I hope that my American readers are enjoying their Thanksgiving holiday. I hope my international readers will forgive us for our strange national obsession with consuming a dry, dead bird. We’re really not such bad people.
Once again, I want to thank all the people who visit this blog to get their daily fix of me. Your continued patronage is appreciated, if a little puzzling. But who am I to criticize how you spend your time?
Have a great holiday.
Over the last week or two, various people have been asking me about my Thanksgiving plans. When I explain to them that, like most years, I’m doing Thanksgiving solo, most people give me that “you poor thing” look that is usually reserved for news of dead pets or a bad breakup. Thanksgiving is apparently one of those days when you’re supposed to be with other people, and to spend it alone is considered both sad and a little weird. It’s a kind of well-intentioned peer pressure that seems to accompany this holiday, as well as Christmas. And I usually don’t feel like explaining the logistics of trying to go back to Wisconsin or the fact that any invitation from a friend here in the Cities would probably be complicated by an inaccessible home.
I’m quite happy to be doing my own thing, actually. I have some writing and several episodes of Lost to catch up on. I’ve spent a few holidays in the hospital and I think that makes these holidays alone seem like less of a big deal. It was in the hospital that I felt the most alone, the most cut off from the rest of the world. To spend Thanksgiving in my own home, with the knowledge I’ll see friends later in the weekend, seems more than acceptable to me.
A pleasant surprise was waiting for me in my inbox when I got home today. Fellow Minnesotan and blogger extraordinaire PZ Myers gets the cover story treatment in this week’s City Pages, the major Twin Cities alternative weekly. PZ, the man behind the popular science/culture blog Pharyngula, lays down the smack on fundamentalist Christians, intelligent design, and Republican shysters. The article mentions that Pharyngula averages 13,000 hits a day. I’m totally going to start writing about the ejaculation habits of giant squid in an effort to attract more eyeballs. Or maybe I should post pictures of various genitalia found in the animal kingdom.
You rock, PZ.
It appears that The 19th Floor is being featured in some kind of on-line curriculum. Here are the instructions for the exercise:
Blogging—creating personal online journals—is increasingly popular as a method of self-expression and communication. But often entries are more personal than the bloggers’ friends and family might like. Check out a few blogs and think about The Golden Rule.
And then it lists my blog as one of the putative examples of a blog that does or does not adhere to the Golden Rule; I’m not sure which. I’ve never thought of this blog as intensely personal. In fact, I try to avoid the confessional style of narrative that I see on some other blogs. I may share personal details of my life, but not to the point where there is no distinction between this blog and my own interior life. I also didn’t like disclosing many details about friends and family, unless it’s something I don’t think they would mind me sharing in a public forum. In short, I think I’m a relatively responsible blogger. I’d be curious to know why the authors of this exercise decided to include my blog.
Not that I don’t appreciate the additional traffic, mind you.
Someone sent me an e-mail gushing about a documentary titled 39 Pounds of Love. It’s about a thirtysomething Israeli man with SMA named Ami who goes to America in search of his childhood physician, who told Ami’s family that he wouldn’t live past age six.
I’ve only looked at the trailer, but I’m not sure I see the dramatic tension in this concept. Various physicians probably gave my parents a similar prognosis for me, but I couldn’t even tell you what their names were. Doctors make inaccurate prognoses all the time; life goes on. Or maybe I just attach less significance to that sort of thing.
And can we please, please have a documentary about people with disabilities that doesn’t elicit reviews that use words like “inspiring” and “moving”? I want a documentary that shows us as neurotic, dull, pompous, shallow, and ordinary as everyone else. I want a documentary that shows us fighting with our siblings, swearing at people in authority, getting drunk, and sleeping around. Come to think of it, I want to be in that documentary.
Sometimes I think about switching careers and going into intellectual property/copyright law. With book publishers pissed about the ongoing expansion of Google Print and consumers pissed about the inclusion of destructive digital rights management software on music CDs, it seems like there’s plenty of work for IP attorneys. I didn’t have much appreciation for the subject in law school, but copyright law has such interesting implications for the stuff we create and how our creations are appropriated. Our culture is being increasingly driven by information and entertainment; the question of who controls this content and its means for distribution are going to become increasingly important in the coming years.
But I think I need to stay in health policy for a while longer, at least until we finally get a universal health care system.
I made 69 cents because of my blog! Dude! A few weeks ago, I joined the Amazon Affiliates program (you’ve probably noticed the ads in the sidebar). My dad purchased one of the books that I had showcased and I got a commission of 69 cents! This will only encourage me to become more aggressive in my attempts to sell you crap you don’t need. I’ll start devoting entire blog entries to pitching the new Shakira or the Friends boxed DVD collection. Because I’m beginning to see dollar signs in this whole blogging thing.
As I mentioned yesterday, I was at a fundraiser last night and I shared a table with two close friends. I’m not sure this was such a good idea. My friend Erin, whom I’ve known for several years, was whispering something to my friend Rose at the buffet line. Then they both looked back at me and shook their heads. I have a sinking feeling that all those drunken secrets I’ve shared with Erin are coming back to haunt me.
Not much of an entry tonight, as I was out late at a fundraiser for the Minnesota Justice Foundation. More on that tomorrow.
It’s, like, ten degrees outside if you factor in the wind chill. Winter sucks ass.
I can’t find Kate Bush’s new CD on iTunes, which means I’m going to have to order the actual CD. It’s funny how I’ve become accustomed to the instant gratification that can accompany a couple clicks of the mouse. I can’t immediately recall the last time I bought music in any sort of physical form. Not this year, I don’t think.
Kate Bush is one of those artists that either you get or you don’t. Bjork and Wilco are a couple similar examples that come to mind. The first time I heard Kate Bush’s music was in early 1994. Remember, I had a relatively sheltered childhood growing up in Green Bay and I was late to the party as far as a lot of 80s artists were concerned. The Olympics were taking place in Lillehammer and I was watching some kind of recap of downhill skiing and they were using Kate Bush’s “Rubberband Girl” as the soundtrack. I’m not sure why I remember something like that. I have a weird memory; I can recall lots of otherwise mundane moments that contain a sliver of personal significance. I remember thinking how unique her voice sounded and that I desperately wanted to hear more than the brief excerpt that was played on television. And I only had to wait eleven years for the next album. But it looks like it’s been worth the wait, as it’s getting some great reviews.
I’m trying to figure out whether I can get rid of my old electric wheelchair. It’s about ten years old, but it still works and somebody might be able to make use of it. It’s been cluttering up my guest bedroom and I simply want it out of here. If you have any ideas on how I can get rid of it, drop me a line.
We’re supposed to get our first major snowfall of the season later tonight. Of course, it was forecast to begin this morning, which is consistent with the local media’s habit of overselling events like this. But I won’t be at all surprised if my morning commute to St. Paul takes twice as long as normal because everyone will be experiencing their annual First Snow Freakout.