The Web Really Does Improve Education

Maia and I were frittering away some time today on the web and we both partook of Akinator.com, the net's take on twenty questions that guesses who you're thinking about. As long as you answer honestly. But that's just the thing: how much do you really know about many of the famous names we see in the history books or in the media? I for one had to refer to Wikipedia several times to get the details just right for author Paul Auster (not that he's in Akinator's database) and learned quite a bit about him. So bravo, Akinator, your persistent prodding and wondering "Is your character a warrior?" and "Is your character made of stone?" has spurred me to do some biographical research into the lives of people I may not have otherwise delved into. Bravo indeed.

--Matt

Dexter's War on Women

I'm re-watching seasons one and two of the Showtime serial killer series Dexter in spurts of one or two episodes as preparation for viewing the third season and beyond. I like the show's dark humor, often with deadpan delivery by Michael C. Hall, but it's been difficult to shrug off what I believe to be obvious misogyny by the writers. Harsh as it is to say, the women in the Miami of Dexter suck at life. Hard.

Dexter's sister, Deborah, is an vice officer-turned-crappy/lucky homicide detective who's a traumatized wreck after her fiance is revealed to be a serial killer. Lieutenant LaGuerta is a fame whore. The new female lieutenant is wrapped around the finger of an apparent douchbag boyfriend and spends most of her time (and department resources) dealing with those issues. And Rita, Dexter's girlfriend (for the time being, at least)...there are no words. I can't stand her.

This all reminds me about an article I recently read over at the Savage Critic comics blog about how many of the major story arcs in the Marvel Universe currently running have revolved around staggering levels of gynophobia on the part of the writers. I suppose we all had our stereotyped impressions of comics writers and illustrators not being terribly suave with the fairer sex, but guys, vagina dentata and female submission? Work it out in therapy, not the pages of a comic.

--Matt

Like Hindu Cows

Definitely among the best things to pop up and gain momentum within indie culture in the past several years has to be the found footage movement. There's the annual found footage festival that makes its national tour, usually stopping in SF at the Red Vic or maybe the Roxie. But really, people are reintroducing pretty much anything of interest one can think of, from whimsical baubles to the historically significant, it's antiquing meets anthropology meets archaeology.

Case in point: a man rooting through his grandparents' stuff found film (super 8 perhaps?) shot in Alameda and SF from 1958 and posted it online. The quality is astounding. Well, I was expecting much worse, at least; reel-to-reel cameras captured a significant part of my youth thanks to my father's insatiable desire to document everything, but the quality is spotty at times.

I can't help but wonder if the inhabitants of SF, here on the cusp of the 60s, had any clue of what was about to come barreling their way. Everyone's face looks so placid and, indeed, the face of the city itself follows suit with its serenity and cleanliness. I'm reminded of a tsunami rippling out at breakneck speeds where the surface looks serene while hiding a tremendous force below.

--Matt

Somehow People Are Still Bent Out of Shape About This

Man, it is hard to fathom that people are still railing against Episode I. If Tim Beasley from Spaced were a real person I'd email this to him...on second thought, he would have already produced it. Please, sit a spell and watch all seven parts:

I have to wonder about how George Lucas's work on these movies affects his three kids, Amanda, Katie and Jett. These tikes have all appeared briefly in the prequels and are too young to have experienced the original trilogy during its heyday, but not so young as to escape taunting from upperclassmen over how their father took all that was good and special about Star Wars and transformed it into a mound of steaming excrement through some kind of alchemy. I suppose they wouldn't feel much seeing as how the obscene wealth they've no doubt grown up around has numbed their emotions to the point that they probably don't even hesitate to call down their entourage of gold-flecked bodyguards on any naysayers.

--Matt

Constructing the More Sophisticated Drunk

I was walking towards Ashby BART yesterday when I spotted an empty bottle of Sho Chiku Bai nihonshu (known far and wide as that catch-all for Japanese booze, "sake") placed upright on the pavement adjacent to a fence. Odd, I thought, but isn't that so North Oakland/Berkeley? Our swerving, street-prowling winos won't settle for Boone's Farm or Charles Shaw, hell no, their discriminating palettes demand they gulp from the nectar that is the Far East's finest, cheapest libations.

God bless the Rising Sun.

--Matt

Celery: Not Just Good With Peanut Butter Anymore

I kinda sorta totally hate Twitter, but the following news story about a grandmother in Troy (NY or MI?) who faxes her tweets to a company that posts them for her is adorable.

The company offering this service, Celery, is a quirky story in and of themselves. Oddly, their business model has two competing faces, each the polar opposite of the other. On one hand they negate some key purposes of networked personal computers (the paperless and instantaneous data transmission aspects) by printing out hardcopies of emails for customers, while on the other hand they offer the service featured in the video of connecting people to the net by proxy who may not have previously utilized it in any way shape or form.

Pat, if you're reading this know that Celery is the brainchild of an RPI graduate. Imagine, you could have been a millionaire, and all it would have taken was a bottle of scotch, a well-placed fall where your skull met a coffee table corner and a subsequent idea like "Hmm...what if we stripped 99.8% of the internet's utility and capabilities then sell it back to people at a premium?"

For the kinds of blackouts that lead to genius try cucumber gin next time, man.

--Matt

The, Uh, Southern Winds

Your local neighborhood cafe is, on average I'd say, a pretty sedate place that many choose as their daily refuge from the personal C.H.U.D.S. we're all fleeing in some unique way. Excepting Starbucks, sure, and maybe the new breed of cafe conducive to interaction/networking like Four Barrel in the Mission (if you can't find a seat, don't worry, the milky-dark brown coffee will keep you on your toes at attention) folks get a healthy dose of relaxation from these urban oases and it's surprising, maybe even a bit mortifying, when something to break the spell comes along.

With that kind of lead-in, you may be expecting a truly harrowing tale of coffee espionage or murder by creamer, but once again I have to disappoint and tell you this is all actually my round-about way to attempt understanding of certain social protocol. The first disruption at Nomad, my local cafe, is the always tragic neighborhood schizophrenic. Nothing terribly funny about that, this guy truly needs help and, judging by his decidedly un-disheveled look (he looks like a friend's father, actually), he's getting it from somewhere, but he'll saunter in occasionally to order something sophisticated and then nurse it for hours and stare at me while muttering. God damn, those boring fucking eyes! Can't get a lick of work done when he's there. If the voices decide it's time for him to go he'll suddenly yell out "OK, let's go!" and disappear into the day. Godspeed, man.

This next bit is really why I'm here today though. Yesterday, I was typing away revising some docs when the man two tables down, also on his laptop, just goes and rips a loud, brief fart. Heads tilt by one or two degrees, eyes dart around looking for recognition with the faces of other patrons and the world skips off its record for a moment. Everybody's thinking it: "Did that shit just fucking happen?"

It did, I'm afraid. And no, I'm not trying to cover myself--I didn't smell it or deal it. That being said, OK, hypothetically you did just tear a stink hole in the space-time continuum at a cafe. What next? Do you follow it with an encore, or let well enough alone? Apologize to everyone with a quick "excuse me" or just keep your piehole shut (though you obviously can't keep the exit side of the piehole quiet). Honestly, what's the social protocol here?

And let me tell you, once you hear that it's in no way possible to resume work or a book. Just hunker down to some mindless sudoku or get the hell out, because that sound never exits the brain.

--Matt