."

sarah: "Mr. Tambourine Man" by Bob Dylan: "Hey Mr. Tambourine Man play a song for me in the jingle-jangle morning I'll be following you."

Obviously there are a few of you I haven't gotten to yet, like eric's Mrs., mike p., phil, OOBM, et. al. So if you've got suggestions, let me know and I'll get you on the phone.

Also this brings up an interesting idea for all of us. If we could be recognized by a song lyric, what would you want that to be? Would it just be from your favorite song? How would you describe yourself in song to be identified by someone else? Because, I have chosen these ringtones/songs as I did because I feel they best describe the person to me. Of course, it may also not be how such a person sees him/herself. But it's an interesting notion, that, first, we can be described as such and second, that different people would describe us differently.

Friday, January 19, 2007

Some Musings

Thoroughly enjoying the new John Mayer CD "Continuum". Fantastic, really. Easy on the ears, great lyrics and more than a few songs with a groove. One of my favorites, like everyone elses, is "Slow Dancing in a Burning Room". Also, a big fan of "Gravity". And bonus points to Mayer's imperative inside of the album jacket: "If your listening to this with an instrument on your lap: get to work, and deep in it. We all need you."

Finished my third book in two weeks, all by Nick Hornby. High Fidelity was by far his best of the books. Of course, I'd seen the movie already -- also a very good flick.

Next book is The Life You Save May Be Your Own: An American Pilgrimage by Paul Elie. It interweaves the life of four, 1940s and 50s Catholic writers (The so-called Lost Generation): Dorothy Day, Walker Percy, Thomas Merton, and, one of my all-time favorites, Flannery O'Connor. The book examines their struggles with religion and art and discusses their approaches to writing. Thus far, I'm very intrigued.

So this friend of mine, the one who's blog I named, changed the name of his blog. No. I'm not bitter. Not at all. Though, I must admit, his new name, very strong. Meets the criteria. Check it out.

If you don't watch Scrubs, shame on you. Last night's episode was classic. Any song where you can combine diverticulitis and barium enemas (been there, done that. Sorry. TMI.) is instantly a classic. And what's wrong with hearing singing in your head?

This English Football team thing may have been a bad idea. One of the teams I picked, Newcastle, got drubbed on national television Wednesday at home, against a lower seeded team. Oh...and there's now accusations of racism against the team.

No predictions on the big game Sunday. Rest assured however, that I am in full superstition mode...even down to the way I shave.

Thursday, January 18, 2007

And The Winner Is...

It's that time of year again. Time for my company to start applying for all these journalism awards. Needless to say it's taking up most of my bosses' time. And it all seems foolish to me. My bosses' have spent the last few weeks going through tapes for the past year, assembling the best newscasts, reporter stories, writing, etc.. And then we send our best to the awards' committees with a small fee per entry. Doesn't seem right -- that you have to apply for awards and pay to get them. This foolishness about awards is inane because the awards mean nothing. Who in your viewing audience cares that you won an SBJ or Regional Emmy? Is it the same thing as an Emmy? Did you apply for an Oscar? No and No. See. Who cares.

At the same time, I'm not completely against awards. I am against journalism awards however, but not against some awards. For example, every year at camp I won an award for "Worst Attempt at a Tan". My skin color was a dynasty, if you will, winning the award four consecutive times until they retired it. So, in honor of High Fidelity, a book I just finished, I've made a list. Here's my top 5 all-time awards I'd like to win (read:receive):

1. Super Bowl MVP: It's one thing to win a season MVP in any sport. But in no other sport (other than soccer) does such an award mean as much. You may not remember all the Super Bowl MVP's but you know that if you won one, you were the reason your team won the game.

2. The Man Booker Prize: It's a writer's award. Means you've written the best book/novel out there.

3. An Oscar: Not for acting or directing, but, again, for writing: for best original screenplay. And I've got several ideas...

4. Medal of Honor.

5. Best Dad: Only because you get either a really cool t-shirt and/or coffee mug.

So maybe only 3 of the 5 are realistic for me at this point in my life and my career. And it's not something I would certainly pay to win. Except for my kid...he may need to borrow a few bucks as a 4-year-old to get me that cup or that shirt.

Tuesday, January 16, 2007

The Challenges Of Writing

Painters have it easy. Their tools are of limitless potential. Light, shape, color all already extend beyond the canvas. All the painter must do is pull them into a finite border. It is much the same for the photographer. He, too, uses the boundless forms of lighting and color to bring to the viewer something much larger than the two-dimensional picture before them. They, have it easy.

The writer does not have it easy. Their tools are finite, binded by definition and meaning. The color blue can mean a number of things; the word telephone has far less import behind it. Surely, there are words like love, sacrifice, and truth that are shrouded in nuance. Perhaps that is why writers choose to write on those topics. A short story on the telephone may not win the Booker Prize.

Still, the task of the writer is much more difficult. The painter sets the picture before you and leaves you to interpret it. You do not watch him paint it or have any idea how the picture came to be. The writer must paint the picture for the reader in words and then demand that the reader transcend those words that formed that picture. A writer's challenge is to make words echo in the canyons -- canyons the writer himself has made.

But the good ones do just that. They paint pictures in finite words that reverberate in something much larger. Those words echo of the giantesque. And you find that the picture that has been painted on the pages has surrounded you and you are in over your head.

That a murderer on the loose in Florida kills a family out for a Sunday drive is just that (A Good Man is Hard to Find). But it's so simply just that that it can't be just that. So you read it again and sure enough there's something behind each word. There, in the sentence, in the words of a good writer, you find that the infinite has been divinely compressed into the finite and that each sentence bleeds of something larger. The good writers do this.

Sunday, January 14, 2007

On English Football

Just to be clear: Go Patriots!

I've been thinking since last year's World Cup that I should really follow soccer more often. I really do enjoy the matches, the atmosphere and the "beautiful game"; the fact that if you don't do well you get relegated to a lower league. How inventive is that? I mean imagine if American pro sports did that. It means that the teams that are terrible still have a reason to play even if they're out of it.

I'll be honest, it's very confusing. Very, very, very confusing. Between the FA Cup, the UEFA Cup, premier leagues and Euro Premier leagues, my head's been spinning as I've tried to figure it all out. But as much as an American can understand it I think I have. So I've decided to declare an allegiance to an English Football Club. Namely one in the EPL (Here's a list of teams if you're interested).

The book "Fever Pitch" helped a lot. Though I won't be rooting for Arsenal. My plan is to pull for Newcastle and/or Fulham. The former because there's a drink named after the town, Michael Owens plays for them and they're not necessarily a "bandwagon team". That last quality was essential to my allegiance. No way I was jumping on board with Manchester United, Liverpool, Arsenal or Chelsea. As for Fulham, I might decide to root for them because there are a few Americans that play for them, namely: Clint Dempsey.

Now, for the moment, this is only a trial period. Not because I'm unsure if I'll like it. Truth is, I love soccer -- been playing it since I was 5. But if I'll have the energy to follow another sport faithfully -- like English Football deserves to be followed. So, for the remainder of the EPL season I'll follow these two teams and root for them, read match recounts and watch highlights and do what I can.

Can I spend my time better? Pr0bably. But I feel like English Football is something I should and can be a part of. And would really, really enjoy. Also another reason for the trial period is to determine after said period whether or not I can justify adding Fox Soccer to the DirectTV subscription we may get when we move into our new home this summer.

If you've got any suggestions, I'm a blank slate at this point -- persuade me. But, again, just to be clear: Go Patriots.

Friday, January 12, 2007

A Long Night

So the Mrs. thinks I'm crazy. Which, at this point in the pregnancy, is that whole pot-kettle conversation. I admit to being slightly eccentric. Last night I read an entire book -- start to finish. I wrapped it up a few minutes before the Mrs. returned from work around 1:30am. And it wasn't a particularly good book. But it was worth the time I put into it.

The book was, again, by Nick Hornby called "A Long Way Down". For some reason I enjoy Hornby. Like I said, it wasn't a great book but I enjoyed it. It's about four people who plan to "top" themselves off on New Year's Eve but circumstance has it that they meet up. It's a dark subject but he and his characters handle it deftly -- and there are some fantastic characters.
He's a good writer, Hornby. Very good with dialogue. But the book was more akin to a Red Sox-Yankees game in mid-April. It's something you get geared up for and thoroughly enjoy but in September, you've all but forgotten about the game and how you felt about it. In fact, at that point, it's more like an dispositional belief. In other words, a year or so from now, I'll probably need to be reminded I've read it.
Perhaps because I was afraid I wouldn't finish it if I put it down ("Finishing a book proves nothing!" sayeth George Constanza). Perhaps it actually was good. Fact of the matter is I was up until 1:30am reading the 300+ pages I began at around 6:30pm (I took a two-hour break for must see TV Thursday -- I'm actually an efficient reader. Heck I've finished two books this week! I felt I needed to defend myself). The last time I did this was exactly a year ago -- with Jane Austen's "Pride and Prejudice" (maybe one of my all-time favorite books -- top 10 at least). Back then, the Mrs. thought I was crazy, too.
The thing of it is: maybe I'm the only one this happens to but I actually got an adrenaline rush to finish it. Maybe I am crazy.
Anyway -- High Fidelity is next. Like I said, I'm enjoying Nick Hornby.

Thursday, January 11, 2007

On Why I Won't Tell'em Your Name

Recently, a friend started a blog. I was charged with coming up with the name for this blog. And I rose to the challenge, submitting a number of creative and interesting names. Here's the winner. Not my favorite of the suggestions, in fact one I came up with over lunch with him on a whim. But still carries much import and I'm rather proud of it. Because I want you to visit his blog, I won't tell you the name of it.

I came up with some criteria for naming a blog. Mainly because it's fun. And also because I like coming up with things like this. And I thought I did a great job with the name of my blog.

Anyway, my criteria for blog appellations were quite simple:

1) It must be representative of your blog goals.
2) Creative element. By this I insist it must have a rather poetic notion (I'm obsessed with poetic notions even though I can't describe it).
3) It must be, while not obvious, not obscure.
4) It must be a name with implications that cannot be easily exhausted.

His particular blog met all of these qualities. I maintain it must at least meet three. In case you're not familiar with the title, it's from C.S. Lewis' The Chronicles of Narnia. But you must read the books to find out its possible meanings. The title certainly has a creative element and meets his goals he laid out to me for his blog.

Now take a look at my blog's title. It meets three of the four. Perhaps only a few of my readers will recognize the song I've pulled the title from. But it's representative of this blog especially. Because, quite often, little of what I say is of any lasting value. Like this post. I must be honest, I often gloat about my blog's title and how good I actually think it is. Perhaps someday I might explore it a little more. I've been meaning to do that.

Oh, and names that were rejected for his blog:
"That Long Saturday" -- perhaps my favorite, though, again, a little obscure.
"A Sea To Stretch Myself In" -- I came up with this one this morning, but it, too, may be obscure.
"Shoulders of Giants" -- perhaps too obvious a reference and also not indicative of his blog.
"The Thing of It Is" -- that was one I rejected for this blog but I was willing to sell the rights.

Wednesday, January 10, 2007

On Musicians As Poets

It's not that I think you care. I know you don't. But I like music. In fact, I pretty much have to have music on somewhere at any point in the day. Last week working the overnight shifts I brought in the iPod and listened to music for 4 hours straight while working. And I'm not lying when I say I was working at my most efficient level ever here at the network. Funny thing is though, when I'm listening to music while doing something else, I hardly hear the music -- it fades into the background really.

All that said, I've gotten some new CDs in the rotation. First, I'm thoroughly disappointed with Damien Rice's lastest foray 9. Other than the title track and maybe two others, it's not very good -- at least not for my ears. No worries though, I've kept my musical interests within the United Kingdom (even my latest reading material is by a British author). And I am thoroughly ensconced in the music and lyricism of David Gray. Many will know him from that song Babylon -- which I never really liked until now. His two CDs you should pick up: Life in Slow Motion and White Ladder (featuring the aforementioned song). My favorite tune by far Ain't No Love(though The One I Love is sweeping and feels like autumn and is therefore a close second).

It's haunting. I like music that's haunting. Music that feels like it's just you, the artist, some musical instruments and a room with the lights off. Music that feels like your daringly craning your next over a precipice to see the crashing whitecaps below on a cloudy English morning. Music that gets your heart racing in that fearful sort of way. Music that feels like it's sneaking into a giant's house and your Jack. Music that, like a good book, is an adventure. I'm not much for just instrumentation doing that job. I like lyrics that do that. Musicians are, in some cases, poets. The good ones are. And like any good poet, they help me get my "head into the heavens."

Monday, January 08, 2007

On Obsessions

So I've recently picked up a book that I'm rather enjoying. And mind you it's not a book I have to read for any class or application to any master's program -- I'm reading it for fun. Anyway, more of you are probably familiar with the movie, but I assure you the movie pales in comparison. Not that the book is fantastic, but the movie was terrible.

I haven't done as many film reviews as I wanted to in this space. And I won't review this movie. I will only say that it bastardized a very special moment in my life -- that the third thing I saw when the ineffable happened was two hollywoodland lunatics celebrating with my team. It still invokes ire from me so I'll stop here. And I'm not mentioning the title, figure it out yourself.

Well, the book is much more my cup o' tea. It's about a man's obsession with a English soccer team (Arsenal if you're interested). It's funny. It captures exactly what it's like to be an obsessive sports fan. Wait -- you didn't know I was an obsessive? Well let me share some evidence that will greatly alter your opinion of me.

During the '04 MLB playoffs, I was heart broken. Crushed after the 19-8 drubbing that Saturday night (incidently, what lifted my spirits was Damien Rice on Austin City Limits, an artist I now have this inextricable bond with because of what followed). Co-workers tried to console me but they knew better. The next game, they won. In the most dramatic fashion imaginable. But in that 9th inning, I decided that if the Sox were going to lose, I'd at least want to hear Jerry and Joe tell me, not idiot Joe Buck. So I put the game on the Internet and listened and I still have trouble believing it. I mean, everyone knew he was going to steal second, and he still did. Anyway they went on to win. For the next few nights, the game, while also on my tv, was also on my computer, a full 30 seconds behind (sorry, who has attention problems?). Also, I sat in the exact same spot on the couch. I wore the exact same clothes. So did the Mrs.. Funny thing, I didn't even ask her to, she just did out of her own passion for the Sox. You know what, they went on to win it all -- so don't you judge me.

For the Patriots, it's a much different story -- but perhaps it's more appropo right now considering yesterday dismantling in Foxboro (what a great game!). Since the 96-97 Superbowl season, I've refrained from wearing any Patriots gear during the regular season, though I've got plenty of it. The only time that year it happened was when my father (I'm taking money back for this mention) decided our superstitions were foolish and wore a Patriots jersey -- revealing it to us dramatically at half-time from underneath his shirt. We lost that game. Anyway, since then, I've carried on that superstition despite several bad seasons and despite losses. For the Sox, once they lose, I change my approach. For the Patriots, the games are a different animal I suppose my technique is also different. And as far as not wearing Patriots gear, it extends to burying shirts in drawers and hats in boxes -- I don't want to even see or touch any of it during the season. But I can talk about it -- again, something that doesn't work for the Red Sox.

There are more to these obsessions with Boston-area sports teams. But you get the idea.

My poor kid right?

Thursday, January 04, 2007

On ADD and ADHD

I'm not one for letting young kids watch tv. Especially since much of what it consists of is crap. But I have this other theory.

Back in media classes in college, we were taught about how to keep the audiences' attention. One way: quick cuts from shot to shot by making edits every 2 to 3 seconds. Another way: create some movement within the shot if it's going to be longer than 2 to 3 seconds (i.e. by zooming in or out, panning left or right, tilting up or down, or having graphics come flying in). We are so used to it these days that we don't notice it. But count the number of times the shot changes, the camera moves or graphic appears in your average tv show.

Why is this significant?

Well... the whole point for cuts and movement is to keep your audiences' eye by creating these rapid movements to keep them watching. There exists this attention void that needs to be constantly filled. Wouldn't you think this is dangerous for little kids? The way the cuts and movement affect a child's attention has to be detrimental to them and transfer over into life as well. It's no surprise the amount of kids these days that have ADD and ADHD -- attention deficit disorders. I have no proof to back this but certainly there must be a correlation between kids with attention problems who also watch a medium that takes drastic measures to ensure a viewer's attention.

Now, look at the Baby Einstein videos. I like them because they don't "cut" between shots at all. You wouldn't notice this unless you were looking for it. The videos change shots either by wiping (with sound affects) or by dissolving. These transitions are must less jarring to the eye and foster a better type of attention in a child. It's smoother; softer than the drastic "cutting" that's on television.

The thing of it is: I'm also convinced that this is why people don't like baseball on television. Because the shot rarely changes as drastically as viewers are used to. It's also for this reason that I love baseball. "You can fall asleep and wake up 20 minutes later and realize you've not missed a thing."