Let's Go Out to the Lobby

My God, is this movie bad. After doing my UUST class homework and all but three squares of the Saturday puzzle (curse you, three squares!), I decided to relax by watching the telly. IFC had a movie starting at 5:10, so I flipped on Roman Polanski's "The Ninth Gate." Wow. The movie stars Johnny Depp and Frank Langella in what have to be their least believable, most overaffected/underworked performances ever. Johnny trades in rare books, and he's hopping around Europe looking to authenticate a particular copy of "The Nine Gates"—one of three possibly in existence, estimated value: $1M. I can't get over the fact that he regularly just flips through this book with his bare hands, hands it to other people to flip through, carries it through the rain in his messenger bag, and, yes, smokes while he reads it. WTF!?, as the kids say. At Beinecke, I couldn't read a Jonathan Swift ripoff from 1726 (The Sixpenny miscellany, or, A Dissertation upon pissing...a great read, to be sure) without getting out the foam bookstands and page turners and blah di blah di blah. And this guy's schlepping around a million dollar edition? Christ a'mighty.

I did much better with this week's double feature of movies where Will Smith plays a ridiculously smart, motivated, and charming poor guy who has to fit in with rich, white people as part of getting what he wants. Name the movies and win...nothing. Ah, well.

Obscure and Cryptic Old Cube: A Cryptic Crossword Primer

It's actually a square, not a cube. But today, with a whoosh of satisfaction, I completed this weekend's cryptic crossword. I swear, I could build a frickin' bridge, and I wouldn't feel half the sense of accomplishment that comes with every answer in this beautiful, beautiful puzzle. Woo!

If you're one of the many people whose faces drop as soon as they turn to the back of the magazine section and see barely parsable clues, this post's for you. If you DO like, say, the regular Saturday puzzle, and you treasure great puzzle themes, you'll probably love the cryptic, once you get the hang of it.

The first thing to know about the cryptic is that almost every clue has both a physical clue and a definitional clue. The definitional clue is exactly what it sounds like: the meaning of the answer. The physical clue is a little bit trickier—it somehow describes the word either through its syllables or through an anagram...somehow it lays out the letters of the word for you. A classic cryptic clue that's purely physical is "senselessness (1)." The answer has one letter (that's the number in the parentheses). Give up? The answer is "e." If you take the word "sense" less (i.e., minus) "ness," you get "e." It's the only letter remaining when you take the letters n-e-s-s away from the letters s-e-n-s-e. Get it? Good. If not, I'll go through a few examples soon. Occasionally clues are doubly definitional—"Plain hot dog (5)" points to "frank"—but that's not too common and usually fairly easy to spot.

Now it's time to learn a few conventions. Woo! These may seem superfluous, but it can be a huge pain in the ass if you don't realize, say, a proper noun often just points to its first letter. So here are a few. If any (of my legions of) commenters suggest more, I'll put them in:

Fuck punctuation. It means nothing to you. OK, that's not true, occasionally punctuation is meaningful in cryptics, but know that it really, really doesn't have to be. If there's a comma between two words, they may still be a phrase. Perhaps more importantly, your definitional clue and your physical clue can break without any indication in the punctuation. They'll just flow right into each other. When you assume you make "an ass out of you and me" an appropriate clue. (Ok, that's not true: "An ass out of you and me" would probably put "ass" or a synonym around "we" or something. Anyway...)

Anagrams are everywhere. Something like a quarter of your answers in a given puzzle will be straight-up anagrams of something in the clue. Look for three things if you want to anagram:1) Words or phrases with the same number of letters as are in the answer. Anagrams are always directly from the clue, so you'll never have to find definitions of words and then anagram those. If you don't have any words or phrases with the right number of letters, it's not an anagram. 2) A word that gives you an excuse to anagram. These words can vary from the relatively obvious ("mixed up," "stirred," "disorganized") to the bizarre ("sad," "broken," "fixed," "hurt"). If you get a clue like "windy east central Manhattan thoroughfare (11)," you can look at "windy" as an excuse to anagram "east central" and get "Canal Street," a Manhattan thoroughfare. 3) A hella-awkward phrase. If two adjacent words just make absolutely no sense together, they might be an anagram.

Sometimes, instead of anagramming, you need to actually find the answer within two words that run together. I'm pulling this off the top of my (dirty) head, but "Shorten the hard organ to create passion (5)" might be a clue for "ardor," which you can find when you shorten the phrase "hard organ." And it means "passion." Look out for those in awkward phrases as well.

More often then not, your physical clue will just spell out syllables for you. More from the top of my head: "Pleasant odor for each stew (7)" could be "perfume." Pleasant odor would be "perfume" itself, and "for each" would be "per" and "stew" would be "fume." Like, in the anger way. So there you go. Per. Fume. Perfume. I don't think the syllables you decipher have to be pronounced or spelled in the same way as they'll appear in the ultimate answer. One of the two, always, but not necessarily both.

Look for Roman numerals. They'll show up. And as I mentioned briefly, sometimes proper names just turn into their first initial. Sometimes other words go by their first initial, but there will be some indication that you're looking at the start of that word.

Look for other physical clues. Often (very often in this week's puzzle), one word will go inside another: "Woods around California make predictions (9)" would be "Forecasts." "Forests" goes around "CA" (for California) to make a synonym for "predictions." Other times you might be clued to read a word backwards. Be flexible about this stuff.

Did I mention, "be flexible?" It's really the most important thing and the whole reason these puzzles are so much fun.

OK, enough tips. Now to go through the ENTIRE puzzle. Answers and explanations are in black. Highlight them to read:

1A. Guide the woman in spring (6)
Sherpa
Meaning = guide. "The woman" points to "her," which is inside "spa," a synonym for spring.
4A. Roof application to set in spring (8)
Housetop
Meaning = roof application. I believe "set" here points to "use to," which is inside "hop," another synonym for spring.
10A. Say, Harry Potter's pal in spring (8)
Pronounce
Meaning = say. Harry Potter's pal is "Ron," and he's in "pounce," yet another...synonym for spring.
11A. Discourage Democratic relative (5)
Daunt
Meaning = discourage. Just take the D from Democrat (that proper noun). Your aunt's a relative. Send her flowers.
12A. "Superman" actor taking part in free verse (5)
Reeve
Christopher Reeve played Superman. If you take part of free verse, you get Reeve.
13A. Grabber of winks – or a lynx? (9)
Catnapper
This one's just cute and plays on the double meaning of "nap," sleeping or stealing.
14A. Wastes what you've got coming (7)
Deserts
This is just a double definition, I believe. Wastelands are deserts. And what you deserve are your deserts.
15A. Broadcast medium misrepresented diorama (2,5)
AM Radio
Finally, an anagram! AM Radio is a broadcast medium. "Misrepresented" should clue you into the anagram. Play around with diorama, it should come quickly.
17A. Song about villain in an idyllic spot (7)
Arcadia
Meaning = an ideallic spot. "Song" points to "aria," and "villain" is "cad." About means one's outside the other.
20A. Soldier talk – it gives you a lot of info (7)
Gigabit
This one took me a while. A gigabit is a lot of info. "GI" is a soldier (no trouble there), "gab" is talk (right-o), and in true cryptic fashion, the next word after "soldier talk" is "it." Just stick in on.
22A. Old Greek restored a lost rite (9)
Aristotle
He was an old Greek! And you have to "restore" (i.e., anagram) "lost rite" to get his name.
24A. Neckwear for a companion of Burns (5)
Ascot
Really, how many five letter neckwears are there? And good ol' Rabbie Burns was a Scot. His friends were, too.
26A. Private meal not starting (5)
Inner
"Inner" and "private" can be synonyms. The meal is "dinner." It's without it's start. Womp womp.
27A. Former medicine for John Jacob in spring (6,3)
Castor Oil
That was a medicine at one point, right? A spring is a coil. Barring Mr. Jingleheimerschmidt, Astor's the only John Jacob around.
28A. Superficial need changed in spring (4-4)
Skin-Deep
Meaning = superficial. The spring here is "skip" and you stick a "changed" (again, anagrammed) need in there.
29A. Approach of the French in spring (4-2)
Lead-Up
Meaning = approach. Leap is clearly spring. I don't know why "du" is the French. "Le," is "the" in French, right? If you know, tell me.

Downs!
1D. Great new purse (5)
Super
Meaning = great. Make "purse" new by anagramming it.
2D. Runaway lovers break up or sleep (7)
Elopers
Meaning = runaway lovers. You break up (anagram) "or sleep."
3D. Started with π + 1 before 500 (9)
Pioneered
This may be my favorite clue in the puzzle. Meaning = started. π = pi, 1 = one, before = ere, 500 = D (Roman). String 'em together.
5D. Orioles trainer somewhat fat? – not really (7)
Olestra
Great exercise in how to kill punctuation. The physical clue is "Orioles trainer somewhat." Take part of Orioles trainer to get something that's not really fat.
6D. Singer's first thought for 45-r.p.m. feature (4,1)
Side A
Meaning is "45-rpm feature." Singer's first (letter) is S. Thought is idea. Ta-da!
7D. Beat time like Quasimodo? (7)
Thumped
Meaning = beat. Time just turns into "t" here; it's one of those things. Quasimodo was humped.
8D. Sadly, our septet loses pep (6,3)
Peters Out
Meaning = loses pep. "Sadly" is one of those anagram cues. Do it to "our septet."
9D. N.B.A. team said no (6)
Knicks
They're an NBA team. "Said" clues you in to a homophone. Say "nix," a synonym for "no."
14D. Shot a jerk's overtheatrical behavior (9)
Dramatics
Meaning = overtheatrical behavior. "Shot" is "dram." "Jerk's" = "tics." And, love those cryptics, "a" = "a."
16D. Arrange mom part in confusing procedure (9)
Rigmarole
This took me a while, too. Meaning = confusing procedure. Arrange = rig, mom = ma, part = role. There ya' go.
18D. Greek character opposed to Italian wine (7)
Chianti
So elegant! Chianti is an Italian wine (a delicious one, no less). One Greek character (letter) is chi. "Opposed to" is "anti."
19D. For example, a botched recital (7)
Article
Meaning = example. Botch (anagram) "recital."
20D. Oil country, from the sound of it (6)
Grease
I'm not sure if you can REALLY know this is "Grease" and not "Greece" from the clue, but the acrosses tell you. You've got the "sound of it" homophone clue. "Oil country" is pretty clear.
21D. Obscure and cryptic old cube (7)
Becloud
It's the title of the post! Meaning = obscure. Both the word "cryptic" and the weirdness of the phrase "old cube" should clue you into the anagram.
23D. Shot, like a car's wheels? (5)
Tired
I hope you got this one :) It's a double definition, woo!
25D. Oddly lit up item in a bed (5)
Tulip
Meaning = "item in a bed," because, you know, there are beds of flowers. "Oddly" tells you to anagram "lit up."

And that's the puzzle. I've spent way too much time on this. I hope some poeple actually use the examples to learn how to do cryptics. They're the puzzler's puzzle. They're Will Shortz's puzzle. Spread the endless joy!

There's No Such Thing

Occasionally nights are so good they're actually depressing.

Yesterday was extravagant dinner number three: Bouley. V and I got seated on the same side of the table...for most it's canoodling position. For us, it was the ideal people-watching setup. The people, alas, were not especially hilarious, although V did catch one adorable waiter's eye. And I tactlessly called him on it. Heh heh. The meal began with (what else?) foie gras. Next to my inability to write thank-you notes, my love for foie gras is perhaps my worst trait. It really is crazy delicious. V got the egg (yup, an egg), which he aptly described as "eggs Benedict on crack...in a good way." The main course was perfectly-cooked lamb with Jerusalem artichoke, a green that was new to both of us and totally salty and wonderful. There was one especially good cheese from the cheese course—practically a butter substitute. And the dessert. Oh. The dessert. The chocolate frivolous (who cares what part of speech it is, just stare deep into the chocolate and all will be well) consisted of an incredibly dense and sweet souffle, a chocolate brulee with a sugar crust, ice cream, a small chocolate layer cake with some fruity/liquor-ish filling and this Platonic ideal of a kit kat. Astounding.

But of course the evening couldn't end with so few great loves. We walked from TriBeCa to SoHo, where we tore through the Saturday puzzle at a wine bar (I got a glass of port, V got the Riesling flight; no surprises there). It's amazing how quickly the crosswords go with a second person. It's an exponential improvement. The point is we rule.

It seemed like the evening was winding down. We headed up Varick toward the Christopher Street 1 stop, and when we got into the area, V mentioned the Duplex was his old watering hole back in high school (precocious children, those Catholic schoolboys). I still had never been there, so we decided to stop in for a drink. The place was, well, wonderful in every way. The schticky-but-not-schmaltzy piano player bangs out and sings a totally sing-alongable collection from the 60s, 70s, 80s, and (less) 90s. The whole place has this great high-fun, low-key vibe. According to V, the lines have stayed more or less the same since 1990. Like, the piano player would say, "And now it's time for a little Mama Cass," and the entire crowd would shout, "There's no such thing as a little Mama Cass!" Amazing. He played a few Redhot songs, reminding me of the reunion I was missing but also allowing me to impress V with my vast knowledge of "Sweet Blindness." Aw, yeah. The whole thing was a blast.

We parted ways at midnight. My stomach kind of went crazy after I got home...after the full meal, one glass of port and two bottle of Corona, it wasn't entirely surprising. Too much for one small organ (everyone knows the kidneys are just there for show). And now it is all done and I am back to UUSTing and watching Beaches. I've never seen the whole thing and will have to miss the (supposedly wildly sad) ending for UUST class. Shame.

In The Height

We are currently living in some really bad times, artistically. (Apparently, we're actually living in good times, geopolitically. Who knew?) Popular music has been in a nosedive since the 70s, with only a few groups (U2, REM on a good day) producing brilliant stuff. Television is producing some of the worst shows ever; the reality TV craze just won't die. Broadway can't fill up its houses. And, well, I don't follow the visual art scene much, but we seem to have relatively few superstars around. But I'd like to take a few lines to recognize some of the genres that are at their peak.

Puzzles
Will Shortz is editing the New York Times crossword. 'Nuff said. But I'll say more. We shouldn't underestimate the value of having an editor with Shortz's enthusiasm and his commitment to the "puzzle" aspect of the crossword puzzle. We could so easily have an editor who prides himself only on hitting the right level of obscurity. But Shortz hits the perfect balance of wordplay and trivia, namely one heavily weighed toward the former. There's no great satisfaction in solving a trivia puzzle. There's smugness, but you never want to run off and share your favorite trivia clue. I often want to share some of my favorite puzzle clues: "X-ray for Rex, say" 8 letters. Guess in the comments.

And we have some super-clever puzzle writers that contribute. When the writers submit and Shortz edits, every puzzle is a work of art.

We're also living through a huge Sudoku craze, and a bunch of other puzzles are migrating from Japan (or from Canada, via Japan). The puzzle section is growing at Barnes & Noble, and I'm optimistic that people will slowly come around to the cryptic (best puzzle everrrr) and we'll see an American renaissance there. We're living in the Golden Age of Puzzling, and I couldn't be happier.

Television
I know I knocked it in the intro to this post, but in addition to the worst TV of all time, we're also getting some of the best TV of all time. I feel privileged to be able to watch new episodes of "The Daily Show" and "The Colbert Report" nearly every night (even if they do take a lot of vacation time). Two of the greatest and most likable comic personalities are churning out brilliant and timely original content almost instantaneously. Of course, they're helped by stellar, fast-working writers, graphic designers and techies. These guys are the closest thing we have to Johnny Carson or Ed Sullivan; they're much more endearing than Letterman or Leno (maybe not Conan, I'm not sure). I know someday I'll look at an evening comedy talk show that's popular with the younger generation and thing, "My God, this is total crap compared with Stewart and Colbert."

There are also some great dramas on the tube. I haven't watched "Lost" or "24," but I hear amazing things, and I do watch "Heroes," which is finely crafted—or at least leads you to believe it is...the ending could be vastly disappointing. I was also never a big "West Wing" person, but people think it's truly brilliant, and I buy it. They had some ridiculously politically qualified writers. If it was entertaining, and it appears to have been, it must have been awfully worthwhile.

Harry Fucking Potter
The genre could be "literature" or "children's fantasy," but why try to make this what it's not? Harry Potter is the best international craze to come along since...well, maybe ever. Maybe since the Beatles. I don't know. But how often do you get the entire world excited about reading? How often do you get us all excited about a story where we root for a good guy, and harmless fun is praised, and harmful actions are condemned, and violence is only used where it's needed. It's a great series from a creative and meticulous mind, and I can't think of anything I'd rather share with 10-year-olds in India and grandmothers in Australia. The world's largest book group meets this July to experience the final chapter of the novel. I'm thrilled to take part in the conversation.

That's all for now; I'm sure there's more. If you'd like to add something, throw it in the comments.

V Cast Advertising Exclusively To Gay Men?

So, unless you've been living under a rock that doesn't have a cable hookup, you've probably seen the ubiquitous commercials for V Cast, Verizon's phone-based video/music network. I've only seen two commercials, but they both involve someone putting his headphones on you so you can hear the music he digs. Which raises the question: Who are you? Check out the first ad:

OK, so you're pretty clearly a guy. The dude takes a call from his "lady," so you're not a girl he's trying to woo. Plus, he calls you "bud." So you're male. And about his age. That's all we can REALLY conclude from this ad, but it's worth noting that the dude is a bit of an idealized jock stereotype. He's cute and jacked and a little dumb and sure, he's straight, but he shows fun-loving camaraderie and respect for the girl. I'd think he'd be, well, a little bit intimidating to straight guys, but he shows up in nifty stories all the time.

The second ad is more blatant:

He is clearly supposed to be gay, right? And doesn't he look like he's sort of trying to pick you up? I mean, sure, he's doing the over-the-top seduction faces that are appropriate for the Timberlake song, but still. He wants you.

Anyway, if this is on purpose, it's kind of cool...if you're competing against Apple, it's probably better to take an ax and try to carve out a niche instead of trying to clean up the whole market. Or maybe I just look everywhere and see gay men.

McCain't Say No

As part of my more regular blogging schedule, I'd like to highlight this stunning piece of asshattery:

Reporter: “Should U.S. taxpayer money go to places like Africa to fund contraception to prevent AIDS?"

Mr. McCain: “Well I think it’s a combination. The guy I really respect on this is Dr. Coburn. He believes – and I was just reading the thing he wrote– that you should do what you can to encourage abstinence where there is going to be sexual activity. Where that doesn’t succeed, than he thinks that we should employ contraceptives as well. But I agree with him that the first priority is on abstinence. I look to people like Dr. Coburn. I’m not very wise on it.”

...

Q: “So no contraception, no counseling on contraception. Just abstinence. Do you think contraceptives help stop the spread of HIV?"

Mr. McCain: (Long pause) “You’ve stumped me.”

Bloody brilliant, McCain. I'm kind of glad this guy's image as the totally honest, level-headed, non-partisan candidate is being slowly crushed. Because I think a year ago, a lot of swing voters and even Democrats would have voted for him over Hills, Barry O, or J.E. purely on that reputation. Perhaps by year's end he will be so powerless he will no longer warrant his #1 ranking on The Beast's 50 Most Loathsome list.

Oh, and for the record: Yes, condoms unquestionably prevent the spread of HIV. If McCain wanted to pander, he could have said something like, "Yes, of course they do, but I think we should prioritize other methods, like abstinence, which is the only method with a 100% blah-di-blah-di-blah." And even that would have been silly; people aren't going to stop having sex. For centuries, individuals and institutions have worked long and hard at stopping people from having sex. They've all failed. You can make fewer people have sex, but if our concern is protecting people (and I hope it is) we need to work on systems that will reach a larger percentage. Condoms do this. Right-o.

The Rock of the Dome

I've become mildly obsessed with the idea of shaving my head. No, don't worry, I probably won't do it. People have been reminding me that my hair's my best feature for about ten years, now, and I'm not that self defeating. A little self-defeating, sure. But not that self-defeating.

In any case, I'm not sure whether it's my undiagnosed (but unquestionably existent) trichotillomania, whether it's a symptom of a general disgust with the body, or whether it's just a cry for sensation—I'm sure those three are all related anyway. But still, every time I feel the weight of my hair, or the itch of my dandruffy scalp or the faint presence of the buildup of oils and junk from conditioners galore...I just think of how glorious it would be to be free. To turn this bizarre stretch of skin into normal skin. To expose it to all of the elements: sun, wind, water, a rough towel.

Of course then I'd be stuck with a bald head, which isn't so bad in itself—I'd enjoy the freedom from hair for a good long while—but it does mean I'd either have to keep it bald or wait for it to grow in. And then I'd have short hair. Blech. I'd have over a year of hair that doesn't even hang down from my head. I really don't think that's my look.

Maybe I could invest in some ultra-exclusive scalp treatment, where they could make my hair stick out and just go over every inch with some tool that treats my scalp with heat and rubbing and a little UV. That could be really good.

Everything New Is Old Again

I've been bad. I've been very, very bad about updating the blog. I could make excuses, but I'll just try to be better this time around.

So I moved last month. It went relatively smoothly, save some unfathomably dickish security deposit withholding from the old landlord. I still don't have the (too large) deposit back, and he legally has 60 days after the lease ends to get it to me. Then I pounce. He has never before met an enemy of my strength, intelligence, determination, and intolerance for douchebaggery. Soon he will fall, and perhaps he will be punished, and then he won't be so damned quick to try to get out of anything he owes anyone.

The new place is awfully cool. The roomies rule, as I suspected, and my box in the wall is coming along nicely. I still have a rug on its way that won't arrive until the middle of April, but the hotness builds. I dig the environment of the 4-bed; I wasn't sure I would. It's lively and puts less responsibility on me to interact when I don't feel like interacting. Rock on.

Also, I've decided to try my hand at an, um, unspecified standardized test. Which isn't to say I necessarily want to go where the UUST leads, but I'm considering. (If that statement wasn't full of ambiguity, it was edited after I made a decision. Shh!) I seriously rocked out on the first UUST I took, but I didn't do nearly as well on the second. My pacing was off. Garr. In any case, it's an extremely concrete goal, which I'm interested in having right now. You can do a few very good things with a degree from UU school...in any case, we'll see.

I went last week to see Spring Awakening with Greg and V, cool dudes both. I had very mixed feelings about the show, and I'm almost ashamed to admit that some of it stems from an instant disgust with diva-ish teenage girls, even if they're talented and don't seem all that caught up with themselves. I also liked the individual phrases of the music a lot, but I don't think they came together to make fully coherent, performable songs. It was a cool play to adapt, though, and the rocking style of the music connected nicely with the 19th Century German style of the script. And it was totally sexy.

All right, I'd better get crackin' on this whole tax return thing. I have more time tonight than I've had in a while, and I plan on using it wisely. Namely by watching SVU and American Idol and Comedy Central. Excellent.

This Used To Be My Playground

Clement's taken the couch and left me, and now I'm starting the moving process myself. I'm not a fan of moving—who is, right? It feels like the world's slowest Seppuku: I have to keep working to make myself more miserable. I don't like being in empty rooms, and I don't like leaving places I have any real fondness for. I'm now looking at everything with nostalgia. When will I have an occasion to get off at the 49th St. N/R/W stop again? What will bring me to the Coffee Pot? Will I ever again feel so at the center of the world? I guess that's a good thing, though. If the terrorists come, they might come for Times Square. But picture: "Where should we attack? I know! The south-west corner of Manhattan Valley! You know, the area between the Upper West Side and Columbia? That'll really show 'em." No.

So even though I'm excited to go to the new place, I'm sad to leave. Even though I kind of can't stand my incompetent landlord and his screaming kids and my irregular hot water, I kind of don't want to go. It'll be fun living with Greg and Megan and Mike, though. They're cool folks. It feels like there might be a really fun dynamic in that apartment, so I'm psyched for that, too. But it's my first apartment. And it's pretty. And I'm leaving.

Anyway, how about I don't mope any longer? It's half PMS anyway. I seriously need to deal with that shit...get myself on the pill or something. It would be worth killing my sex drive if I can not have one weekend a month where I pout and cry half the time. Not cool.

Where were we? Ah yes, not moping. I had dinner with Natalia last night. That was very cool. It had been far too long since I'd seen her. Now we'll be living just 13 blocks away from each other, which will be excellent.

Oh, and this isn't moping so much as bitching: I was so pissed at that Joe Biden/Barack Obama story this week. No, I wasn't pissed at Biden. I was pissed at how the press and the blogs and everyone and their mother handled it. In case your memory's foggy, an article in the New York Observer quoted Biden as saying:

“I mean, you got the first mainstream African-American who is articulate and bright and clean and a nice-looking guy,” he said. “I mean, that’s a storybook, man.”

And so of course everyone starts yelling at Biden for saying that Obama's the first, like, clean and smart and well-spoken and attractive and oh-did-I-mention-clean African-American. Or something. Now come on...did anyone actually believe this is what he meant? Really, now. Someone with a level head at TPM commented:

...what if the Observer punctuated casually? That is, what if there is supposed to be a comma before 'who,' making it a non-restrictive relative clause?

Genius! So he's the first mainstream African-American candidate. And by the way, ain't it cool that he's so studly and smooth and smart? Some people still took issue with this, saying he wasn't the first mainstream black candidate. Jesse Jackson apparently won a few primaries back in the day, and even if she wasn't a serious contender, Carol Moseley Braun was pretty mainstream. OK, so maybe it wasn't the single best way of describing Obama. But is he the first black person whom sane people think really, really could be president? I think so... And really, nobody would have cared about that statement anyway.

Oh, and in case you're still wondering about the comma, listen to the recording. It's up on Language Log. The comma should clearly, clearly be there. If it were a well formed sentence, it should have been its own sentence. Somehow it got cut out, and suddenly any chances Biden had are dashed. Because of mangled transcription or editing. And I don't even fault the Observer THAT much. Quote mangling can happen, sad as it is. I'm pissed at everyone who just couldn't wait to call Biden a racist...or even politically foolish. They're the same people who thought Kerry really was saying the soldiers were stupid. As for the Macaca thing, I don't know. I doubt he was really using the slur because he knew it was a slur. It always struck me as a substitute for "some guy with a funny name." Which is still not cool.

OK, that's all for now...later, dudes!

Oh, THAT'S Why I'm Not in The Biz

Gay-porn producer stabbed to death

Sure, it could have been a totally random murder. I'm sure there are tons of people uninvolved in any sketchiness who are...stabbed to death in their home then have their house burned and have to be identified by their dental records. But perhaps some industries are more mob-like than others. Right.

The part that's making my ears perk up at this story specifically is that there will inevitably be some speculation about whether one particular charming young porn star was involved. I'm a bit of a fan of this young man: I read his blog regularly, and I've seen a small slice of his work. For quite a few years he and the deceased were in a legal battle about the work the actor did for the producer and has done since. He was underage when he performed, so those videos have all been recalled (yes, he was 18+ in the vids I've seen), and the studio filed a lawsuit against the actor for breach of contract and trademark violations. Part of this was because the actor forged identification documents (I'm not sure that this has been established) and partially because the studio claims to own the actor's stage name as a trademark, but he's gone off and tried to start his own production company. They managed to stop him with the lawsuit last Novem...ok, I have no idea when this shit went down. The relevant entry has disappeared from the actor's blog without a trace. Perhaps I dreamt the whole thing.

Oh, so at work today (yes, I was working this weekend. I'm a "baller," as the kids say) I decided to listen to some of our illustrious art director's music. Of course I stumbled upon an amazing album and was forced to download it from iTunes. Bruce Springsteen toasts Pete Seeger in "We Shall Overcome: The Seeger Sessions." No no, whatever you're thinking, it's better. Totally jubilant. Sure, Springsteen's singing isn't in absolute top form and he doesn't give the world's best rendition of Shenandoah, but from the first song, a toe-tapping romp of "Old Dan Tucker," I knew this would be coming with me on my next road trip out into the heartland. Yeehaw!

Love, Actually?

This week, there was much blogospheric activity surrounding a recent Modern Love column, I Fell for a Man Who Wore an Electronic Ankle Bracelet. In the piece (read it, really), a young woman writes about her ex-boyfriend, whom she dated for three years. A few weeks into their relationship, she found out he was on leave from Harvard because another student had accused him of rape. She eventually got the law involved, he pled out, and he wound up condemned to house arrest and counseling. She didn't like who he became during counseling—inhibited, solemn, uneasy—so they eventually broke up.

It's a classic story of boy meets girl, boy reveals checkered past to girl, girl forgives boy, law isn't quite so forgiving. Or something. In any case, what's been getting people so worked up? For one thing, there are passages like this:

But for me the experience had fundamentally altered my previously programmed reaction to stories of alcohol-fueled date rape on college campuses. No longer was my response autopilot compassion for the girl. No longer would I assume the guilt of intoxicated boys in the company of intoxicated girls everywhere.

And this one:

Yet what alarmed me was not some sinister side of him I never saw but a passivity and retreat that I saw far too much of. In the end, I found it harder to love an emasculated boyfriend than one accused of rape.

Unsurprisingly people aren't thrilled with the New York Times publishing this girl's perspective, which occasionally comes across as hostile to the girl that accused the boyfriend of rape. The author doesn't believe that the rape happened: Her boyfriend told her they were both drunk and had sex; the plea he copped to said the girl told him to leave, but he forced his way into the room, her bed, and her.

Amanda at Pandagon writes:

Cross claims to have read everything about the case she could get her hands on, so it’s entirely unlikely that she isn’t aware that the victim was too drunk to fight him off effectively, that she tried to fight him off, and that he tossed the victim around. He forced himself on a drunk woman, which is way different than “they had sex”, a phrasing that implies that the woman was willfully involved.

So it's the word of what he told his girlfriend against the word of the girl/what he pled to. A lot of commenters at Pandagon dis the "he said, she said" approach to evaluating this situation. Really now, he pled to the charges. Well, I'm very hesitant to take any plea as undisputeduted truth. After seeing Capturing the Friedmans (mandatory viewing), I'll never underestimate the amount of tactical decision-making and personal crap that go into accepting a plea. While it's wholly possible everything happened exactly as he said, I don't think its place on the record gives it fact status.

So is the author deluded, as so many commenters say, or is she reasonable in saying that she knows the guy well enough to believe him? Here's an idea I'd like to throw out (if not actually advocate): She's wrong, but she's wrong because she's operating under the assumption that only bad people commit rape. That's the conventional wisdom, right? People who rape are bad people who are part of the rape culture and get off on disempowering women. Maybe that's true, I don't know, but I don't quite see why someone who's a generally good-if-imperfect person couldn't fuck up and rape someone. I mean, normal people do bad things all the time, right? They gossip and scheme and insult people and hit people who provoke them and do dishonest deals that make them more money and screw oinnocentsents. Non-hideous people prioritize their own immediate pleasure over the good of others.

So can this be what rape is about? Could it be that a drunk guy gets one "no, I don't want to" and little further resistance and just decides to go ahead? I don't see why not. To be clear, yes, this is rape. It is criminal assault and he needs to be penalized for that. Even if he was drunk, even if she wasn't very firm in her resistance. If she didn't consent he is guilty of something harmful and explicitly illegal. But I don't know that that's an indication that he is someone who gets off on dehumanizing women or is even likely to rape again.

It's clear the sex offender label has itself become nearly meaningless. Some 13-year-old who grabbed a girl's boobs may now have to register as a sex offender for life. Really, do people need to be warned that when he was 13, he assaulted someone in a not-especially-harmful way? And then there's that kid who's going to jail for ten years for getting a blow job from a girl two years his junior. I think he has to register, too. Great. Shouldn't this label and all the stigma that goes with it be reserved for people who are likely to be repeat offenders?

God, this post has been long and incoherent enough. I think it's time to stop. If you're a first time reader who got here via a search, please realize this blog is primarily written for myself and interested friends, so take it slow. All opinions represented here may or may not be mine. They're just what was running through my head while I was writing. I also ask that you please do not copy and paste sections of this post to another blog. Allow me to censor myself by deleting this post later on, if I deem it to offensive. Thanks.

The Innocence Project

Please excuse me for co-opting the name of a seriously important non-profit for a post about graphing virginity loss.

So, Brad an I have a long-standing argument (one of many) about whether, if you were to graph the age at which people in America lose their virginity, it would look like a normal Gaussian. Brad says yes. I say no. My argument was, essentially, the graph would be very asymmetrical, with a sharp increase into the peak and a slow deline away from it (the average age is 16...many people lose their virginity at 20 or 21; many fewer at 11 or 12). Brad says that while it's true there's going to be some asymmetry, a normal distribution is still a pretty great approximation, or at least good enough to be useful.

I was reading about recent studies for work (what's new?), and I came across one study on premarital sex in the US. (Finding: The vast majority of people do it. The vast majority of people have been doing it for a really long time). The analysis was based on data from the National Survey of Family Growth, and I realized this survey might be just what I needed to prove my point (or be horribly shamed). Since all of this data is publicly available—if a pain in the ass to access—I was able to download the relevant questions for the women who took the survey: age, whether had sex, and age of first sex. I had data for 6500 nationally-representative respondents in 2002. The graph of number of people who lost their virginity at each age looks like this:


It's a very pretty graph, and it looks more or less as expected (although I'm a little surprised at the sharp drop-off in the 18-20 range). You can see where we're both coming from: It is pretty asymmetrical, and it also looks on the Gaussian side of life. It's also important to note that the data I took was from people aged 20 to 44 at the time of the survey. Therefore everything after age 20 is skewed down a bit.

So I did some fits. First I did the normal fit and it did look decent, but got far too low far too quickly. I did only fit it through age 25 (so the skew wouldn't affect the fit too much), but by age 21 it's already a suck-fest. Then I tried to fit a Poisson distribution. To put it mildly, that distribution doesn't exactly lend itself to Excel curve fitting. I attribute this mostly to the bitchy factorial in the denominator. I also tried to fit the black-body radiation function. Also a mediocre result. Then I had an idea and tried to curve-fit the integral:


As you can see, I got a nice little arctan thing going on there. While its derivative is still a symmetrical function (1/[x^2 + 1]), it seemed to drop off more nicely, so I fit the polynomial A/[ax^2 + bx + c] to the curve. It's not perfect, but it's actually quite a bit nicer than the sharp drop Gaussian. Anyway, here they are: THE FITS!


Light blue is data, red is the Gaussian, yellow is black body, green is Poisson and purple is the inverse polynomial. I still think a more generalized Poisson may make the best fit, but right now I think the inverse polynomial works best. If someone knows a better asymmetrical distribution, please let me know! But the important thing is that at two standard deviations, the Gaussian sucks :-P

Oh, and if you're curious, here are comparisons for different age groups in 2002. The peaks are a fair bit sharper and a little earlier for the younger groups, but they're all pretty similar:


I hope you've enjoyed the viginity loss post!

Now for some google loading so nobody else has to graph this stuff: virginity loss, age of first sex, america, usa, large sample size, age of first intercourse, age of first sexual intercourse, nsfg, 2002 national survey of family growth

Let's Do This Thing

All right, kids, it's the vacation post. Each day gets one sentence. This is for posterity, not pretty prose.

The week kicked off with Schreier's eighth crazy night party on Friday, where Brad and the high school folks collided and compared notes about Cat's new exercise program, "pirates."

On Saturday I trained into Slave, chilled with the folks, and bounced right back to the city to see a totally awesome "Company" with V, familiar-looking debate boy on the side.

Sunday started with crosswording with V at Slave and finished with a very solid Seven Jews/Seven Woks/Seven-Thirty Christmas eve...albeit with only six Jews.

Christmas is a slow day in, well, most of the Western world, so Monday was low key, with a trip to Jacob Burns to see Volver with the fam and a chips-n-guac-fueled watching of the Jets' first victory with Dad and Adam.

Natalie and I meant to get some shopping done on Tuesday but emerged from the Westchester empty-handed, but at least we had some fun adventures on Central Avenue and a meal at Villagio before I saw The Good Shepherd with Mike L and nearly saw Mike L in The Good Shepherd.

I woke up back in the city on Wednesday but soon met up with Mom and Natalia for a Tennessee Williams play with a gorgeous, gorgeous actor who wouldn't let me take a picture of him (pshaw!), followed by a shockingly-good vegan dinner and terrific Bond movie with Lauren and Will.

I walked up to the Guggenheim on Thursday to see the Spanish painting exhibit (I <3 the Spaniards), after which Brad and I got overpriced Indian food then had a lively conversation with V over beers in ::shudder:: Murray Hill.

Friday held a nice Thai lunch with Mike L, where we ran into a cute boy he sorta likes, then I saw Children of Men with Will (the via Brad one), and the eve topped off with Greg's birthday party, which included cool kids (yay, Sam) and...a cute boy he sorta likes.

Saturday brought a long-overdue visit from Meremurti (woot!) and a just-plain-long walk from Brooklyn to my apartment so she (and I, and our buddy Thomas) could get a taste of New York.

Meredith wanted to see St. John the Divine for L'Engle-related purposes, so on Sunday we went to the Hungarian Pastry Shop (and the church, yeah yeah), and after we departed I headed to Adam's for Saturday's puzzle and Sunday's Jets victory before I prepared awesome deviled eggs for the fun New Year's Eve potluck at the Frushticks' great, new-ish place.

The weather blew on Monday, so I was a bit low energy while doing the puzzle and meeting up with Greg and V for a late-afternoon showing of the slightly disappointing Dreamgirls, followed up by Thai food and a far too rough night of sleep.

Well, there you go! Now my life of leisure is over, and I return to the grind. As long as I get a little sleep tonight, all will be well.

Look Here, Don't You Know My Face?

Hey, check it out! There's a blog here. Who knew? Apparently not me, for a while.

At first it was pure laziness, because I did have plenty to say. Thanksgiving break was absolutely lovely. It started off with a perfect meal with V at Jean-Georges--I was dreaming about that foie gras for days afterwards. Fuck you, geese. Revel in your hideous pain. Your liver is delicious beyond belief. Seriously, now; have you had foie gras? It's unbelievable. It's, like, several cuts above any other food in the world. I can't even describe it...it's like a warm chocolate truffle that isn't overwhelming in its richness and has the natural hearty feeling of meat. The texture...Christ, it just melts. And then later that weekend I had my H.S. reunion, which was lovely. I said hello to my homies and found out what's been up with them (one even reads the blog; woot!). Afterwards (Much afterwards, actually. As is my way, I left around 11 pm, and this happened after 1:30.) I went to Therapy with Mike L. and Alisa. That was fun and relaxing and had the space and lack of ear-busting noise that the reunion wanted for so badly.

Since vacation, well, life's seen its better days. I've been operating on the "If you don't have anything nice to say..." principle, which is why you haven't heard much from me. Suffice it to say my family and friends and my relationships with them are all doing just dandily, and I haven't been sick. Infer away.

In any case, it's Daily Show time. I'll try to be better in the future.

Not-Real Death

I know at least one or two people were upset by the story in my entry 'Tis the Season, where I saw a man passed out on the street who may or may not have been dead. Well, I have a (possible) follow-up.

Today I was leaving The Coffee Pot, walking down 9th, when I saw a man sprawled out under the phone booth. His posture didn't look like he was just sleeping, and it was only 4 pm, so I was concerned. And hey...he actually looked a bit like the guy I had seen about a month ago. I mean, they both looked late 50s, white, light hair, red-faced, and, well, passed out in not-entirely-lively positions. Since no good Samaritan was on the phone calling, I took out the cell phone, dialed 911 (I should probably put the EMS in there, too) and told them a guy was passed out and looked like he could use some help. While I was on the phone, the unconscious guy coughed a little: good sign. The emergency crew came in a fire truck (slow fire day in new york?) and went over to the guy. One of the firemen told me that the guy's name is Richard, and he's a "regular." So I guess that means he was likely the same guy as I had seen before, considering he was passed out only about a block away from the first guy's spot.

On one hand, it's nice to know that the first guy probably wasn't dead and that this guy will live to see another day. On the other hand, it's just depressing to know that this guy keeps passing out in Hell's Kitchen and getting picked up and brought to St. Vincent's. He's probably an undernourished alcoholic, and really, what are the chances he'll get his life even vaguely together? Much more likely that one day he'll drink a little too much and pass out in a place that's a little too cold. I even wonder: can you collect welfare with no permanent address? I guess you go to a shelter and then collect from there? There was that passage in Howards End about the very poor just slipping away. You can be fairly poor in America today without that really happening, but there is a threshold, and there are plenty of people below it.

Real Smooth

I was walking along, minding my business, when love came and hit me in the eye.

OK, it wasn't love at all. I was buying a chocolate croissant at a cart (I'm out of cereal; don't you dare tell me I should "just buy some more") and I turned around to continue my walk to work, when this girl says, "Hi."

Uh, hi.

"How are you?"

I'm good...

She was holding a thick blue binder, so I figured she probably wanted me to sign a petition or give money or something. She was also wearing scrubs...maybe she wants me to donate to her hospital? But there was no form on her binder, and she didn't look like she was getting any paper out.

"You're pretty."

Woah...WTF, as the kids say. Was she actually hitting on me? Do GIRLS actually hit on people in the middle of the street? I thought this was more or less the best thing our sex had going for us (besides not starting wars): We don't annoyingly cat call or hit on people. Maybe she just really wanted that croissant? I mean, it did look like a good croissant.

"You busy?"

Gee, I wonder. I mean, certainly most people clear their schedules around 9:30 AM. I find it's generally the best time to schedule my social events, and, really, if I'm walking outside at 9:30 AM, I'm probably just waiting for someone to pick me up. I find the walks invigorating and quite relaxing after a long, hard night's sleep.

I managed to break off and continue walking, when the girl's much butcher friend cuts me off.

"She says you already have a girlfriend. You have a girlfriend?"

Um...no? I don't want to be that total douche who goes "WoahwoahWOAH, I'm not into THAT! You can do whatever you want in the privacy of your bedroom, just keep it away from me!" Really, is there anything douchier? More evil, perhaps. But that's more or less the peak of douchedom. And even just saying, "Sorry, I'm straight" has a hint of that ughly insecurity. Although I think bumbling and looking scared really didn't do my image any favors.

If they were dudes, they would be in such trouble...dudes can't follow me and hit on me for two minutes when I'm clearly not interested. But chicks can get away with anything. And I wouldn't give up all the times I've used that to my advantage to lose a few minutes of early morning awkwardness. Heh heh.

Celebrities! I Want Celebrities!

Despite having a monster of a headache (if I actually vomit soon, I'll stamp it a migraine), I'm in quite a good mood. Tonight I met two of my favorite celebrities. Well, maybe "met" is a stretch, but I had contact with two handsome, smart, successful, opinionated-to-the-point-of-arguable-dickishness men in two VERY different professions. I stood within mere feet, nay inches, of Richard Dawkins and Michael Lucas.

Dawkins (young, studly, and pixellated here) was giving a talk at the New York Academy of Sciences on his new book, The God Delusion. I know a bunch of his arguments, so he didn't say too much that was new, but his deadpan-ish humor works very nicely in his voice. So that was a plus of seeing some of the more colorful passages performed live. Perhaps the greatest benefit was the conversation with some of my work buddies both before and after the talk. Lee and I discussed the differences between agnosticism and atheism and whether atheism is an arrogant position and any more tenable than religious belief. It was a good discussion, and I feel my brand of Godlessness and Dawkins's were expressed fairly well (they're not identical, but they certainly have common aspects). And Lee proved a very solid conversation partner. The dear-departed-boss was there with his very cool gf, so it was good to see and chat with both of them. I got Dawkins to sign my book, but as I was at the end of the line, he was a little grumpy by the time I got there. Still, I congratulated him on a good showing on the Report.

Michael Lucas (barely safe for work) was a more casual encounter. Greg had already informed me that he was to be leading gay men's chorus bingo a couple of block from where I live. I was walking back from the subway, and a cab turned, and the profile I saw in back was unmistakable. I did what any red-blooded internet-raised kid would do and followed that cab. He got off at the wrong corner and started looking around a little aimlessly. I tried to direct him, but by the time I got near, he was already getting directions on his cell. When he got off the phone, though, I introduced myself. I told him I was looking forward to his new film. I wonder if it freaked him out that I knew he was going to host bingo at the 9th Ave. Bistro. I kind of hope so. I like freaking people out that way.

And to add, um, compliment to physical intactness, one of the chicks from inkycircus left a positive comment over here. Check 'em out...they're one of the best science blogs out there. Although if you like science blogs, you've probably already seen a link to them from one of the folks at the Site of Power. Must always plug the site of power.

Exposed

I was at the coffee shop, attempting to read a beautiful book, which is beautiful more because it's insightful and thought-provoking and less because it's a fascinating story. Unfortunately, insightful and thought-provokig doesn't work that well with a deadline.

I looked up at the man sitting in front of me—white, 30-something, sexual orientation non-obvious—and saw that he was making a list. I couldn't read his monitor that clearly, but I saw that the list heading was "My fxxxx." What was that second word? It looked most like "fiance," but that didn't seem like a very good list title at all. So I looked at the items. The first one I saw was #13: "Age." What kind of list would have "Age" as an item? Then slowly, I began to make out others. #14: "Work." The first item started with an A and was a long word. #1: "Abandonment." #15: "Ugliness."

Ah yes. "My fears."

Good to know.

Slapstick is Dead?

Yesterday, life accidentally imitated art. Low, low art. We had a working brunch at the über-boss's swank apartment in the WV. Number one rule in your boss's swank apartment: Don't mess anything up.

Anyway, it was a lovely affair, and before leaving I headed to the bathroom, as I tend to do post-coffee + cider + mimosa. As I headed in, the intern coming out mentioned that the toilet was in a sort of continous flush spiral. There are worse things than I continuous flush, so I headed in. The toilet didn't seem to be flushing anymore, but as I went to flush, the handle wouldn't engage. I turned it in a few different directions, attempting to get it to catch, but after a few tries, it came off in my hands. Then the handle broke apart into two pieces. I screwed the top on and, realizing I couldn't screw the handle back onto the toilet, just stuck it on, figuring that's how it was to begin.

So I decided to flush the toilet manually. I lifted the porcelain top and tried to find the chain you pull to start the flush. But I hit something else first. A plastic tube snapped out of place and started SPURTING WATER ALL OVER THE BATHROOOM. I stuffed it back into place but it kept flipping out and spraying the floor. I creeped out of the bathroom and whispered to our branding guy to come help me. We eventually figured out how to get the tube snapped in, the toiled flushed, and we left the bathroom quietly. Hopefully the boss didn't suspect a thing...or at least understands. I hope. Yikes.

'Tis the Season

Autumn is a very precious time. It's the shortest of the seasons, with the possible exception of spring. OK, technically they're all the same length, but you know what a season feels like.

Winter lasts from mid-November to the end of March, more or less. It can come as early as late October and end as late as the beginning of May. Winter is the time when you're uncomfortably cold outside and the trees are lifeless. The air is crisp to the point of unable to carry smells. It's a huge portion of the year.

Summer lasts more or less from late June through the end of September. It can start as early as early May and can occasionally push itself through the first week or two of October. Summer is short sleeves. The air is hot enough that normally innocuous smells reek, hanging heavy in the air.

Spring and fall get pushed in the cracks. Usually during spring I'm just so excited for summer that I rush it a little. The most fun part of spring is seeing trees flower before they grow their leaves. The second most fun part of spring is beginning to smell the sweetness of plant life. It's always a little unclear whether you're smelling it because things are actually blooming or because the air can hold smells again. It's both, of course, and it's fabulous.

Fall...well, fall is awesome. I could never really appreciate it in school because I missed the freedom of summer and was still adjusting to the year, unable to believe that I hadn't gotten more of the year over with yet. Which isn't to say I didn't like school...I just liked summer a little better. And I was stressed. Now that my workload doesn't change between summer and fall, I can appreciate how beautiful the season really is. The air is wonderfully crisp but filled with wonderful smells: apples and burning wood. Trees change colors; is there anything more beautiful? Fashion is great...light jackets are so hot, and I'm still comfortable going outside in them. And the featured holiday of the season is Halloween. Halloween! It's the best holiday ever! Sure it has weird-ass religious origins, but right now it's sheer fun. All about creepiness, but not about REAL death, just about vampires and zombies and other forms of fake death.

Oy, speaking of real death. There was a man lying on the sidewalk by my apartment as I was coming home today. It was wholly unclear whether he was still alive. His face was red, which I guess was a good sign, but really, he didn't look too good. Luckily for my moral confusion, a man was already calling an ambulance. I never know when it's appropriate to interfere. I guess if someone's passed out at 6:30 pm, when it's still light out, and he's not a "usual" in a spot, it's probably time to dial up 911. The ambulance came after I got home, and I couldn't see whether he was conscious when they loaded him in. Upsetting.