Sunday, December 31, 2006
Sunday, December 17, 2006
Saturday, December 02, 2006
The Universal Answer
by William J. Wood, Jr.
I went riding with some lads the other day. Bicycle. I’ve been in the habit of solo riding for a long time. I like to cruise with my iPod and meditate, so it was a change to be back in a pace line.
There is an etiquette to the pace line. The lead rider signals things in the road, like potholes or gravel or a strangely mangled doll’s head with iridescent black lipstick applied carelessly such that it extends beyond the vermilion border of the lips. This allows the riders behind to avoid the impediment. I will explain in a minute how this custom gave rise to the Universal Answer.
I found that I was a bit rusty, a bit annoyed by the burden of pace line etiquette. I had to think about signaling and also I had to think when a signal came down the line to me. For me, the whole point of the cycling experience is to not think or only think about the detritus that drifts up from limbic fermentation.
But I tried to be a good pace line citizen. I sent the signals back when I was in front. I wiggled my fingers when there was gravel. I’m sure, somewhere, there’s a formal description of the exact hand sign for different objects. One for car. One for gravel. One for Lucinda William’s breakout hit: Car Wheels On A Gravel Road.
I actually developed that one during the ride. The little finger is pointed downward in a thirty-degree arc with a slight bend at the last metacarpal. I sent that sign out a few times, but didn’t look to see if it traveled down the pace line, nor did I later ask my friends if they understood the significance of the hand sign. The pace line behind me was Ron, Ron, Sean or variations thereof. Therefore, I was the odd phenome out.
So, when I went out for a ride today, sans pace line, it got me thinking about my old friend Leo. Leo is blessed and cursed with the genius of the lament. Leo used to be a cardiac surgeon until he went manic-depressive. But even before that time he was really interesting.
I’ve always been drawn to people who place no limits on their personal behavior. When Leo was going through the process of his mania, the inflorescence, so to speak, he did some really interesting things. For instance, he started carrying a short-handle axe with him on rides and chopped out people’s headlights that didn’t give him his props. He got a 140 mph traffic ticket. He rode down a car that had shaved him in traffic and got into a fight with the guy. When the cops arrived, Leo was kicking the guy; it turned out the guy had had a cardiac bypass. Somehow those keen-eyed journalists at Reader’s Digest got wind of the story and published a jocular piece entitled, “Cardiac Surgeon Attacks Cardiac Patient”. Life in these Effing United States. That’s true. Sad, but true.
Leo and I used to ride a bit. It was during one of our rides that he germinated The Universal Answer. (Wait. It’s coming.) I can’t ever remember being bored when I was with Leo. There, I’ve just tried again and no go.
Well, I noticed after a while that Leo never sent signals down the pace line. I would be riding behind him and he would swerve and I would be facing an enormous pothole. No warning.
After one exciting ride, I finally asked Leo why he didn’t signal to the riders behind him. He gave the Universal Answer. It is the answer I’ve been thinking about these many years since Leo moved to Florida and married a lithe ex-Wall Street financier who now trains thoroughbreds and, interestingly, is a Republican.
It is the answer of answers and I think it may end up being the saving grace of mankind. It is the answer to virtually all questions. It is bigger than Jesus + Mohammed + Buddha + �, either combined or added together algebraically.
Are you ready for it? Of course you’re ready. Not only ready but also you’re starting to get pissed off that I made you wade through this doggerel prose to get to it. Oh, but it will be worth it, my squirmy child. This is the answer that will save mankind. You should like that, assuming you are a member.
Ok. Ok. OK. The Universal Answer is, “I’m just not set up for that”.
Think about it.
Done?
Think some more.
That’s right. You can answer any question, ANY QUESTION, with this answer.
“Would you like to order now?”
“Could you take out the trash?” (Note: UA can also be used in response to non-question, command forms.)
“Would you like to have sex?”
“Would you like to not have sex?”
“Mr. President, would you like to invade Iraq today?”
That’s right, Dude. You can answer any question. So, what happens when all questions are answered? Don’t know. Well, next time there’s a Jehovah’s Witness on your porch, ask them, because they know. When all questions are answered, it’s the rapture, or heaven on earth, or cancellation of all property taxes or a band named after a Hindu state of eternal peace. Something like that. Something really good happens when all questions are answered.
I admit this is a hypothesis. Think of how many good things have come from hypotheses. Done? Actually there’s two hypothesii. Number one: If an individual, you, me, or you and your folie au deux partner start answering all questions with the universal answer, amazing things will happen.
First, you will find that life becomes simpler, deeper, more meaningful and more complex. Why? See, you will filter out all those people, that tsunami of humanity that you never want to talk to and desperately hope you don’t have anything in common with. Then, without that sanity-destroying static in your life, you will awaken. “I never noticed that tri-note robin call before.” The world will shine. You will never again have a reason to flip someone off, even if they’re so stupid they can’t understand that when two lanes narrow to one, one car has to wait ever so slightly so as not breach the effing principles of effing physics.
See. And then the Universal Answer, or Unians, will spread like a beneficent virus that does not require sexual transmission. Everyone will start using Unians to answer every question. World peace. Nirvana. Kurt Cobain.
Hmmm. Unfortunately, there is an alternative hypothesis, as required by all Institutional Review Boards and every 2x4 impacted academic jerk who never had to work for a living.
Hypothesis II: The Universal Answer, when universally applied, will not lead to world peace or Jehovah heaven, but will, instead act as a filter.
A filter?
Yes, a filter.
Think about it. As the undesirable masses quit talking to you (and by this I mean people who haven’t the capacity to logically extend a conversational opener and thereby lead to new thought, learning or consensus building. For example, you say, “I saw a type I gastric carcinoid the other day that did not have an elevated gastrin level.” The desirable person responds, “Interesting, then perhaps gastrin is not the etiologic agent. There must be some other common element,” whereas the undesirable person, who in their suffocating fog of insecurity can only parry and thrust at any statement placed before them, would say, “Yeah, well I had a patient with an obstructed duodenal diverticulum from ingesting the bezoar of a Nubian cat.”) Then, unfortunately, you might also loose the fraternity of that pitifully small handful of people that you actually care to talk to.
Then what? This is the worst of all. The only people you might not filter out by always responding to every question with the Universal Answer would be those genetically lobotomized types that walk up to you unintroduced at any generic social gathering and say, without asking your name, “I have a Nubian cat.” (Pause.) “I named her Mrs. Bigglesworth.” (Pause. Giggle. Pause.) You say nothing. (Pregnant pause.) (Pause that gives birth to something that shouldn’t be seen in this sector of the galaxy.)
So which hypothesis is true? Only one way to find out. My friends, I implore you to join me in this epic experiment. Start using the Universal Answer for all questions posed to you. Try it just for a day. See how you feel the next morning. See if something’s not just a little different when you roll the sodden carcass out of bed. You feel, perhaps, lighter, perhaps, like the dawn has a different hue that you’ve never noticed before, perhaps, you feel just like that monkey in 2001: A Space Oddesy, who grabbed that stick and for the first time, didn’t think “stick good, scratch ass,” but instead, had the thought, “stick look like forme fruste of automatic weapon”.
And if that first dawn is a good one, keep going. A week. A year. A lifetime.
If hypothesis I is true, then Unians will spread and one day, when our leader is asked something like, “Mr. President, the troops are massed at the Iranian border. Would you like to proceed?” he will give the Universal Answer because it has made his life stress free and has disengaged him from the snarky charms of multi-home owners.
If hypothesis II is true? Well, you will die a miserable and lonely death.
But, we must know.
by William J. Wood, Jr.
I went riding with some lads the other day. Bicycle. I’ve been in the habit of solo riding for a long time. I like to cruise with my iPod and meditate, so it was a change to be back in a pace line.
There is an etiquette to the pace line. The lead rider signals things in the road, like potholes or gravel or a strangely mangled doll’s head with iridescent black lipstick applied carelessly such that it extends beyond the vermilion border of the lips. This allows the riders behind to avoid the impediment. I will explain in a minute how this custom gave rise to the Universal Answer.
I found that I was a bit rusty, a bit annoyed by the burden of pace line etiquette. I had to think about signaling and also I had to think when a signal came down the line to me. For me, the whole point of the cycling experience is to not think or only think about the detritus that drifts up from limbic fermentation.
But I tried to be a good pace line citizen. I sent the signals back when I was in front. I wiggled my fingers when there was gravel. I’m sure, somewhere, there’s a formal description of the exact hand sign for different objects. One for car. One for gravel. One for Lucinda William’s breakout hit: Car Wheels On A Gravel Road.
I actually developed that one during the ride. The little finger is pointed downward in a thirty-degree arc with a slight bend at the last metacarpal. I sent that sign out a few times, but didn’t look to see if it traveled down the pace line, nor did I later ask my friends if they understood the significance of the hand sign. The pace line behind me was Ron, Ron, Sean or variations thereof. Therefore, I was the odd phenome out.
So, when I went out for a ride today, sans pace line, it got me thinking about my old friend Leo. Leo is blessed and cursed with the genius of the lament. Leo used to be a cardiac surgeon until he went manic-depressive. But even before that time he was really interesting.
I’ve always been drawn to people who place no limits on their personal behavior. When Leo was going through the process of his mania, the inflorescence, so to speak, he did some really interesting things. For instance, he started carrying a short-handle axe with him on rides and chopped out people’s headlights that didn’t give him his props. He got a 140 mph traffic ticket. He rode down a car that had shaved him in traffic and got into a fight with the guy. When the cops arrived, Leo was kicking the guy; it turned out the guy had had a cardiac bypass. Somehow those keen-eyed journalists at Reader’s Digest got wind of the story and published a jocular piece entitled, “Cardiac Surgeon Attacks Cardiac Patient”. Life in these Effing United States. That’s true. Sad, but true.
Leo and I used to ride a bit. It was during one of our rides that he germinated The Universal Answer. (Wait. It’s coming.) I can’t ever remember being bored when I was with Leo. There, I’ve just tried again and no go.
Well, I noticed after a while that Leo never sent signals down the pace line. I would be riding behind him and he would swerve and I would be facing an enormous pothole. No warning.
After one exciting ride, I finally asked Leo why he didn’t signal to the riders behind him. He gave the Universal Answer. It is the answer I’ve been thinking about these many years since Leo moved to Florida and married a lithe ex-Wall Street financier who now trains thoroughbreds and, interestingly, is a Republican.
It is the answer of answers and I think it may end up being the saving grace of mankind. It is the answer to virtually all questions. It is bigger than Jesus + Mohammed + Buddha + �, either combined or added together algebraically.
Are you ready for it? Of course you’re ready. Not only ready but also you’re starting to get pissed off that I made you wade through this doggerel prose to get to it. Oh, but it will be worth it, my squirmy child. This is the answer that will save mankind. You should like that, assuming you are a member.
Ok. Ok. OK. The Universal Answer is, “I’m just not set up for that”.
Think about it.
Done?
Think some more.
That’s right. You can answer any question, ANY QUESTION, with this answer.
“Would you like to order now?”
“Could you take out the trash?” (Note: UA can also be used in response to non-question, command forms.)
“Would you like to have sex?”
“Would you like to not have sex?”
“Mr. President, would you like to invade Iraq today?”
That’s right, Dude. You can answer any question. So, what happens when all questions are answered? Don’t know. Well, next time there’s a Jehovah’s Witness on your porch, ask them, because they know. When all questions are answered, it’s the rapture, or heaven on earth, or cancellation of all property taxes or a band named after a Hindu state of eternal peace. Something like that. Something really good happens when all questions are answered.
I admit this is a hypothesis. Think of how many good things have come from hypotheses. Done? Actually there’s two hypothesii. Number one: If an individual, you, me, or you and your folie au deux partner start answering all questions with the universal answer, amazing things will happen.
First, you will find that life becomes simpler, deeper, more meaningful and more complex. Why? See, you will filter out all those people, that tsunami of humanity that you never want to talk to and desperately hope you don’t have anything in common with. Then, without that sanity-destroying static in your life, you will awaken. “I never noticed that tri-note robin call before.” The world will shine. You will never again have a reason to flip someone off, even if they’re so stupid they can’t understand that when two lanes narrow to one, one car has to wait ever so slightly so as not breach the effing principles of effing physics.
See. And then the Universal Answer, or Unians, will spread like a beneficent virus that does not require sexual transmission. Everyone will start using Unians to answer every question. World peace. Nirvana. Kurt Cobain.
Hmmm. Unfortunately, there is an alternative hypothesis, as required by all Institutional Review Boards and every 2x4 impacted academic jerk who never had to work for a living.
Hypothesis II: The Universal Answer, when universally applied, will not lead to world peace or Jehovah heaven, but will, instead act as a filter.
A filter?
Yes, a filter.
Think about it. As the undesirable masses quit talking to you (and by this I mean people who haven’t the capacity to logically extend a conversational opener and thereby lead to new thought, learning or consensus building. For example, you say, “I saw a type I gastric carcinoid the other day that did not have an elevated gastrin level.” The desirable person responds, “Interesting, then perhaps gastrin is not the etiologic agent. There must be some other common element,” whereas the undesirable person, who in their suffocating fog of insecurity can only parry and thrust at any statement placed before them, would say, “Yeah, well I had a patient with an obstructed duodenal diverticulum from ingesting the bezoar of a Nubian cat.”) Then, unfortunately, you might also loose the fraternity of that pitifully small handful of people that you actually care to talk to.
Then what? This is the worst of all. The only people you might not filter out by always responding to every question with the Universal Answer would be those genetically lobotomized types that walk up to you unintroduced at any generic social gathering and say, without asking your name, “I have a Nubian cat.” (Pause.) “I named her Mrs. Bigglesworth.” (Pause. Giggle. Pause.) You say nothing. (Pregnant pause.) (Pause that gives birth to something that shouldn’t be seen in this sector of the galaxy.)
So which hypothesis is true? Only one way to find out. My friends, I implore you to join me in this epic experiment. Start using the Universal Answer for all questions posed to you. Try it just for a day. See how you feel the next morning. See if something’s not just a little different when you roll the sodden carcass out of bed. You feel, perhaps, lighter, perhaps, like the dawn has a different hue that you’ve never noticed before, perhaps, you feel just like that monkey in 2001: A Space Oddesy, who grabbed that stick and for the first time, didn’t think “stick good, scratch ass,” but instead, had the thought, “stick look like forme fruste of automatic weapon”.
And if that first dawn is a good one, keep going. A week. A year. A lifetime.
If hypothesis I is true, then Unians will spread and one day, when our leader is asked something like, “Mr. President, the troops are massed at the Iranian border. Would you like to proceed?” he will give the Universal Answer because it has made his life stress free and has disengaged him from the snarky charms of multi-home owners.
If hypothesis II is true? Well, you will die a miserable and lonely death.
But, we must know.
Tuesday, March 14, 2006
Saturday, January 14, 2006
Saturday, January 07, 2006
Grizzly Man: Fred Rogers On Acid.
Theme: You can make friends with some of the bears, some of the time.
Grizzly Man is a combination of a captivating movie and a snuff flick. Werner Herzog, master documentarist, existentialist and one-time NASA employee, narrates this tale of beauty and madness as we watch Grizzly Bear activist, Timothy Treadwell, videotape himself interacting with grizzlies over several summers in the Katmai Peninsula of Alaska. Treadwell, after an alcoholic crisis, decided to return to nature and live with the bears. He was able to do this successfully for thirteen years, until one of the bears decided he’d had enough and ate Treadwell and his girlfriend. Treadwell formed an organization, Grizzly People, to fund his efforts, and in the off season he gave lectures to elementary schools, without charge.
It’s exciting to watch Treadwell slowly approach a huge griz and touch it on the nose. It’s embarrassing to watch Treadwell’s adolescent Marlon Perkins act. Treadwell speaks to animals, the grizzlies and his adopted fox family, in a high, plaintive voice. He sometimes forgets to turn that voice off as he goes into his narrations, which come off like a jilted drag queen holding court. “I would never, ever, hurt a bear. Even if they hurt me.” He is the love child of Fred Rogers and Priscilla of the Desert. At one point Treadwell explains that he wishes he were gay, because it would be easier to get sex, but, sadly, he’s not. Imagine Marlin Perkins steering off course like that while filming killer hippos.
One longs for the Herzog’s sane monotones to offset Treadwell’s twittering babble. Interviews with an Alaska native and other bush folk, reveal that most of them thought Treadwell was crazy and was actually disrespecting the bears by trying to become one. Perhaps most bizarre of all, are interviews with Franc G. Fallico, medical examiner. Fallico novelizes the demise of the duo as if he were auditioning for the part of Quasimodo.
Much footage is given to the fatal attack. It seems a rogue griz, not one of Treadwell’s longtime friends, did the deed. Park Rangers felled the bear in a prolonged hail of magnum, and then discovered that they had, indeed, killed the right bear after examining the stomach contents. Bears are known to have an overwhelming rage response, not unlike humans (Bubba after Mama throw out the six pack). Treadwell always ended his summer sojourns and ultimately his life in “The Bear Maize”, a dense area of berry bushes riddled with end-of-season, hyperphagic bears. Treadwell was constantly testing his theory that he could meld with the bears. Well, it worked.
Theme: You can make friends with some of the bears, some of the time.
Grizzly Man is a combination of a captivating movie and a snuff flick. Werner Herzog, master documentarist, existentialist and one-time NASA employee, narrates this tale of beauty and madness as we watch Grizzly Bear activist, Timothy Treadwell, videotape himself interacting with grizzlies over several summers in the Katmai Peninsula of Alaska. Treadwell, after an alcoholic crisis, decided to return to nature and live with the bears. He was able to do this successfully for thirteen years, until one of the bears decided he’d had enough and ate Treadwell and his girlfriend. Treadwell formed an organization, Grizzly People, to fund his efforts, and in the off season he gave lectures to elementary schools, without charge.
It’s exciting to watch Treadwell slowly approach a huge griz and touch it on the nose. It’s embarrassing to watch Treadwell’s adolescent Marlon Perkins act. Treadwell speaks to animals, the grizzlies and his adopted fox family, in a high, plaintive voice. He sometimes forgets to turn that voice off as he goes into his narrations, which come off like a jilted drag queen holding court. “I would never, ever, hurt a bear. Even if they hurt me.” He is the love child of Fred Rogers and Priscilla of the Desert. At one point Treadwell explains that he wishes he were gay, because it would be easier to get sex, but, sadly, he’s not. Imagine Marlin Perkins steering off course like that while filming killer hippos.
One longs for the Herzog’s sane monotones to offset Treadwell’s twittering babble. Interviews with an Alaska native and other bush folk, reveal that most of them thought Treadwell was crazy and was actually disrespecting the bears by trying to become one. Perhaps most bizarre of all, are interviews with Franc G. Fallico, medical examiner. Fallico novelizes the demise of the duo as if he were auditioning for the part of Quasimodo.
Much footage is given to the fatal attack. It seems a rogue griz, not one of Treadwell’s longtime friends, did the deed. Park Rangers felled the bear in a prolonged hail of magnum, and then discovered that they had, indeed, killed the right bear after examining the stomach contents. Bears are known to have an overwhelming rage response, not unlike humans (Bubba after Mama throw out the six pack). Treadwell always ended his summer sojourns and ultimately his life in “The Bear Maize”, a dense area of berry bushes riddled with end-of-season, hyperphagic bears. Treadwell was constantly testing his theory that he could meld with the bears. Well, it worked.
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