Long-lost twins.

New Zealand and Nova Scotia: separated at birth?

Regimonts.

An informative post.

This is what blogs should be for:

The Black Belt: How Soil Types Determined the 2008 Election in the Deep South

It's a fascinating little article about how soil types determined the 2008 election in the Deep South, from my friend Christian's blog. His blog is much more informative and learned and articulate than mine. I propose you read it instead!

An open letter.

Dear Mr. President-Elect,

I don't know about you, but I've been worrying a lot recently about the future, wondering what I can do about it, why aren't I doing more, what does it matter; and wrinkling my young face. Frankly, you are in a much better position to effect change than I, and we all think you've got the right ideas and the right character.

So, I'm gonna let you take over and I'm gonna focus on all my own shit, all the little things in my life that only affect me. I'm trusting you to handle everything else – I'm not gonna check up on you, not gonna hover nervously over my computer, not gonna continue my hourly routine of Andrew Sullivan, Glen Greenwald, 538.com, BBC News (I figure you've got the international stuff covered, too, right?), et cetera. We'll check back with you in three or four years, okay? Thanks for doing me such a huge solid. Give my best to Renaissance.

Sincerely,
Your pal Chris

To do something you never thought you could.

I listened to a radio show the other day, online, about the famous (infamous?) Milgram experiment. For those of you out of the know, this was a series of experiments conducted by psychologist Stanley Milgram at Yale University in the early 1960's. The experiments concerned the willingness of people to obey authority figures; Milgram hoped to shed light on the actions of Adolph Eichmann and his associates during World War II. In the experiment, the subject, thinking that he was participating in a study of memory, applied electric shocks of increasing voltage to a person in another room, who in actuality was an actor pretending to yelp in increasing pain. (Read more about it here.) What was fascinating about this radio show was that they were able to interview participants in the study, as well as play sound recordings from the original experiment. Near the end of the hour, one man wrapped it up neatly:

It's very easy to sit back and say "Oh I'd never do this, or that... nobody could ever get me to do anything like that." Well you know what? Yes they can.

It's a compelling hour of radio, and I highly recommend it. You can find it here:

http://mpegmedia.abc.net.au/rn/podcast/current/audioonly/ree_20081011.mp3

---

A few days ago I bought my first ever package of "everything" bagels. For the first 26+ years of my life, I had been a plain bagel type of fellow, but suddenly, almost overnight, I now like, nay, prefer bagels with poppy seeds, sesame seeds, and onion. It's shocking to me. But I look at my recent history, and the foods that I used to avoid and now enjoy: tomatoes, peppers (green or jalapeño) on pizza, guacamole (yes, there was a time when I disliked the green manna). I recognize, too, that the day will come when I choose onions and relish on hot dogs, or spinach in salads. It's very easy to sit back and say "Oh I'd never eat this, or that... I'll never want to eat anything like that." Well you know what? Yes you will.

Though I'll be damned if I'll ever like the taste of cilantro!

---

You know what? Yes we can:

Dieting.

My pal Will and I got lunch at La Sirenita yesterday. Good burritos. Will said he really can't (for aesthetic reasons, I think) eat the same meal more than once a week. I said I could probably eat the same thing all the time if I had to. I wondered which one I'd like more: 21 different meals in a row, or 21 of the same. So I gave both of them a shot. I don't know which is better. All I know is that I'm REALLY FULL.

A warning sign.

I'm pretty sure that Nova Scotia used to be tilted more north-south than it is now. Anyone else notice this? Nova Scotia is tipping slowly to the right. Watch out.

That money stuff.

I don't understand a lot about economics, and I found this short explanation of the current crisis to be very helpful. It was geared towards a 14-year-old. It was just about right for me.

"The Financial Crisis, as Explained to My Fourteen-Year-Old Sister" by Kevin Nguyen

(Indirectly brought to my attention by my good friend and a smart fellow, Christian Neal McNeil, who keeps a much more scholarly blog than I – it is this: The Vigorous North)

About me.

Blah blah blah things about myself that I wonder if I have in common with other people blah blah blah trying to explain myself in ways I can't in a face to face conversation blah blah blah wasting time blah blah blah trying to make people laugh blah blah blah at me or at themselves blah blah blah.

Websites that aren't about me:

• The Mason-Dixon Line
• The Devil's Dictionary, by Ambrose Bierce
• Purple

Websites that aren't about me either:

• Menthu, Egyptian falcon-god of war
• The Fourteen Holy Helpers
  
• Curcubita maxima
• The Saint Elias Mountains

Second thoughts.

"Oh my lord, I had forgotten how much she talks."

"Those cows are bigger and scarier than I expected."

A problem with my self-image.

I'm happy enough about the way I look. ("Phew!" I hear you all exhaling.) Sure I could be thinner, or have whiter teeth, or clearer skin, or be less fat, but generally when I stare at myself naked in the mirror for hours I'm okay with what I see. And then I see pictures of myself and am horrified. I finally figured out what a third-grader could have figured out: I am not symmetrical. All these years I have grown accustomed to (and even fond of) the image I see looking back at me, while in actuality, I appear the EXACT OPPOSITE! Compare these two photos. The first is the way I see myself:
Friendly, confident, handsome, hair swept to the LEFT. A guy you can trust. A guy you'd like to have a beer with, but also think can handle our current economic crisis as well as two foreign wars.

Now, here is the Chris that the you (the public) are used to, the one I never see:
Shifty, lazy, incompetent, hair swept to the RIGHT. A guy who'll let you down. A guy you can't stand being around; someone who'll blow $700 billion on Cheetos and start a war with Barbados.

There seems to be a simple solution. I could start parting my hair on the other side. Then you all would see the me I see now, the charming, good-looking, world-changer. But what would I see every morning during my ritual mirror-stare? An ugly, morally bankrupt shitbag with stupid-looking hair. Could I bear looking at that for the rest of my life, even if I knew that everyone else saw the opposite? Could you?

---

P.S. I've forgotten how I look with short hair. I think that means it is time for a trim. Wish me luck.

P.P.S. A second ago I accidentally typed "Whish" instead of "Wish." But the more I think about it, the more I want you to whish me luck too. LUCK!

First encounters with the niece.

"Take this uncle away – he bores me."

Grandma multitasking.

---

It's been good to be around my eight-week old niece, Quincy Rose Despres, for the first time, if only in that she has inspired my songwriting. I've already come up with two keepers, just in the last four hours. Behold:

"I'm An Uncle Over Here"


"Remote Control"



Songs for Quincy Rose Despres are licensed under a Creative Commons Attribution-Noncommercial-Share Alike 3.0 United States License.

Words and phrases that I will DEFINITELY be tired of by November, if not already.

"Change."

"More of the same."

"Panini."

Hockey Moms Against Sarah Palin.

(via Andrew Sullivan's Daily Dish)

This aggression will not stand.

Please read a brilliant new article about one of my favorite movies, taken in light of the last eight years. It is worth it just for the analysis of the Larry Sellers scene as an allegory for the current Iraq War. I'm totally serious.

"Walter Sobchak, Neocon: the prescient politics of The Big Lebowski" by David Haglund (via Slate.com)

I need an internet vacation.

One thing I like about articles on Slate.com is that they are rife with embedded links that supplement the article. One such article was read by me about a week ago; the subject was the overuse of the phrase "my friends" by politicians who are anything but. Here is a screen shot of part of the article (which can be found here) – you can see how many handy hyperlinks (in blue) there are to supporting articles or videos:

One link in particular caught my eye...
As I pointed my cursor to click on the link to William Jennings Bryan's "Cross of Gold" speech, I automatically readied myself to be directed to YouTube and a video of Bryan's fiery oratory. I guess I can be forgiven for assuming that, in this political season, the next campaign speech I came across would be just like the previous hundred. Or shouldn't my brain be agile enough to realize that a speech delivered in 1896 is unlikely to appear online in video form? At least it was the funny kind of stupid.

Earlids.

Eyeplugs...

Presidential Crimes.

Dear all,

Looking back over the past eight years, I have often been amazed at the Bush administration's ability to deflect attention from their scandalous behavior by behaving even more scandalously. Every time we begin to wrap our heads (and our media) around , they hit us with the next, effectively tabling the discussion of the former as we stand, slackjawed, marveling at the ever increasing pile of evil deeds. It can be overwhelming, and the promise of a new administration in five months can make us want to look forward, not back. But as Elaine Scarry writes, in an article in the Boston Review that is thoughtful and well-researched (not to mention enraging), we must not forget what has gone on above our heads, behind our backs, or even in front of our eyes. Here are the opening paragraphs of her article:

We have at the present time two government leaders, a president and a vice president, who, according to all available evidence, have carried out grave crimes. Will these two men leave office and live out their lives without being subjected to legal proceedings? Such proceedings will surely release new documents and provide additional testimony important in resolving their guilt or innocence. But the public record is now so elaborate, so detailed, and validated from so many directions that a weight is on the population’s shoulders: does our already existing knowledge of what they have done obligate us to press for legal redress?

The question is painful even to ask, so painful that we may all yield to an easy temptation not to pursue it at all.

Please do yourself a favor and, when you have a few minutes, read the rest of the article here: http://www.bostonreview.net/BR33.5/scarry.php

---

For a lighter political moment, please laugh with me at a hapless Fox News reporter who strolled into a protest yesterday in Minneapolis last week in Denver and got more (and less) than he bargained for:

The ever-reliable Harper's Magazine contextualizes this rebuffing of the media here: http://harpers.org/archive/2008/08/hbc-90003473

A tableau.

I am standing in the kitchen of my parents' house, making a sandwich. The stereo is blasting, tuned to the Spanish radio station because the cleaners are here. Both are in the laundry room (adjacent to the kitchen), one folding towels and the other gathering the mop and bucket. Suddenly I start laughing. For the first time in my life, I recognize the song playing. It is "Amor del Bueno" by Reyli. I know this because my friend plays drums on this record. If I spoke Spanish, would I tell them? Would it impress them? I don't say anything, but as I spread my mayonnaise I chuckle. Somehow this has activated my upper-class white guilt.

---

"Amor del Bueno" by Reyli

The right way to do things.

You know me, so you know how much I care about humor. And humor, especially the self-effacing sort, in the face of serious matters, is even more prized. So, then, you can imagine how pleased I am to share with you the URL for the National Stuttering Association: www.westutter.org

Please, National Stutterers, tell me that you chose that URL with a knowing grin on your face. Please tell me that it's not just a brilliant accident. I want so badly to believe!

The end of an error.

I can't keep up this charade. Since mid-May, I have been trying to be a vegetarian, and sometimes succeeding. For weeks on end, I would not eat meat. But then I would. That's no problem, necessarily; the crime lies in continually professing to have converted to vegetarianism while admitting to periodic lapses. As my "lapses" have grown more frequent, I feel more and more the liar whenever I say (outloud or inwardly) that I am a vegetarian. Even "I am trying to be one" seems disingenuous these days. And you know how I feel about disingenuousness. So no more! I am no longer "trying to be vegetarian." Now I am "not eating meat for every single meal." (After all, why should I treat meat any better than vegetable?!)

Yours,
Chris Hubbard the Amoral Corporate Dupe

A possible future for our country.

Note: I really, really, really, really really really, sincerely really really, genuinely honestly really really truly madly deeply really really fervently really hope not.

Do doctors doctor?

I really don't think that doctors doctor.

Progressives: don't let up.

I know we are all just hoping against hope that McCain is not elected in the fall, and terrified that he will be, and feeling like Barack Obama's smile is so infectious, and that Michelle Obama would be the best first lady ever. I am right there with you. But please listen to Naomi Klein and realize that Barack Obama and the Democratic Party are far from perfect, and we need to hold them accountable. She is much more articulate and informed than I, and proves it in this interview:


http://www.youtube.com/v/_e4daR54iIQ&hl=en&fs=1
(brought to my attention on onegoodmove.org)

Not so deadly.

Dear Mr. Rick Warren,

I don't know that I want to admit what my worst sin ever is, but my most recent one would have to be the sin of gluttony. Or was it greed? Or both? They always seem to run together, don't they? Gosh, I'd love to see someone fit all seven into one. That would be something! In any case... my sin of gluttony? I ate a slice of pizza. Not just ANY slice, though, and not just ANY pizza, either! The pizza had a thin crust, with a tangy marinara sauce and cheese, and the toppings? Oh, the toppings! Spicy elk sausage. Jalapeños. Cranberries. Feta cheese. Spicy elk sausage, jalapeños, cranberries, and feta cheese!! That was the pizza. As for the slice? It was sitting alone on the plate, the rest of the pizza having been quickly devoured by me and my bandmates. I stared at it and felt conflicted; I shared my concerns with our guitarist. I told him that, a few days earlier, I had been talking to my friend Will, and had mentioned that the band would soon be playing at this pizza establishment that sold, among others, this amazing spicy elk sausage/jalapeño/cranberries/feta pizza. Actually, I think I only remembered the elk sausage and cranberries. Still, Will was intrigued, and I told him that, if I could, I'd save a slice for him, bringing it back to Portland from McCall, Idaho.

But at that moment, with the last slice lying so vulnerably in front of me, I felt myself losing control. I asked my bandmate for guidance.

"Eat it," he said. Clearly he had no sympathy for my internal conflict.

"I'm sorry, Will, I'm sorry!" I cried, but my cries were muffled by pizza.

Possible things to say to Will (who reads this blog) when I see him:

- "I didn't think you'd like the jalapeños." LIE! I'm pretty sure he would have liked it more.
- "It wouldn't have been very good after sitting in the car for a day." IRRELEVANT! Will deserves to make that evaluation himself, doesn't he?
- "I lost it in a game of chance." EPIPHANY! Life is the ultimate game of chance. Whoa...

In truth, I have no excuse. I'll just say to him, "Will, I'm sorry that I am a greedy, gluttonous, jealous, slothful, vain person with a lust for pizza. Can you ever forgive me?" Stay tuned next week for his equally verbose answer!

Ratios.

Men run faster than women, both at 100m and at 26 miles (marathon distance). But is the gender gap any different at different distances? What would you guess?

Women's 100m world-record time/Men's 100m world-record time = 1.08256

Women's marathon world-record time/Men's marathon world-record time = 1.08827

That seems remarkably similar! Obviously, the sample size is as small as it can get, but the numbers are interesting.

Note: The two fastest 100m times by women are suspect. The first, 10.49 by Florence Griffith-Joyner in 1988, is often considered to have been wind-aided (with a malfunctioning wind meter at the event). The second, 10.65 by Marion Jones in 1998, was at altitude (more than 1000m above sea level). In addition, Flo-Jo was suspected of using performance-enhancing drugs, and Jones has admitted to it. The fastest time, then, that is considered completely legitimate is 10.73 seconds by Christine Arron of France, in 1998. The ratio of that time to Usain Bolt's (insane, but so far legitimate) 9.69 seconds is 1.10733 -- a larger difference than in the marathon.

Do brokers broker?

Yes, brokers broker.

Do soldiers soldier?

Yes, soldiers soldier.

Permanence.

I have just (as of Friday) moved into a house where I will be living for the next month and a half. In the grand scheme of things, 45 days is not long, but at this period in my life, it seems almost extravagantly so. I am sleeping in a bed with sheets that I own, and eating food that I keep on a shelf designated for me. I can't be kicked out at the whim of my host. It is luxurious.

The house is in a swell neighborhood called Brooklyn, here in lovely Portland, OR. It is on the border of a residential neighborhood and an industrial sector, and late at night we hear blasts from truck horns as they signal to each other. I imagine that I am on an ocean cruise ship and that they are passing freightliners.

The illusion of privacy.

Dear you all,

In a little while (a few weeks, a few months, maybe a few years), I think I'm going to restrict access to this blog. So when that time comes (or sooner), just let me know if you want permission to read it, and I'll most likely grant it. Because I like you.

Chris

Awesome.

This article on Salon.com is and isn't awesome: http://www.salon.com/mwt/feature/2008/07/23/shock_and_awesome/

Grass.

Lawns are not such a good idea. They are wonderful to roll around on, and I will miss them, but they are nothing but wasteful and it is probably for the best that most of them go away...

http://www.newyorker.com/arts/critics/books/2008/07/21/080721crbo_books_kolber

---

"Grass" by XTC

Feral peeve.

You know what bugs the crap out of me? What bugs the crap out of me is when bathroom faucets are so close to the side of the sink that you can't wash your hands without bumping them against the porcelain and/or splashing some water out of the sink. Seriously, what the fuck? It is far too common. Like Jennifer Lopez's character in the film Enough, I have had enough!

Two articles to read.

http://www.newyorker.com/reporting/2008/07/07/080707fa_fact_hersh?currentPage=all

You've probably heard about this first one, but if you haven't, I'll summarize: The Bush Administration is not learning from the past and most likely doing some really bad, really stupid, and really illegal things to try to destabilize Iran.

As for the second, it's much more uplifting: a small town in Denmark reduces its carbon footprint to basically zero, rather easily. Take a lesson, World!

http://www.newyorker.com/reporting/2008/07/07/080707fa_fact_kolbert?currentPage=all

Bus Stop Toker.

There was a man at the bus stop, sitting not on the bench but rather beside it, in a motorized wheelchair. He wore thick glasses and an Oakland Raiders cap, and he was smoking marijuana out of a small copper pipe. As I sat down at the other end of the bench, he reached towards me.

"..do you...want...some?" he asked, grinning. His speech was muddled and slow.

"No thanks," I laughed. He shrugged with his upper body, and pulled the pipe to his lips for another toke. It was a cool, comfortable afternoon. I was impressed by his audacity.

"You've got a prescription for that?" I asked.

"..Yyyes...but this...shit's a lot stronger....than what I get from... the doctor." He grinned and sucked some more smoke into his body.

"Oh, yeah? Right on," I said.

"Don't tell anyone." He smiled at me and I smiled back. I wondered if he could wink.

He continued, "I got stopped...downtown...by annn undercover police...I showed him...mmmy pass...he let me go, but he...tol' me not to... in public, or..."

"You can't smoke in public?" I asked. He gave me a look as if to say No, that's not it, keep going. "Or just that you shouldn't do it in public or you'll get stopped again?" He smiled, nodded, and his eyes twinkled. Yep, that's it. I smiled in acknowledgment, and we sat in silence for a few moments. I craned my head to look down the street, then looked at my watch; the bus was late. I looked over at my waiting partner and shrugged; he gave me a understanding look. He could have been my age, or younger, or ten years older. Disabled people seem to age differently from the rest of us, I thought.


Across the street a young woman stood on a porch talking to her friend. The friend was seated and mostly obscured from my view by a low wall, but I could see the young woman, her curves silhouetted against the house. I glanced over at my waiting friend - he was looking at the same thing, and as I smiled, he caught my eye.

"The house is brown, but... her ass... is black," he explained. "It looks good."

"You're right," I laughed. It did look good. Hey, I called out in my head to her, I just wanted to let you know that my friend here and I have been admiring your ass from afar. Oh, really? she would say jauntily, and her eyes would sparkle as she laughed. Yes, you're quite lovely, I'd say, can I take you out tonight?

I laughed to myself at my silly fantasy and dropped it - my eyes refocused and I saw her, far away across the street. I looked over at my friend, who looked at me; clearly we understood one another. He anticipated my next question, and after another hit from his pipe, answered.

"I was innn...an acc...ident...and I spent four months in a... uh, in a... hos..." He looked confused.

"Hospital?" Immediately I felt like an able-bodied jerk for interrupting.

"...nnno, not hos..pital...a place they...put you be..fore... you die..."

"A hospice." Oh, such a jerk I was.

"...hospice..." he nodded.

Wow, I thought. "But you're all healthy now?" Wait, that didn't come out right. "I mean, besides... um, well... besides..." I stammered and gestured weakly at his chair. For the first time he looked at me like I was an idiot. "I can't walk," he said slowly.

"Right," I said, trying my best to affect an understanding and apologetic tone. Another few moments of silence. We both looked away.


The woman across the street said goodbye to her friend and turned towards us. She began to cross the street, heading for a car just a few feet from the bus stop.

"Heyyy," my companion called out as she opened her back door and deposited her bag. "... hhheyyy!" He waved to her with a twisted hand. She looked puzzled for a second, as if she may not have been the target of his interest, but then she shut her door and walked over to him. Could it really be that easy?!

"Hi," he said.

"Well, hi there," she replied pleasantly, smiling at him. She caught my eye, and I half-smiled at her, but she had turned back to him. "What's your name?" she asked.

"Chito," he said.

"It's nice to meet you." She spoke to him, not as to a child or a pet, but as to someone she might be completely unafraid of, and completely confident around.

"What... ddo you... do?"

"I go to school."

"Where do you....ggo to school?"

"At Evergreen," she said congenially. An Evergreen girl! I thought.

"Oh?" I interjected. "I went to Reed!"

She looked up at me expectantly, then confused.

"In Portland," I clarified. Still nothing. "You go to Evergreen? In, uh, in Olympia, right?" I stammered.

"No, here in Denver." She looked at me, confused but charitable.

"Oh." I had no follow-up. She turned back to him.

"You have... a nice ass," he said to her.

"Oh!" For a moment she was taken aback, but then her eyes sparkled and she laughed. "Thank you! You're sweet." She smiled down at him; he grinned at her.

I think so, too, I think you have a great ass, and I can even move my arms and hands properly to grab it, I wanted to say.

"Well, I've got to go," she said to him. "It was very nice meeting you."

"Nnnice... meeting you."

She looked at me and smiled kindly. "Bye."

I smiled and nodded; I couldn't bring myself to say anything.


As her car disappeared down the street, the number seven bus pulled up to the stop. We waited for the ramp to extend. I watched him line up his wheels, taking several tries before he got them on the ramp. A few more seconds for the ramp to retract, then I hopped effortlessly on. He was already situated in the designated handicap zone.

"Well, keep it real, man," I said as I passed him, heading to the back of the bus. He didn't acknowledge me.

I settled in to my seat at the back and looked down at him. He was turned in his chair, waving at the woman seated behind him. "Hiii," I could see him saying to the woman, who looked uncertain. "Hii.. what's... your name?"

I put my head down and closed my eyes, to think.

Extravagance.

I was daydreaming about winning the lottery...

$20 million lottery win (a very reasonable amount)
~ $10 million after taxes

4 college funds = $600,000
personal fund = $100,000/year * 50 years = $5 million
"modest" home = $1 million
"tithe" to charity = $2 million
___________________
$8.6 million

$1.4 million left

personal accountant $100,000
top notch recording studio $200,000 (I've no idea how much this would actually cost.)
a kickass hybrid car $50,000
a kickass electric car $50,000
a kickass bike $1,000
box sets of DVD's (tv shows, movies) and CD's: $150 x 100 = $15,000

30 day MegaFun RoadTrip!

20 friends = $82,000
each friend... $4,100
$20/day food = $600
$1000/month stipend = $1,000
$50/night hotel = $1,500

1 bus
10,000 miles
5 miles/gallon = 2,000 gallons
$5/gallon = $10,000 dollars
rental = $????

good video camera = $10,000
old-fashioned changing tent = $200
museum tickets $100/person = $2,000
ballgame tickets $50/person = $1,000
really good book lending library = $1,000 or free

total for MegaFun RoadTrip = upwards of $150,000 probably

stipulation: I get to pick the Roadtrippers' wardrobes. To be fair, they will get to pick mine.

What am I forgetting? I must be forgetting something...

A great quote.

"Bucky was a boisterous but hopelessly nearsighted child; until he was fitted with glasses, he refused to believe that the world was not blurry."

from "Dymaxion Man: The visions of Buckminster Fuller," by Elizabeth Kolbert, published in the most recent New Yorker magazine - read it here

"Huh."

As I stepped out of the shower today and regarded myself in the full-length mirror, I noticed that my hair was perfectly parted down the middle. I reached up to feel it – barely damp. I didn't forget to wash it, though. More likely is that I have a reached a new stage in human evolution, in which our bodies begin to dry and coif themselves, to save us time and energy before our important morning business meetings and video conference calls.

Awesome quiz.

Hey, here, take this quiz that I just came up with. There IS a correct answer for each one...

Best astronaut: Neil Armstrong

Best Mormon playwright: Neil Labute

Best former child star who has had a reasonably successful career as an adult, even since coming out: Neil Patrick Harris

Best pop songwriter to have a top ten hit in two different decades with the same song (albeit different recordings): Neil Sedaka

Best married pop duo whose first hit single was written by aforementioned pop songwriter: Captain and Tenille

Best solo host of SNL's Weekend Update: Kevin Nealon

Best enormous windbag athlete (enormous in size as well as windbaggery*): Shaquille O'Neal

Best red dye: cochineal


* "Windbaggery" is a real word, I swear. Trust me.

Civic pride.

I wish that I could have been in the wonderful city of Portland, Oregon, yesterday to experience this: http://thecaucus.blogs.nytimes.com/2008/05/18/obama-draws-record-crowd-in-oregon/

Portland, I love you. I think you are swell.

Snapshots from Arizona.

We drop down into the next valley, on the road from Los Angeles to Flagstaff, Arizona. The mountains are red around us. Scattered throughout the valley floor are the roofs of houses and trailers, still tiny in the distance like whitecaps on a mottled brick-red sea. In a few hours we will be staring into the Grand Canyon, a gash in the earth so inconceivably immense that it must be a Hollywood set, an enormous painted backdrop. Look, the other side of the canyon is hazy, blurry. Even the high-def presentation of actual real life can't handle this scene.

Three days later we drive away from Phoenix, on an immaculately paved two-lane road laid like a carpet over the rolling land. This is the high desert, with grass and brush instead of dirt and cactus; the elevation is 6000 feet, and everything is short. Anything of notice is lying below the horizon. No, there is a strange factory there in the distance, like a run-down Emerald City, but we are not getting any closer to it. We don't seem to be getting any closer to anything. Occasionally the road rolls enough that we can't see over the next hump, but inevitably it is the same.

As we grow nearer to New Mexico, the ground lifts up and exposes jagged rocks and dirt, a world of red and gray replacing the yellow and green of dried grass and scattered bushes and trees. Rain begins to fall, as if to fill the cracks in the earth and the crack in our
windshield.

The sun has set. In the dark the world here is both more and less lonely. We now know there are other people out there, because the lights from their houses can be seen in the distance; in the daylight they would be invisible. But that's all that can be seen beyond our headlights. Looking off to the starboard side, I count ten specks of light in a sea of black. Oh, there's an eleventh. But, no, the first has disappeared. We haven't done almost any night driving on the tour so far, and it is a completely different feeling. It's harder to sleep, for me. At night I'm supposed to sleep in a bed.

A great innovation.

Dear readers,

Today my life changed. For the better. And I owe it all to McSweeneys.net, which has a wonderful page of recommendations for all aspects of life, whether it be music, movies, food, or lifestyle choices. This particular recommendation was to shave, after a shower, with no shaving cream of any kind. It was amazing. My face was soft and warm, and the razor slid over my skin as effortlessly as a squeegee on glass. My face still feels great, and as close shaven as it has ever been. Am I just late to the game? Do you all know about this? I don't know, but I imagine it would also work for the legs and armpits of old-fashioned ladies and forward-thinking men.

Again, the wonderful page of recommendations: mcsweeneys.net/links/recommends/

Oh, and please note that one of the bands I play in is recommended, too.

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Other great innovations: the ratchet, the greeting card with recorded sound, the Fosbury Flop, the wheel, the fake chicken nugget.

Asceticism.

For a long time I've harbored fantasies of spending an extended period of time (a day or longer) without speaking - a speech fast, if you will. Sometimes I imagine foregoing all communication completely; other times I imagine allowing myself at the least a sign to hang around my neck that reads "I'm sorry, but I cannot speak today." I've shared this idea with a few of my friends. Some of them have been receptive, even excited about the prospect, while others don't understand why I would do this. When I told my friend Will, he was a little skeptical, I think. He asked me why; I don't remember what my answer was.

"Can I make an observation?" Will asked.

"Shoot."

"This seems to be tied in to an underlying proclivity of yours for asceticism. Would this be fair to say?"

"That's exactly right," I laughed, and as I did I realized that it was.

In light of this, I'd like to share two articles I've read in the past few years, about two fascinating (to me) men, Zell Kravinsky and Wayne Gerdes. Both have extreme proclivities, the former for philanthropy, the latter for gas conservation. Their views wildly diverge from the mainstream, but when I read these articles, I thought, "Of course!" Still, I haven't figured out exactly how or whether to incorporate their ideas into my life.

The Gift (profile of Zell Kravinsky) - by Ian Parker, published August 2nd, 2004 in the New Yorker

King of the Hypermilers - by Dennis Gaffney, published Jan/Feb 2007 in Mother Jones

Facebook.

A high school friend of mine showed up unexpectedly to the show on Thursday, and we chatted a bit. We talked about her relationship, which was going on three years (I think). Despite the fact that they both REALLY like each other, she told me that they didn't really have a future together, and were probably going to break up eventually. Apparently eventually is two days later. According to Facebook, that is, which told me yesterday that she is now single. It accompanied that information with a pictorial interpretation of how she must be feeling — a little heart cracked in two. You know the one.

I don't dislike this new simplified version of getting out the news. But a few things struck me. First was the retroactive feeling of being in the know, a retroactively voyeuristic appreciation of our conversation. The second was that I wondered, how long after closing the door on him, or walking away from his stoop, did she think to log on to her computer and check a different box on a website? Does that demonstrate a remarkably short grieving process? She must be pretty confident of it sticking; how embarrassing would it be to change one's Facebook relationship status back to "In a relationship" so soon. And maybe that's a reason to publicize the break-up: a stick to keep oneself from backsliding into a faulty relationship.

The last thing that I thought about was the black and white nature of Facebook's pronouncement. "Single." "In a relationship." Sometimes it's helpful to think of things as simply as possible. (Granted, Facebook does offer the nebulous "It's complicated," but that is so open that it is practically meaningless. "It" might as well refer to "life.") Spending only one word of mental energy on my relationship status leaves me far more time to think about other things. I have enough problems without having to worry about definitions.

Hue.

All of this countryside is reminding me that my favorite color has always been green (specifically, green grass green). Forgive me for being slow, but I just realized that green is just about the most common color in the world, after blue. What does that say about me? And would a person whose favorite color is red prefer it if leaves were red, or if the sky were red? What's your favorite color? Do you have one? It seems kind of childish, and also kind of unfair. I like all sorts of different colors, but I don't think I'd like any of them that much if there weren't the others.

Notes from the road, and an upcoming anniversary.

The first leg of the tour is over. We played Sacramento on Thursday and three straight days in San Francisco. I hear marked improvement through the four shows, which is a good sign. Still a lot of work to do, and a sudden technical problem with my keyboard is stressing me out to no end, but the tour definitely won't be disaster.

We saw a leatherdaddy late on Friday night on Folsom St. in San Francisco. Actually, we saw dozens of leatherdaddies (and a few pairs of asscheeks) but this one stood out because he was using a walker. 70 odd years old, bedecked head to toe in wrinkly skin, back crooked, shuffling down the sidewalk one step at a time. The only thing that could have topped it would have been an octogenarian dominatrix cruising on a Jazzy.

(The band is keeping a blog at http://scotlandbarr.blogspot.com, with contributions from all of us, if you are looking for other perspectives.)

I just hopped on the train from Richmond to Davis. I've taken this train a half dozen times now, and I really enjoy it. It's a quick trip (about an hour – not much longer than by car) and convenient, but more than that it's a fascinating look at the backside of the I-80 corridor. You get to see backyards, back fences. It is a car culture, and people present themselves to the roads, whether through homes or business, factories or parks. Meanwhile, the neglected underside of their lives abuts the railroad tracks. If all the world's a stage, then the train provides a backstage pass.

There is a far more interesting and thorough take on it to be found here: BEATING THE BOUNDS - a UC Davis graduate student's project to walk the length of the line from Oakland to Davis. Perhaps I already blogged about it, but it is worth a second mention.

I have a blog post about beating the bounds in Burgundy, France, that I have been meaning to post for almost a year, and when I write it well, you will read it. It will be great.

That reminds me that this blog is almost one year old. And, coincidentally, I just saw my cousin (with whom I stayed in Paris) again, this time in San Francisco. It all comes together sometimes. The last year has been quite wonderful. Full of wonder. Full of interesting things. Full of change. Perhaps it has been a launching pad – I feel something a-comin'. Something's in the wind. It's like right before Mary Poppins shows up. Or one of those other classic musicals in which everything works out for the best...

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Self-realization.

Okay, I think that I've finally come to terms with the fact that I am not the smartest, most handsome, most talented person in the world, through whom the most good will be visited upon the world; but I just cannot believe that it turned out to be my neighbor Ricky Anderton. What a jerk!

A major life change.

Okay, folks. I've decided to do it. It's something I've thought for a long time about doing, and I think that I am finally convinced. Starting on May 1st, I am going to...

What should Chris do? You make the decision.

a) If you think he should become a vegetarian, turn to page 31.
b) If you think he should switch to boxers, turn to page 63.
c) If you think he should stop swearing, turn to page 64.
d) If you think he should begin wearing contact lenses, turn to page 18.
e) If you think he should measure twice, cut once, turn to page 72.
f) If you think he should become a nomad, turn to page 28.
g) If you think he should move to Los Angeles, turn to page 23.
h) If you think he should shun Republicans, turn to page 79.
i) If you think he should get tested, turn to page 82.
j) If you think he should wake up earlier every day, turn to page 47.
k) If you think he should JUMP! by Van Halen, turn to page 378.
l) If you think he should stop, turn to page 100.

The best thing in the world.

I don't know what it is, but it's not playing squash after a lunch of chicken-fried steak/meatloaf sandwich, mashed potatoes, and orange shake.

South by Southwest.

Last month I was in Austin, Texas, for the SXSW music festival. The count (official or unofficial, I'm not sure) was 1700 bands converging on the city. That's 7500 musicians, at least, not to mention the 1000+ media members and probably over 10,00 fans, all in town for five days. (For the purposes of this blog entry, I shall ignore the concurrent film festival and other media panels, conferences, etc.)

The experience was draining in the best of ways. We arrived in town having driven 38 hours straight from Portland, and immediately headed out to get a feel for the festival – our gig was the next day, and we wanted to be sure that we knew exactly where everything was and how things were happening.

A person can definitely feel overwhelmed by choice. At most times there were at least twenty venues to choose from. As a music fan, I was excited to say the least. If you are like me, you download the schedule, circle everything that intrigues you, and then plan an itinerary that allows for the most music heard (and the least cash spent.) Then you hop a ride into town and begin the day. When your feet can no longer support your weight, you find your way home (a friend of the band was putting us up), plan the next day's musical route, and go to sleep. Repeat. As a result, I did not get a chance to recover from the 38-hour drive. And who could care? I saw a lot of great music, but better than that was being in a place with such a positive musical energy. There was nothing to be down about. It was awesome.

Friday and Saturday followed much like Thursday, except for the few hours late afternoon Friday when we had to prepare for and play our own gig (which went as well as we could have hoped, by the way, and we hoped it would be awesome). By ten or so on Saturday, I could feel my body dip below an energy threshold, and I knew I was done – there were three or four more hours of amazing music to be heard, but I didn't care in the slightest. What sleep that night!

The next day we packed up our stuff and drove an hour out of Austin, to a little Texas roadhouse that was having music all day. It was all country, the good kind, the old-timey sincere kind. We stayed for an hour or so, had two tacos and a beer, and relaxed. It was a perfect capper to the weekend. Then we hopped back in the van and headed west, towards home. Another marathon drive, with no excitement awaiting us, but it was easy. I can't speak for the rest of the guys, but I was still high and wide-eyed from the weekend experience. The fellas dropped me off in Los Angeles, and I spent the next few days readjusting, just in time to hit the road again with Scott Fisher...


Who I heard (in chronological order): Eleni Mandell, Bodies of Water, The Evangelicals, Bon Iver, Jens Lekman, Lykke Li, The Weakerthans, Kaki King, Casey Neill, The Lucky Tomblin Band, Colin Gilmore, Daniel Lanois, Tapes 'n Tapes, The Watson Twins, Billy Bragg w/ Kate Nash, Chuck Prophet, Jandek, Liam Finn, Carbon/Silicon, Laura Gibson

Who I missed (in no order): She & Him (M. Ward & Zooey Deschanel), M. Ward solo, Okkervil River, Jacob Golden, Destroyer, White Denim, The Raveonettes, Mika Miko, Karl Blau, Bobby Bare Jr., Devotchka, Blitzen Trapper, N.E.R.D., Tilly and the Wall, Roky Erikson, Black Moth Super Rainbow

Migration (Scott Fisher tour post).

In Southeastern Oregon we were witness to a great migration of tumbleweeds, heading south across I-84. Many were caught by the highway barrier and bounced around like guttered bowling balls, while the largest hopped over and the smallest skipped through to continue their journey towards the snowcapped hills. I wonder how far they will get.

A little tour update: I've been on the road now for two weeks as part of Scott Fisher's band, 1 a.m. Approach. We started in Los Angeles, and have played Bend, Portland, Mt. Hood, Sandpoint, Kalispell/Lakeside, and now we head to Boise for two nights to finish up. It's easy to forget how much space there is in this country. Thousands of square miles of nothing but railroad tracks and powerlines snaking across hills and plains, connecting one clump of people to the next. No one fights over this land anymore.

As much as we like to think (or hate to think) that we humans have subjugated the earth, a highway is proof of compromise. The road snakes along valleys, around hills. Cars and trucks still have to struggle up steep climbs, nature's way of making us earn our freedom from local constraint. To get from Sandpoint, Idaho to Boise, Idaho, we have driven through Washington and Oregon. (Those two states share a straight border with Idaho, for those of you who don't care to know things until I tell you.) That is the route that nature lets us pass most quickly.

We have shitty cell phone reception out here. 100 years ago, we wouldn't have noticed. 100? 10. 5. Next year I will bemoan the fact that I can't log onto the internet from this nowhereness. Unless, of course, I will be able to. What will we bemoan then?

The gigs have been good. Even the bad ones have been good. We've played to packed sweaty houses, and tiny but attentive sitters. That sounds like we were playing to mice. You know what I mean. At Mt. Hood Meadows we played to the afternoon crowd of hungry skiers, who surely didn't expect us to be there. In Bend we played to families that were looking a solid out-of-town band bringing a different quality of music than they could find normally. In Sandpoint we played for the twelve people who were friends with the owner of the wine cellar. In Hermosa Beach we played for the twenty-something beach meat-market, as well as the forty-somethings looking for the same thing.

Skepticism.

"If someone paid me a million bucks to lose twenty pounds, I think I could do it."

I spoke those words tonight, but I wasn't sure that I believed them.

We Are Alone – a rumination.

First, a preface: Martin Seligman, a psychologist from the University of Pennsylvania, wrote the following (abridged) words as a response to The Edge Annual Question (http://www.edge.org/q2008/q08_print.html):

We Are Alone... [Carl Sagan and I.I. Shklovskii's] book [Intelligent Life in the Universe], as most readers know, estimates a handful of parameters necessary to intelligent life, such as the probability that an advanced technical civilization will in short order destroy itself and the number of "sol-like" stars in the galaxy. Their conclusion is that there are between 10,000 and two million advanced technical civilizations hereabouts. ... And this made the universe a less chilly place as well. What consolation! That homo sapiens might really partake of something larger, that there really might be numerous civilizations out there populated by more intelligent beings than we are, wiser because they had outlived the dangers of premature self-destruction.

... SETI (the Search for Extraterrestrial Intelligence) and its forerunners are almost forty years old. They scan the heavens for intelligent radio signals, with three million participants using their home computers to analyze the input. The result has been zilch.

... I now take the null hypothesis very seriously: that Sagan and Shklovskii were wrong: that the number of advanced technical civilizations in our galaxy is exactly one, that the number of advanced technical civilizations in the universe is exactly one.What is the implication of the possibility, mounting a bit every day, that we are alone in the universe? It reverses the millennial progression from a geocentric to a heliocentric to a Milky Way centered universe, back to, of all things, a geocentric universe. We are the solitary point of light in a darkness without end. It means that we are precious, infinitely so. It means that nuclear or environmental cataclysm is an infinitely worse fate than we thought.

It means that we have a job to do, a mission that will last all our ages to come: to seed and then to shepherd intelligent life beyond this pale blue dot.

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We Are Alone

We Are Alone. There was a time when the universe contained endless hope, endless possibility; a time when we looked at every star and imagined a new intelligence, a different form of life coming from it to meet us. The Confederated Tribes of the Milky Way Galaxy sent probe after probe towards the twinkling future, scanned swath after swath of night sky, and all was met with silence. No response, no twittering on the other end of the line. We now know – we now believe – that we are indeed alone in this universe, that we have only each other, only the 200 intelligent species that evolved in the specialized radiation of the Milky Way Galaxy.

We are the solitary point of light in a darkness without end. It means that we are precious, infinitely so. It means that collapse of the galaxy is an infinitely worse fate than we thought.

It means that we have a job to do, a mission that will last all our ages to come...


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We Are Alone. There was a time when the world contained endless hope, endless possibility; a time when we looked over every hill and imagined a new perspective, a different kind of people coming over to meet us. The Town of Newton sent pigeon after pigeon into the sunset, scanned horizon after horizon, and all was met with silence. No response, no flags waving from afar. We now know – we now believe – that we are indeed alone in this land, that we have only each other, only the 200 inhabitants that have lived in Newton.

We are the solitary point of light in a darkness without end. It means that we are precious, infinitely so. It means that the destruction of the town, by man's hand or by God's, is an infinitely worse fate than we thought.

It means that we have a job to do, a mission that will last all our ages to come...


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I Am Alone. There was a time when the world contained endless hope, endless possibility; a time when I looked around every corner and imagined a new voice, a different person coming to meet me. I called out again and again, but was met with silence. No response, no open arms. I now know – I now believe – that I am indeed alone in this world, that I have only myself, only me, only this same person that I have been and will be.

I am the solitary point of light in a darkness without end. It means that I am precious, infinitely so. But is death any worse now than I thought?

And what, exactly, is my job?


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In memory of Arthur C. Clarke, who died today at the age of 90.

Tales of a cynic, part two.

A few days later I saw an attractive young woman walk up to the same planter and sniff the flowers in the same manner, but I didn't think to myself "What a chump!" How unfair of me.

Driving to SXSW.

10pm, Tuesday. We are on the road. The rental van is crammed to the gills with gear, but we fit everything in, with breathing room, and twenty minutes in it is a comfortable ride.

Portland saw us off in style, too — we were warned ahead of time that the local music spotlight on KINK would be playing our new record for the first time, and sure enough, as we polished of the packing, Beth Clyman's voice called out our name and The Burden made its radio debut. We just stood there behind the van listening to our hard work. When it was over, Beth Clyman spoke our name again. "That was Scotland Barr & The Slow Drags, who are in Austin for the SXSW Music Festival. We wish the boys lots of luck on their show there..." That made us all feel pretty warm inside, and we pulled away from Zach's in high spirits. We agreed that it was a great way to begin the trip.

10 hours in. It is closing in on 8am. We are driving south through Sacramento. We just stopped at my parents' house in Davis for bathroom, breakfast, and a few hugs. Definitely a step up from IHOP. The sun is up for the first time on our trip, and it's easy to forget that we still have 1800 miles to cover.

20 hours in. We are a half a mile into Arizona, making record time. I drove the leg from Bakersfield to here, and I'm finally fading, so Bryan has taken over. I don't know how much I've slept in the van, but I can only get it in mini increments. I hope that changes and I don't show up in Austin bleary-eyed and Zombie-like.

30 hours in. Ciudad Juarez sparkles to our right, sprawling along most of the southern horizon. To our left is comparatively black; I think El Paso ended a while ago. I can't say for sure, as I was asleep. I think we have all figured out, or grown accustomed to, the slight contortions needed to curl up comfortably in the back seat. It's almost 4am now, and I've been able to sleep on and off since 9pm when we left Phoenix, stomachs full of Mexican food.

The hostess spoke decent English, but the waitress spoke Spanish to us as a default, and we did our pitiful best to reply. Scot is just recently returned from a month in Ecuador, so he was pretty comfortable ordering. Bryan stuck to words on the menu — "uno burro pollo" — and Zach, in his unapologetically Zach style, didn't bother trying. "I'll have the three enchilada plate, please," he said. She understood fine.

I had barely decided. "Uno burro pollo... wait, no [head shake, hand waive] uno burro verde, um, et un taco pollo, por favor."

She repeated my order back to me, I think.

"Oui, merci." I said yes, thank you, in the foreign language I'm used to, and blushed as I realized. "Uh, si, gracias." She didn't give me any confused or dirty looks, but I felt like an ass.

38 hours in. We pull up to our host's house in north Austin. Texas is WIDE. Everything is flattened out – the geological features of Nevada, Utah, Arizona, or Idaho are much more pronounced. The vegetation is slightly different, with thicker chaparral in the most arid places – not much open sand – and low oaks and other deciduous trees elsewhere. Houses are spaced far apart, across wide lawns and streets. Many Texans speak like their geography.

We stumble out of the van, joints creaking. The music festival is already raging in downtown Austin, and despite my weariness, I can't wait to join the throng.

Complaint.

Darn it, you guys! Blogging takes so much time!

I'm on a diet.

Especially since I've been laid up tending to my sore knees and unable to play squash, but even before that, I've been trying to eat more healthily. I've been eating out much less frequently, and trying my best to get enough fruits and vegetables. Bananas, apples, zucchini, eggplant, broccoli, all part of a fair and balanced diet. Most recently I have returned to eating salads – simple enough – just some lettuce, maybe some tomato, cashews, and a light dressing. I like Annie's raspberry vinaigrette dressing, but I ran out about a week ago and was stealing my housemates' inferior Sesame Vinaigrette or Ranch (blech) dressings. Then I realized (because it takes me several days to put two and two together to make four) that I could just mix some vinegar and oil in my Annie's bottle. I tossed in a dollop of blackberry jam for flavor, and shook it up. It was really good. The concoction lasted for a few days. At the end of that time, the thickest bits of blackberry were still in the bottle with some remaining oil and vinegar, and they glopped out onto my salad. It was then that I realized:

I'm putting jam on lettuce.

Tales of a cynic, part one.

Today I saw a man walking down the street – no, he was strolling down the street – and he came up to a planter with a large flowering plant in it, and he leaned over and put his nose in the flowers and smelled them, and I thought to myself, "What a chump!"

My old blog.

Oh, I missed you, old blog. No posts in February! I thought about you a lot, and meant to write, really I did, but it just never happened, and now look, it's March. Well, I'll make it up to you. I'll be on the road for most of March, with a lot of van time and nothing much to do but type type type. I promise, I won't neglect you again. Not for a few months anyway...

I thought about blogging today from Oregon City High School, where I spent 20 minutes accompanying (two different students) and five hours chilling between time slots. Oregon City High School is in an immense building. There are nine different wings, lettered A-I. They have two basketball courts, one of which is on the second floor (!) of the building. They have a beautiful concert hall and excellent music facilities. The major rooms (Gymnasium, Principal's Office) have their names printed in English, Spanish, and Cyrillic (I assume it was Russian, but I can't be sure). According to Wikipedia, over 2200 students attend the school. These students have access to a coffee shop next to the cafeteria, an ATM, and a store where you can buy school related items. I didn't.

My new blog. (Don't be jealous, old blog.)

You all know about my new blog/podcast. I'm kinda pleased with how it's going so far. I've received plenty of wonderful compliments, and it's made me play the piano once a week (which is more than I was playing), and it's kept my mind busier than it was a month ago. That said, there have been some negative results.

1) I have contacts at the NSA that track views of my page, as well as downloads of the individual mp3s. They make handy graphs for me, like these:
As you can see, on the day I invited everyone to partake, I got a healthy response of 62 people looking at my website. 62! That's a lot of people. However, I happen to also know that I sent out over 250 emails, and I'm not happy with a 25% response rate. Furthermore, as the graph plainly shows, most of those people have not come back.


2) In preparing this music for public consumption, I have been listening to it over and over. I have decided that this is unhealthy. I am listening to myself far too much. If I hated it, that would be one thing, but I happen to really like it. I feel kind of gross doing it, listening to my lovely playing again and again. It's like admiring yourself in a mirror.

Learning.

I read an interesting article online about learning and insights from a study of chess players. Here's an excerpt:

"Ericsson [K. Anders Ericsson of Florida State University] argues that what matters is not experience per se but 'effortful study,' which entails continually tackling challenges that lie just beyond one's competence. That is why it is possible for enthusiasts to spend tens of thousands of hours playing chess or golf or a musical instrument without ever advancing beyond the amateur level and why a properly trained student can overtake them in a relatively short time. It is interesting to note that time spent playing chess, even in tournaments, appears to contribute less than such study to a player's progress; the main training value of such games is to point up weaknesses for future study.

"Even the novice engages in effortful study at first, which is why beginners so often improve rapidly in playing golf, say, or in driving a car. But having reached an acceptable performance--for instance, keeping up with one's golf buddies or passing a driver's exam--most people relax. Their performance then becomes automatic and therefore impervious to further improvement. In contrast, experts-in-training keep the lid of their mind's box open all the time, so that they can inspect, criticize and augment its contents and thereby approach the standard set by leaders in their fields."

Here's a link to the article, "The Expert Mind," by Philip E. Ross:
http://www.sciam.com/article.cfm?id=00010347-101C-14C1-8F9E83414B7F4945&print=true

Movies.

I just watched an online trailer for a movie called "Definitely, Maybe" which made me glare at the screen. It is about a man (played by Ryan Reynolds) who, heading into a divorce, tells his daughter a story about how he met, fell in love with, and married her mother, but he leaves out the names and changes some facts so that the daughter won't know which girl in the story is her mother until the end. I guess it's kind of a clever premise; sort of a Memento turned forward - revenge + Abigail Breslin. The three women in his story are played by three of the most beautiful actresses I've ever seen — blonde, brunette, redhead — and that's where they lost me. I know that people in the movies are always better looking, but this was ridiculous. In the trailer, besides being gorgeous, all three women also appear to be smart, talented, altogether perfect, and COMPLETELY into the guy. Well, I am fed up. I demand my three perfect women to choose from.

There was another online trailer I watched recently that depressed me, but for a completely different reason. It was for a documentary about the mystifying recent occurrence of Vanishing Bee Syndrome, which is threatening bee populations across the country and could wreak havoc on our agricultural system. The trailer was very interesting, and I hope I get to see the movie, but man, it was a downer.

http://www.vanishingbees.com/

Books.

I am not much of a reader. I'd really like to change that about myself, but for now it is the truth. And so, when I read a book, I am reminded of how great books are, and I think I might get a little overenthusiastic about them. I remember a while back reading The Unbearable Lightness of Being. From the first page, I was floored. I know that I emailed people I cared about, telling them to read this book, even as I was working my way through page 13, page 22, page 49. I never finished it. Things came up, I had to return it to the library.

So, here, a grain of salt for you... Okay. Now, I just started a book called Stumbling on Happiness, by Daniel Gilbert – it was a Christmas present from my sister – and I'm really enjoying it. I'm on page 11. The foreword really made me think! There was an idea in it about how we do all sorts of altruistic things every day for our future selves. You know, save money, eat healthy, that sort of thing. I thought that was a great idea. I've never been one to care about myself enough to do situps, but maybe I could care about Future Chris. I bet he's a nice guy; we'd probably get along well.

This is a cartoon that I drew a while back.

Groups of N.

I'm trying to make a list of famous groups of N, for every N between 1 and 20. For example, if N=7: Wonders of the Ancient World; Deadly Sins; Noble Gases. Can you help me? Just comment with your favorite groups of things, and I will compile them. If a list like this already exists, point me in that direction, will ya? Thanks.

A troubling trend in Chris Hubbard's life.

He has begun to use the made-up exclamation "Friggity Frack!" instead of the concise "Fuck!" If he is not careful, it could spiral out of control.