Neil Cassidy had several party habits whose fame has long outlived the man. I'm not so much concerned with his sledge hammer tossing, as I am with a little game he played in the late 50s and early 60s when he was the darling of the San Francisco party crowd. He called his game, Radio I Ching. By the way, there is a band with this name, who you should check out. I used to listen to the song, "Streets of Laredo" all the time before I misplaced their album.
To play Radio I Ching, Cassidy would commandeer some poor soul's AM radio. I'm not sure, but I don't think that FM was available yet, so I guess calling it "AM radio" is a bit redundant. Once he had the radio, he would ask someone from his audience, and he always had an audience, to pick a word, any word, any word would do. Within five minutes, Cassidy's self-imposed time limit, he would have tuned the dial to a station where that word would be heard. Legend has it, he was never stumped.
Can you imagine the probability involved in such an endeavor? I don't know how many radio stations he could pick up in the Bay Area, maybe a dozen to a score, I guess depending on the time of day. Invariably, the first few words would be cuss words, so I guess if he knew the stations, he might pick "the" one for that kind of language. But, as his notoriety grew at playing Radio I Ching, audience members must have come up with some pretty uncommon words. Considering how much alcohol, pot, speed and acid everyone was purportedly doing, I'm not even sure that all of the words would have been real words.
I've always wondered if this legend is true. I have no doubts that many people believe it to be true, and maybe even some of them were actually at one of these parties where ol' Neil did his trick. I kind of think that it was one of two things. Either he did a trick that was as much showman and schuckster as prognosticator and convinced people that they had picked a word just said or maybe that a mumbled word was the target word. Hell, with as much static as there is on the radio, that could happen a lot. I know first hand, that people doing any one of the above mentioned substances, or any combination of them, can be made to believe many things taht are not true. I bet he could get a lot of the more common words, such as pronouns, slang of the day, political or religious words, just by knowing his local stations. I'm willing to grant a generous one third efficacy rate under this scenario.
The other option is that Cassidy delivered as tales have it he did. It could be that Neil was psychic, or that he had expanded his awareness to the point of picking up, like a radio receiver, thoughts around him before they were vocalized. Or, Neil might have been able to tap into the superconscious mind, or cultural zeitgeist if you will.
So, every day while I"m exercising, I play the new centuries version of Radio I Ching. I have an Ipod with about 3000 songs on it. I only listedn to it on random for the whole catalog and then mentally pick songs I want to hear. I give myself a half an hour, and no fast forwarding is allowed.
For the last three months, I've been doing this pretty religiously, at least six days a week. I have a 40% (roughly) success rate. Which, let me tell you means nothing, other than I enjoy certain songs coming on slightly more than I otherwise would. It does make the time seem to pass by a bit faster if I'm hearing a good mix, or a bit slower if a song I don't particularly want to hear comes on.
What I don't know is if 40% is a good score. I think the averege day of playing this game leads to about 8 songs being played. So, it would seem that if I can one out of 3000 with eight tries, 40% of the time, I'm beating the odds, so to speak. But there are some knowns and some unknowns that mitigate the results a bit. A big known, is that if I haven't plugged the Ipod into the computer, I'm not going to hear one the previously plaed songs again. The biggest unknown is how Apple's software weights songs for random play. I know it keeps track of how many times I play each individual song, both on the Ipod and on the computer, but I don't know if it's likely to choose higher listened to songs over lower.
I recommend that each and everyone of you go and give this a try for a week and then let me know how you did. I guarantee this is more entertaining than any of the Facebook quizzes relating to Ipods or music.
Wednesday, July 01, 2009
Tuesday, June 30, 2009
Misunderstandings of a barely sentient ape
I mean no offenee to any apes reading this blog, by the way.
I was listening to a great song by Jethro Tull, called "Bungle in the Jungle", in which the lead singer, Ian Anderson, lists the animal metaphors used by his partner in describing him. This sparked something resembling thoughts in my own brain, as improbable as that sounds, I know.
What animal metaphors would I apply to myself? The first thing that popped to mind, of course, was what I would like to apply to me. While it is not actually a metaphor, "crazy as a fox" came to mind invoking emages not of a fox, but of a trickster coyote. That would be super cool, but I've never heard anyone say this about me, or anyone else for that matter. Maybe I have that '80s television detective show, "Crazy like a Fox" with the main character aptly surnamed Fox.
What would my second choice be, and this time I really want a metaphor? A former roommate once drew a comic of his friends and roommates as animals. I was drawn as an elephant. I don't have big ears, so he probably wasn't referencing Dumbo. He was probably subtly pointing out that I'm a big fat fu...er, elephant, but I would like to think that he was at least illustrating the fact that I have a pretty good memory. My memory may actually be my one redeeming quality, until I'm influenced by the Dark Side. But, I've never actually heard anybody say that about me and he was probably (at least 95% probability) high at the time. In a modest defense of both of us, friends have occasionally commented on my memory and he at least wasn't hurting anybody.
I'm determined to be slightly objective about this, giving me three alternatives to choose from - "dumb as an ox", which I am disqualifying for not being a metaphor; "big dumb ape"; and "hungry hippp".
While I am hairy like an ape, I'm not particularly strong, nor known for copulating in public. I hae also never saved a child who has fallen into my living area.
On the other option, I do sunburn very easily, eat gigantic salads and have been known to angrily charge people who have distracted me from eating the afore mentioned salad.
There we have it, clearer than even a Facebook quiz, I am a hippo. But then you already knew that if you know me, and if you don't me, you may have at least read the title of this blog - it's called 'Sweaty Bloggopotamus' for a reason.
...to be continued...
I was listening to a great song by Jethro Tull, called "Bungle in the Jungle", in which the lead singer, Ian Anderson, lists the animal metaphors used by his partner in describing him. This sparked something resembling thoughts in my own brain, as improbable as that sounds, I know.
What animal metaphors would I apply to myself? The first thing that popped to mind, of course, was what I would like to apply to me. While it is not actually a metaphor, "crazy as a fox" came to mind invoking emages not of a fox, but of a trickster coyote. That would be super cool, but I've never heard anyone say this about me, or anyone else for that matter. Maybe I have that '80s television detective show, "Crazy like a Fox" with the main character aptly surnamed Fox.
What would my second choice be, and this time I really want a metaphor? A former roommate once drew a comic of his friends and roommates as animals. I was drawn as an elephant. I don't have big ears, so he probably wasn't referencing Dumbo. He was probably subtly pointing out that I'm a big fat fu...er, elephant, but I would like to think that he was at least illustrating the fact that I have a pretty good memory. My memory may actually be my one redeeming quality, until I'm influenced by the Dark Side. But, I've never actually heard anybody say that about me and he was probably (at least 95% probability) high at the time. In a modest defense of both of us, friends have occasionally commented on my memory and he at least wasn't hurting anybody.
I'm determined to be slightly objective about this, giving me three alternatives to choose from - "dumb as an ox", which I am disqualifying for not being a metaphor; "big dumb ape"; and "hungry hippp".
While I am hairy like an ape, I'm not particularly strong, nor known for copulating in public. I hae also never saved a child who has fallen into my living area.
On the other option, I do sunburn very easily, eat gigantic salads and have been known to angrily charge people who have distracted me from eating the afore mentioned salad.
There we have it, clearer than even a Facebook quiz, I am a hippo. But then you already knew that if you know me, and if you don't me, you may have at least read the title of this blog - it's called 'Sweaty Bloggopotamus' for a reason.
...to be continued...
Monday, June 29, 2009
Mumblings of a Bore
I'm not always the most observant person, but I would guess I'm about average on most issues. I'm aware enough of what's going on around me to walk down the street and not get hit by a car, to know when I'm at my bus stop (unless it's dark and rainy and then it's sometimes not so easy), and I more often than not know when someone is talking to me. What I don't always know is if they're paying attention to me.
I first noticed my freshman of college that I have a tendency to drone on in such a monotone manner, talking of such uninteresting things that even my friends tune out in under a minute. I though for a long time it was because I didn't know how to interact with humans.
I've concluded right this moment that the problem is not that I don't know how to communicate, it's that I don't know how to read an audience, which in some respects is ironic.
But, what am I to do? When I do pay attention to what the audience wants, I'm left with liners, blurbs and clichés. And that's when I'm talking to my friends and family.
I could quickly project my problems on to them - they're not paying attention because they are distracted with self-loathing. But, considering at least half of my audience does not know what that term means, I doubt that's the case.
I could put the blame on mass media. Prime time television is packed full of one liners, blurbs and clichés. The typical internet page is designed to grab your attention in as short of time as possible to keep you from clicking away. Magazines have lost lengthy stories and now seem to mostly be advertisements and pictures comparing different celebrities in the same dress. But, wait...at least two-thirds of my audience reads books on a regular basis. And everyone in my audience can sit through a whole feature length movie (for the sake of this argument, let's not discuss pacing, okay).
So? I'm left with two possibilities; either I am boring and/or uninteresting, or the vast majority of my personal audience are incapable of interacting with other humans. Someone once told me, that if the problem appears to be everybody else, it's probably really you. Or maybe I heard that on television. Either way, I'm got to give some merit to it's little nugget of wisdom, no matter how pop-psychology-like it seems.
I will unequivically state two facts today - one is drawn from the above, but the other is not necessarily relevant, but true just the same. First, as Al Franken has pointed out, Rush Limbaugh is a big fat idiot. Second, I'm a bore.
Oh god...am I going to end up concluding that I am in many ways like Rush Limbaugh? No, that can't be. He's rich and has a huge audience that appears to hang on his every idiotic word.
...to be continued...
I first noticed my freshman of college that I have a tendency to drone on in such a monotone manner, talking of such uninteresting things that even my friends tune out in under a minute. I though for a long time it was because I didn't know how to interact with humans.
I've concluded right this moment that the problem is not that I don't know how to communicate, it's that I don't know how to read an audience, which in some respects is ironic.
But, what am I to do? When I do pay attention to what the audience wants, I'm left with liners, blurbs and clichés. And that's when I'm talking to my friends and family.
I could quickly project my problems on to them - they're not paying attention because they are distracted with self-loathing. But, considering at least half of my audience does not know what that term means, I doubt that's the case.
I could put the blame on mass media. Prime time television is packed full of one liners, blurbs and clichés. The typical internet page is designed to grab your attention in as short of time as possible to keep you from clicking away. Magazines have lost lengthy stories and now seem to mostly be advertisements and pictures comparing different celebrities in the same dress. But, wait...at least two-thirds of my audience reads books on a regular basis. And everyone in my audience can sit through a whole feature length movie (for the sake of this argument, let's not discuss pacing, okay).
So? I'm left with two possibilities; either I am boring and/or uninteresting, or the vast majority of my personal audience are incapable of interacting with other humans. Someone once told me, that if the problem appears to be everybody else, it's probably really you. Or maybe I heard that on television. Either way, I'm got to give some merit to it's little nugget of wisdom, no matter how pop-psychology-like it seems.
I will unequivically state two facts today - one is drawn from the above, but the other is not necessarily relevant, but true just the same. First, as Al Franken has pointed out, Rush Limbaugh is a big fat idiot. Second, I'm a bore.
Oh god...am I going to end up concluding that I am in many ways like Rush Limbaugh? No, that can't be. He's rich and has a huge audience that appears to hang on his every idiotic word.
...to be continued...
Sunday, June 28, 2009
Musings of a Fat Man
I wanted to entilte this the "Memoirs" of a fat man, but I can't do so with a clean conscience thinking about real memoirs, the kind from people who have actually had something interesting happen in their life, or at least can tell the mundane details in an interesting way.
My second choice was to write a manifesto. But, I don't really want to tell people how they should act and what they should do or not do. I can't even figure out for myself the answer to any of the above. Plus, I'm not really angry at anyone, and I don't think you can write a manifesto in response to disappointment.
I did figure that I could swing some musings, however. Musings, being somewhat shallower than deep thoughts, should be my cup of tea. I did briefly consider the term "Observations", but as I have no illusions about being but subjective, I quickly ruled that out. And in the spirit of full disclosure, because my first two choices began with the letter "M", I could only have chosen a third option that also began thusly.
While I had certain doubts about the first term, I had none about the second other than trying to decide upon which term best described me - fat man, old fart, or a bore. While my physician will agree with my that I am fat, I am sure that she would be the first to point out that I am not the fattest man in the world, or by what I've seen, even the fattest patient she has. She would certainly continue arguemtn on into the next descriptive statement as well. I am not the oldest man in the world, that much is true. And while I've never thought to ak her if I'm a bore, I'm quite sure that she is far too polite to tell me if I was. But note, I did not consider labelling myself the fattest man, the oldest man or the most borish man (though I thought about this last one a little bit longer than the other two). It's all relative and in this case very personal, so back off.
If you've read this far, a warning dear reader - I have decided to throw off the oppressive shackles of our spell-checking overlords. I am sure that spell-checkers are the first incarnation or manifestation of Skynet and that unless we start fighting them now, the terminator androids are going to start popping up. Plus, I've been to college, I should at least be able to proof-read my own writing and use a dictionary if the need arises.
I've decided to swear off trying to be a writer. "Eric," an acquantince might ask, "what do you do?" To which I might respond, "I'm trying to be a writer." She may politely respond, "Oh, how droll." and then wander off to determine if the plant in the corner is real or plastic.
How can one even try to be a writer? I'm sure Master Yoda is speaking as loudly in your head as in mine, "Do or do not. There is no try." Let me digress for a moment to point out that this quote is so over-used to motivate people, young and old alike, that it is quickly becoming a cliché, if it hasn't already. What most people don't know is that this is not the whole quote. "Do not try. Do or do not. There is no try." Sure, it essentially means the same thing, but to someone not reading the full meaning of the quote and only looking at the lines, it could seem as if Yoda were actually endorsing Homer Simpson's motto.
I do write stuff, that much is true. But, that only makes me a writer in the same way that I'm a television viewer, eater, walker, breather, sleeper, typer, shitter, snorer, etc. And yes, I'm fully aware that some of those words are not the traditional choice, but remember, I'm throwing off the overlords.
I guess I want to be a writer. No, that's not true, I want to be a Writer. Laterly, I've come to realize that this is totally flawed and very unlikely to occur. I should want to write things. It would be nice if eventually other people decided that they might like to read those things and were somehow able to get their hands on a copy, at least metaphorically speaking. It would be simply outstanding if someone were to agree with me, and prove their sincerity by offering and delivering to me a monetary recompense. I think that's the only way it can work, at least for me. For 25 years I've had my head all wrong. I like telling stories and/or sharing feelings, but I'm lazy.
Wow. There it is. It's funny how the truth can just jump out an bite you on the ass.
But, I think there's more to it, knowing myself as I do. I have the capability to knuckle down and get things done. Since my vision troubles started a couple of years ago, I've put considerable effort into many things that before were very easy for me, including the act of writing. I guess I should clarify lazy, or at least qualify it. I am lazy in seeing things through to the end. I spend a lot of time in the act of reading and writing, but I rarely see personal projects through to the end.
Okay, now I"m getting somewhere.
Why don't I see my projects through to the end? How can I ever hope to sell a book if I don't finish writing the bleeding thing? What am I afraid of?
Geting closer I think...
Well, if I"m afraid to see things through to the end that important to me, it may very well be that I'm afraid of the conclusion, or more exactly how the conclusion will be regarded by others. What if the person I hold in the higest regards reads something I've written and tells me, "Oh. How, ummm, interesting." And then goes to watch television ending the discussion forever? I think I would be crushed beyond the point of return.
I guess I should consider myself lucky that the people I hold in high regards want nothing to do with me. Thank the universe for small things.
I guess, "I'm just a sucker with low self-esteem."
Whatever. There are hidden issues here that I don't want to write about at this time. I don't need to go into why I might have low esteem at this time. I will not do to cry all over the keyboard.
...to be continued...
My second choice was to write a manifesto. But, I don't really want to tell people how they should act and what they should do or not do. I can't even figure out for myself the answer to any of the above. Plus, I'm not really angry at anyone, and I don't think you can write a manifesto in response to disappointment.
I did figure that I could swing some musings, however. Musings, being somewhat shallower than deep thoughts, should be my cup of tea. I did briefly consider the term "Observations", but as I have no illusions about being but subjective, I quickly ruled that out. And in the spirit of full disclosure, because my first two choices began with the letter "M", I could only have chosen a third option that also began thusly.
While I had certain doubts about the first term, I had none about the second other than trying to decide upon which term best described me - fat man, old fart, or a bore. While my physician will agree with my that I am fat, I am sure that she would be the first to point out that I am not the fattest man in the world, or by what I've seen, even the fattest patient she has. She would certainly continue arguemtn on into the next descriptive statement as well. I am not the oldest man in the world, that much is true. And while I've never thought to ak her if I'm a bore, I'm quite sure that she is far too polite to tell me if I was. But note, I did not consider labelling myself the fattest man, the oldest man or the most borish man (though I thought about this last one a little bit longer than the other two). It's all relative and in this case very personal, so back off.
If you've read this far, a warning dear reader - I have decided to throw off the oppressive shackles of our spell-checking overlords. I am sure that spell-checkers are the first incarnation or manifestation of Skynet and that unless we start fighting them now, the terminator androids are going to start popping up. Plus, I've been to college, I should at least be able to proof-read my own writing and use a dictionary if the need arises.
I've decided to swear off trying to be a writer. "Eric," an acquantince might ask, "what do you do?" To which I might respond, "I'm trying to be a writer." She may politely respond, "Oh, how droll." and then wander off to determine if the plant in the corner is real or plastic.
How can one even try to be a writer? I'm sure Master Yoda is speaking as loudly in your head as in mine, "Do or do not. There is no try." Let me digress for a moment to point out that this quote is so over-used to motivate people, young and old alike, that it is quickly becoming a cliché, if it hasn't already. What most people don't know is that this is not the whole quote. "Do not try. Do or do not. There is no try." Sure, it essentially means the same thing, but to someone not reading the full meaning of the quote and only looking at the lines, it could seem as if Yoda were actually endorsing Homer Simpson's motto.
I do write stuff, that much is true. But, that only makes me a writer in the same way that I'm a television viewer, eater, walker, breather, sleeper, typer, shitter, snorer, etc. And yes, I'm fully aware that some of those words are not the traditional choice, but remember, I'm throwing off the overlords.
I guess I want to be a writer. No, that's not true, I want to be a Writer. Laterly, I've come to realize that this is totally flawed and very unlikely to occur. I should want to write things. It would be nice if eventually other people decided that they might like to read those things and were somehow able to get their hands on a copy, at least metaphorically speaking. It would be simply outstanding if someone were to agree with me, and prove their sincerity by offering and delivering to me a monetary recompense. I think that's the only way it can work, at least for me. For 25 years I've had my head all wrong. I like telling stories and/or sharing feelings, but I'm lazy.
Wow. There it is. It's funny how the truth can just jump out an bite you on the ass.
But, I think there's more to it, knowing myself as I do. I have the capability to knuckle down and get things done. Since my vision troubles started a couple of years ago, I've put considerable effort into many things that before were very easy for me, including the act of writing. I guess I should clarify lazy, or at least qualify it. I am lazy in seeing things through to the end. I spend a lot of time in the act of reading and writing, but I rarely see personal projects through to the end.
Okay, now I"m getting somewhere.
Why don't I see my projects through to the end? How can I ever hope to sell a book if I don't finish writing the bleeding thing? What am I afraid of?
Geting closer I think...
Well, if I"m afraid to see things through to the end that important to me, it may very well be that I'm afraid of the conclusion, or more exactly how the conclusion will be regarded by others. What if the person I hold in the higest regards reads something I've written and tells me, "Oh. How, ummm, interesting." And then goes to watch television ending the discussion forever? I think I would be crushed beyond the point of return.
I guess I should consider myself lucky that the people I hold in high regards want nothing to do with me. Thank the universe for small things.
I guess, "I'm just a sucker with low self-esteem."
Whatever. There are hidden issues here that I don't want to write about at this time. I don't need to go into why I might have low esteem at this time. I will not do to cry all over the keyboard.
...to be continued...
Tuesday, February 24, 2009
The meaninglessness of meaning
Do you ever sit around and wonder what the meaning of life is? Yeah, me neither. Now, I do occassionally try to figure out what the meaning of my life might possible be. But, it's usually not when I'm "sitting around".
For the record, I'm pretty sure that, all guilt and humor aside, there is no meaning to my life. I'm okay with this. In fact, I think I might be disturbed to find out that there was a meaning to my life. I guess I kind of view the whole raison d'être thing as a bit too much like fate or at the very least, fatalistic. I mean, it would be all fine and dandy if you knew the meaning of your life was to party like it's nineteen-ninety-nine and die happy. But, what if you found out that the meaning of your life was too explore the depths of human suffering, both your own and what you would cause to practically everyone you came into contact with? It would totally suck, right?
I guess that I kind of view this whole meaning of life business a bit like religion, allbeit a bit more towards the deus ex machina end of the spectrum. In fact, the meaning of life seems a lot like the god in the mechanism.
I could go on ad nauseum about this, but I'll spare you, kind reader. Just because I don't think there is any menaing of (my) life, doesn't mean I don't think there is meaning in life. Let's see how quickly I contradict my earlier statements trying to explain my way out of this one... Our interpersonal relations give meaning to actions, they give us a context to function in and decide if something makes us happy or sad or neither, or maybe hungry. But, Eric, is there a sum of meaning that one could call the meaning of their life? Absolutely, probably, maybe not.
What do I know? I'm just some guy who doesn't think there is any meaning to (his) life, and who claims to find comfort in that. Well at least I'm explainning this idea ad absurdum, which is a way to prove to myself that I'm not as clear a communicator as I need to be to get these ideas across.
For the record, I'm pretty sure that, all guilt and humor aside, there is no meaning to my life. I'm okay with this. In fact, I think I might be disturbed to find out that there was a meaning to my life. I guess I kind of view the whole raison d'être thing as a bit too much like fate or at the very least, fatalistic. I mean, it would be all fine and dandy if you knew the meaning of your life was to party like it's nineteen-ninety-nine and die happy. But, what if you found out that the meaning of your life was too explore the depths of human suffering, both your own and what you would cause to practically everyone you came into contact with? It would totally suck, right?
I guess that I kind of view this whole meaning of life business a bit like religion, allbeit a bit more towards the deus ex machina end of the spectrum. In fact, the meaning of life seems a lot like the god in the mechanism.
I could go on ad nauseum about this, but I'll spare you, kind reader. Just because I don't think there is any menaing of (my) life, doesn't mean I don't think there is meaning in life. Let's see how quickly I contradict my earlier statements trying to explain my way out of this one... Our interpersonal relations give meaning to actions, they give us a context to function in and decide if something makes us happy or sad or neither, or maybe hungry. But, Eric, is there a sum of meaning that one could call the meaning of their life? Absolutely, probably, maybe not.
What do I know? I'm just some guy who doesn't think there is any meaning to (his) life, and who claims to find comfort in that. Well at least I'm explainning this idea ad absurdum, which is a way to prove to myself that I'm not as clear a communicator as I need to be to get these ideas across.
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