There's no curling and no women's two-person bobsled, so I'm no expert on any aspect of the Summer Games. As a result, I've had to choose who to root for based solely on athletes' countries of origin. I've got a short list of my go-to favorites here:
1. U.S.A.! U.S.A.!
2. New Zealand (I have a friend from New Zealand)
3. Mexico
4. Great Britain
5. Canada
And then, in no particular order ...
Brazil
Cuba
France
Argentina (for basketball)
And, if no one else is around ...
Italy
China
Russia
Korea (either is fine)
Sunday, August 17, 2008
Sunday, August 10, 2008
Things to Carry
This is what Dorothy Gambrell carried around the world, or at least what she was carrying when she made it back to Brooklyn from her trip around the world on boats and trains.
Reading about Dorothy's supplies reminded me of something I've thought about every week since I read the last few paragraphs of this interview in Wired Magazine in April of 1996.
In that interview "cybertheoretician" (there's a Wired Magazine neologism if I've ever heard one) Marcos B. Viermenhouk, by way of explaining humans as both increasingly specialized and increasingly interdependent, said "Pull Bill Gates out of his office and put him in the veldt - in four days he's a bloated corpse in the sun."
As a fifteen year old born on the The Day of Precocity, I found this idea appealing on a number of levels. The one that's stuck with me, though, is that I could be picked up from anywhere at any time and dropped off on the Veldt or anywhere else without the slightest bit of warning. Where would I be then? Would I outlast 1996 Bill Gates?
As a result of thinking of this idea for the last 12-odd years, I've become very conscientious of the things that I carry with me when I leave the house (I've always assumed that Viermenhouk would be good enough to let me keep my immediate personal effects.)
It isn't really a question of survival skills, after all, since if we're assuming the Veldt could hit you at any moment, absolutely anywhere else is possible as well. It may be useful to be able to set traps in the Australian outback, but drop me in downtown São Paolo and I'd much prefer a cell phone and a short stack of US currency. Flexibility is the key.
First, I always carry my black Swiss army shoulder bag with me wherever I go. Like an alligator with a shotgun, this thing always takes people by surprise. It can carry any amount of anything. In my pockets, I have my wallet, cell phone and keys. Always headphones.
In the bag, I always carry boxcutters (a habit from my gripping days), leatherman or multitool, an umbrella, matches, a small (eyeglasses screw-size) screwdriver, a cheap corkscrew, a small (2" long) philips' head screwdriver, a couple of pens, a pencil for crossword puzzles, my checkbook, two buttons (for clothes), one button for Nerdcore Rising, sunglasses, reading materials, the keys to my old employers' office, and various medicinal crap: antibiotic ointment, two very old pieces of nicotine gum, a powerful French lip balm which I never use except in winter, and a single sudafed PE which I have fantasies about grinding up and putting in someone's coffee should I ever be kidnapped.
With this full kit, I usually feel prepared for anything. It's not the perfect set of tools for a round-the-world trip, but for the challenges I run in to in day-to-day life, I do pretty well. I also for some reason enjoy the idea that I could take apart almost any sort of small electronic device, although I rarely know what to do with them afterwards.
With the issue of Veldt preparedness out of the way, then, my mind often begins to wander to the logical next question: who would I bring with me in to this excursion in to the random? Who possesses the crucial combination of useful skills and an agreeable personality for any possible situation?
For some reason, I always imagine myself with this person in one of the crucial scenes of Cerebus the Aardvark Volume 4: Church and State #2. I'm thinking specifically of when Cerebus is trapped inside a giant tower made of stone skulls while he's bringing a perfect sphere of gold to the moon.
As we all know, Cerebus was accompanied then by the Flaming Carrot in the famous Flaming Carrot Crossover.
The Flaming Carrot was a valuable travel companion as he not only possessed the wherewithal to cope with such a strange situation (in fact, one is left with the impression that he often caused exactly that kind of situation himself), but he also allowed Cerebus to move much more easily up the tower in the darkness of space as his carrot top is constantly on fire but does not consume itself. Handy in a pinch.
Reading about Dorothy's supplies reminded me of something I've thought about every week since I read the last few paragraphs of this interview in Wired Magazine in April of 1996.
In that interview "cybertheoretician" (there's a Wired Magazine neologism if I've ever heard one) Marcos B. Viermenhouk, by way of explaining humans as both increasingly specialized and increasingly interdependent, said "Pull Bill Gates out of his office and put him in the veldt - in four days he's a bloated corpse in the sun."
As a fifteen year old born on the The Day of Precocity, I found this idea appealing on a number of levels. The one that's stuck with me, though, is that I could be picked up from anywhere at any time and dropped off on the Veldt or anywhere else without the slightest bit of warning. Where would I be then? Would I outlast 1996 Bill Gates?
As a result of thinking of this idea for the last 12-odd years, I've become very conscientious of the things that I carry with me when I leave the house (I've always assumed that Viermenhouk would be good enough to let me keep my immediate personal effects.)
It isn't really a question of survival skills, after all, since if we're assuming the Veldt could hit you at any moment, absolutely anywhere else is possible as well. It may be useful to be able to set traps in the Australian outback, but drop me in downtown São Paolo and I'd much prefer a cell phone and a short stack of US currency. Flexibility is the key.
First, I always carry my black Swiss army shoulder bag with me wherever I go. Like an alligator with a shotgun, this thing always takes people by surprise. It can carry any amount of anything. In my pockets, I have my wallet, cell phone and keys. Always headphones.
In the bag, I always carry boxcutters (a habit from my gripping days), leatherman or multitool, an umbrella, matches, a small (eyeglasses screw-size) screwdriver, a cheap corkscrew, a small (2" long) philips' head screwdriver, a couple of pens, a pencil for crossword puzzles, my checkbook, two buttons (for clothes), one button for Nerdcore Rising, sunglasses, reading materials, the keys to my old employers' office, and various medicinal crap: antibiotic ointment, two very old pieces of nicotine gum, a powerful French lip balm which I never use except in winter, and a single sudafed PE which I have fantasies about grinding up and putting in someone's coffee should I ever be kidnapped.
With this full kit, I usually feel prepared for anything. It's not the perfect set of tools for a round-the-world trip, but for the challenges I run in to in day-to-day life, I do pretty well. I also for some reason enjoy the idea that I could take apart almost any sort of small electronic device, although I rarely know what to do with them afterwards.
With the issue of Veldt preparedness out of the way, then, my mind often begins to wander to the logical next question: who would I bring with me in to this excursion in to the random? Who possesses the crucial combination of useful skills and an agreeable personality for any possible situation?
For some reason, I always imagine myself with this person in one of the crucial scenes of Cerebus the Aardvark Volume 4: Church and State #2. I'm thinking specifically of when Cerebus is trapped inside a giant tower made of stone skulls while he's bringing a perfect sphere of gold to the moon.
As we all know, Cerebus was accompanied then by the Flaming Carrot in the famous Flaming Carrot Crossover.
The Flaming Carrot was a valuable travel companion as he not only possessed the wherewithal to cope with such a strange situation (in fact, one is left with the impression that he often caused exactly that kind of situation himself), but he also allowed Cerebus to move much more easily up the tower in the darkness of space as his carrot top is constantly on fire but does not consume itself. Handy in a pinch.
Wednesday, August 06, 2008
Very interesting Mixes
I recently completed one of my major "media projects" (read: wastes of time) - rating all the music in my iTunes library. It was a long journey and I had many strange adventures along the way. Like an anti-depressant that cures ED, one of the happy side effects of my indulgent and arbitrary objective was that I now have dozens of new and fascinating playlists.
As I worked my way through hundreds of tracks I hadn't listened to literally since switching to iTunes, I felt compelled to start grouping songs together the way I thought about them. I had a sophisticated system. I started with a playlist of a few hundred songs I felt I should rate next. I'd listen to these over a couple of weeks and rate them, and if I felt like it would fit with a list I already had or if I felt the song illustrated something other songs could also exemplify, I saved it first to a seperate playlist on my iPod and then to one of several mixes through my laptop.
What I ended up with was sort of an aural mind map. It reminds me of the shelves at Movie Library in Santa Fe. I have playlists like Songs for Driving Around Southern California With the Top Down, Songs about Trains, the Best 50 Songs Eva, Music I Really Want to Make in to a Music Video, a list of music that I had wanted to use in a stage project called Funny Bunny Dances several years ago but never got around to doing, and on and on. I'm experimenting with ways to publish them now.
So I finally got to the through all my playlists of unrated songs (not quite the end, actually, as I can't bring myself to listen to Vickyheart's CD of her vocals on opera classics with a critical ear) and what should I find at the end of my media critiquing rainbow but a big pot boredom. Like a bribed schoolchild, I found that without my goal of rating and making playlists, I now had no interest in listening to music.
The solution? Another playlist, of course! As I'd rated music, I had noticed that I was rating some songs higher than I really felt they deserved just because I wanted to listen to them once or twice before. Not wanting to bias my completely subjective exercise with these my own subjective allowances, I created a new playlist for music I was interested in listening to again with the title "interesting music." It was here I found a new arbitrary objective to distract me once my first arbitrary objective ran out.
As I went through the songs in my "interesting music" playlist, I noticed they really comprised two categories. First, there was the songs I'd just wanted to listen to once or twice more. Maybe I wasn't sure of the rating I'd given them, or there was something inthem that had caught my ear but I didn't feel like listening to it the first time through, or I thought they may be material for one of my playlists but I couldn't immediately figure which, or whatever.
The other, much more fascinating category was songs that were interesting and I thought may always be interesting no matter how many times I listened to them. I've posted this playlist, "ribble's Interesting Music," on iTunes.
As I worked my way through hundreds of tracks I hadn't listened to literally since switching to iTunes, I felt compelled to start grouping songs together the way I thought about them. I had a sophisticated system. I started with a playlist of a few hundred songs I felt I should rate next. I'd listen to these over a couple of weeks and rate them, and if I felt like it would fit with a list I already had or if I felt the song illustrated something other songs could also exemplify, I saved it first to a seperate playlist on my iPod and then to one of several mixes through my laptop.
What I ended up with was sort of an aural mind map. It reminds me of the shelves at Movie Library in Santa Fe. I have playlists like Songs for Driving Around Southern California With the Top Down, Songs about Trains, the Best 50 Songs Eva, Music I Really Want to Make in to a Music Video, a list of music that I had wanted to use in a stage project called Funny Bunny Dances several years ago but never got around to doing, and on and on. I'm experimenting with ways to publish them now.
So I finally got to the through all my playlists of unrated songs (not quite the end, actually, as I can't bring myself to listen to Vickyheart's CD of her vocals on opera classics with a critical ear) and what should I find at the end of my media critiquing rainbow but a big pot boredom. Like a bribed schoolchild, I found that without my goal of rating and making playlists, I now had no interest in listening to music.
The solution? Another playlist, of course! As I'd rated music, I had noticed that I was rating some songs higher than I really felt they deserved just because I wanted to listen to them once or twice before. Not wanting to bias my completely subjective exercise with these my own subjective allowances, I created a new playlist for music I was interested in listening to again with the title "interesting music." It was here I found a new arbitrary objective to distract me once my first arbitrary objective ran out.
As I went through the songs in my "interesting music" playlist, I noticed they really comprised two categories. First, there was the songs I'd just wanted to listen to once or twice more. Maybe I wasn't sure of the rating I'd given them, or there was something inthem that had caught my ear but I didn't feel like listening to it the first time through, or I thought they may be material for one of my playlists but I couldn't immediately figure which, or whatever.
The other, much more fascinating category was songs that were interesting and I thought may always be interesting no matter how many times I listened to them. I've posted this playlist, "ribble's Interesting Music," on iTunes.
Tuesday, August 05, 2008
Tuesday, June 24, 2008
Wednesday, March 05, 2008
Interesting Things I Have Done
One reason I'm decent at making up stories is that I never feel like I have all that many non-fiction stories of my own. I just tend to tell the same ones over and over. Here, then, is the definitive list of interesting things I have done, in no particular order.
Gone skinny dipping
Travelled across Europe.
Hitchhiked from Wales to London on a Sunday (this is hard!)
Taken a hot air balloon ride in Africa.
Gone to Summer camp.
Accidentally hit on a girl who was ten years younger than me.
Consistently dated way out of my league.
Started dating at 15.
Grown up with someone who is disabled.
Worked on film sets with movie stars.
Directed short films.
Produced short films.
Driven a cube truck in New York City.
Made out on top a 15th-century watch tower.
Watched a lot of movies.
Learned a lot about T.V.
Managed the Pioneer Theater on Manhattan's Lower East Side.
Travelled across this great land.
Never been to Mexico.
Lived in Ecuador.
Gone to an international school.
Fallen in love.
Learned to speak Spanish, mostly.
Bought a piece of art.
Eaten some really good ribs.
Made really good friends with my cousin.
Gotten a baby brother.
Written for a newspaper.
Written a movie script.
That's it.
updated 3/5/08
Gone skinny dipping
Travelled across Europe.
Hitchhiked from Wales to London on a Sunday (this is hard!)
Taken a hot air balloon ride in Africa.
Gone to Summer camp.
Accidentally hit on a girl who was ten years younger than me.
Consistently dated way out of my league.
Started dating at 15.
Grown up with someone who is disabled.
Worked on film sets with movie stars.
Directed short films.
Produced short films.
Driven a cube truck in New York City.
Made out on top a 15th-century watch tower.
Watched a lot of movies.
Learned a lot about T.V.
Managed the Pioneer Theater on Manhattan's Lower East Side.
Travelled across this great land.
Never been to Mexico.
Lived in Ecuador.
Gone to an international school.
Fallen in love.
Learned to speak Spanish, mostly.
Bought a piece of art.
Eaten some really good ribs.
Made really good friends with my cousin.
Gotten a baby brother.
Written for a newspaper.
Written a movie script.
That's it.
updated 3/5/08
Wednesday, February 06, 2008
Why I Shaved My Beard
Boris knows 10,000 ways to kill a man, or so he says. I myself was always skeptical of the 10,000 ways claim. I once listed the number of ways I knew how to kill a man, sort of as a control group, and I only made it up to 237.
The 10,000 figure seemed to me, then, to be highly suspect. I thought it was typical Boris posturing, just what you'd suspect from a two foot long sheep puppet slash accomplished Russian spy who has crashing at my place rent-free for the better part of ten years.
For one thing, I asked him, wasn't 10,000 a bit round for such a fickle number? Surely there must be a great deal of estimating there.
"I rounded down," he said.
For a journalist (or former), a plausible answer that is also an excuse is like a red flag to a bull. Suddenly I had to know. So I indulged him. I asked Boris to list the ways he knew to kill a man. So began one of the most disturbing half hours of my life.
Boris' answers were not just plausible, they were chillingly specific. Where as my written list of man-killers would read like "32. Gun," Boris's were like meticulously plotted novels. They were not limited to weapon, wound and way of escape, but included such nuances as time of day, geographical location, size and body type of the intended victim, and detail after disturbing detail.
It was just too much for me. After it became clear that Boris could easily match or exceed my number, I decided it was perhaps less important to verify Boris' figure than to avoid spending the rest of my life thinking about how he could disfigure my own. That was about a year ago.
I'd since let this incident pass in to an amusing memory of a horrifying moment. Then, last month, I'd been working on planning a conference in San Francisco, and I'd sort of let myself go a bit. I wasn't getting enough sleep, and I barely had enough time to shower.
On the plus side, I had grown a wonderful beard - well past a goatee, full facial, with lovely amber highlights I'd always suspected I had but had never known for sure. Sure, it was arguably a product of my own laziness, but I also saw it as a sort of badge of maturity and pride. No one else at work had managed such a significant beard, that was for sure.
Then, one day, I found Boris just sitting there on the couch, staring at me. Because Boris is a stuffed sheep with no internal means of locomotion, this would otherwise seem perfectly natural, but something about the way he was staring gave me an oddly familiar chill down my spine. I asked him what was on his mind.
"If I put that thing in your paper shredder, it would look like an accident," he said.
So that's why I shaved my beard.
The 10,000 figure seemed to me, then, to be highly suspect. I thought it was typical Boris posturing, just what you'd suspect from a two foot long sheep puppet slash accomplished Russian spy who has crashing at my place rent-free for the better part of ten years.
For one thing, I asked him, wasn't 10,000 a bit round for such a fickle number? Surely there must be a great deal of estimating there.
"I rounded down," he said.
For a journalist (or former), a plausible answer that is also an excuse is like a red flag to a bull. Suddenly I had to know. So I indulged him. I asked Boris to list the ways he knew to kill a man. So began one of the most disturbing half hours of my life.
Boris' answers were not just plausible, they were chillingly specific. Where as my written list of man-killers would read like "32. Gun," Boris's were like meticulously plotted novels. They were not limited to weapon, wound and way of escape, but included such nuances as time of day, geographical location, size and body type of the intended victim, and detail after disturbing detail.
It was just too much for me. After it became clear that Boris could easily match or exceed my number, I decided it was perhaps less important to verify Boris' figure than to avoid spending the rest of my life thinking about how he could disfigure my own. That was about a year ago.
I'd since let this incident pass in to an amusing memory of a horrifying moment. Then, last month, I'd been working on planning a conference in San Francisco, and I'd sort of let myself go a bit. I wasn't getting enough sleep, and I barely had enough time to shower.
On the plus side, I had grown a wonderful beard - well past a goatee, full facial, with lovely amber highlights I'd always suspected I had but had never known for sure. Sure, it was arguably a product of my own laziness, but I also saw it as a sort of badge of maturity and pride. No one else at work had managed such a significant beard, that was for sure.
Then, one day, I found Boris just sitting there on the couch, staring at me. Because Boris is a stuffed sheep with no internal means of locomotion, this would otherwise seem perfectly natural, but something about the way he was staring gave me an oddly familiar chill down my spine. I asked him what was on his mind.
"If I put that thing in your paper shredder, it would look like an accident," he said.
So that's why I shaved my beard.
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