Spring Cleaning

Yes, it's almost summer: time for some spring cleaning. Today I spent my time cleaning, cleaning my brain. As some of you might have suspected, cleanliness is not necessarily next to Danliness (the first year I decided to clean my brain, I accidentally downloaded the instructions for brain washing from howto.com; suffice it to say, I eventually freed myself from the airport, though I did keep the beads), so when I do commit myself to some cleaning, I go the whole hog. I started out with some light lifting, clearing the brain of some now-obsolete numbers and such that have been hanging around too long. For example, jettisoned were 876-5309, 10 Downing Street, 36-24-36 (not, alas, someone I once knew, just an old locker combination), Spitter007, 60'6", 68. I found an odd switch inexplicably turned "on." We'll see how many times a day I wash my hands this year. I forcibly removed a song I couldn't get out of my head for months now; an old ELO one, I believe--I've already forgotten. The shopping list I made sixteen years ago for my maiden voyage to Bed, Bath and Beyond I finally shredded. Maybe I'll get there next year. I was all set to don the EPA suit and dump the contents of my guilt vault, but then I spied, right next to it, the memories of twelve years of Catholic education, and I reasoned I might regret messing with the whole thing. Do you think that's okay? I rummaged through my dream cache, laughed once again at that one involving Janet Reno and the ring master, then cleaned house, putting up for sale on e-bay a rather juicy re-occurring one about Obama and an ear transplant. I did myself the favor of completely zapping my Cleveland sports memories for the past six months (BTW, it's NBA Finals time: the Cavs still in it? Mike Brown and Danny Ferry already concocting summer plans to make next year's team even more of a juggernaut? Is the Tribe hanging around first place long enough to put some post-July 4th excitement into the old hometown?). I dusted off my Bob Dylan shrine in my frontal cortex, re-tested my knowledge of every song he's ever written and sung, re-lit the votive candle, set the alarm and the multi-layered booby trap, and locked it all up for another year. Totally re-energized, I jogged my memory not once, not twice, but thrice around the block. Among the beads of sweat such activity produced were these gems: Thurl Ravenscroft was not only the voice of Tony the Tiger, but also sang the Grinch song. Flaghoople is Wilma Flinstone's maiden name, May 16, 1975 was the day I got my first zit. Stay away from Philadelphia. All in all, a very satisfying spring brain cleaning. Now if only I could remember where I left my glasses, keys, and raison d'etre, I could go out to Wendy's and celebrate.

Talking Heads-Artists Only

15% Of One, 60% Of The Other

Well, looks like I'm back to bashing the numbers guys. The estimable Times of London recently came out with its lists of the best and worst books of the decade. Considering myself a pretty literate guy, of course I perused the lists, abacus by my side, to tote up just how up-to-date well-read I've been the last ten years. I mean really, one does not read such lists to be inspired but to gloat, doesn't one? The one or two sentence descriptions of each book aren't enough to persuade me to pick up a book I've already chosen not to spend my time on, but the mere mention of a book I've read feels like another notch on my garish intellectual belt. Naturally I'm sure you agree with me that one of the top three or four reasons to read is to up one's snob quotient (you're reading spitoutyourgum, aren't you?). So imagine my disdain when I discovered that while I had read fully 15% (respectably snobby, I think, without going overboard into the realm of the pedant) of the decade's best books (per The Times snobs), I had also read a whopping 60% of the worst books. Egads.

But hold on, keep that cursor right here. The 'best" list contains 100 books, the "worst" merely 5. So in real numbers, my best to worst ratio is 15 to 3. What's even crazier is that one book, The DaVinci Code, made both lists! So, throwing that fluke out, I stand at 14-2. Beat that, I say. Come to think of it, as I remember reading Dan Brown's The DaVinci Code, I kept mumbling to myself, "Good God, what awful writing," as I kept turning the pages. The man might write like crap, but he sure can write the shit out of the crap, to coin a phrase. So I guess a spot on both lists is warranted.

All arrogance aside, though, I was delighted to see David Mitchell's epic Cloud Atlas on the best list. Without a doubt the most fun I had reading a book in the last ten years was when I read this large, inter-connected, funny, moving, thought-provoking, intricate, inventive, narrative juggling act. Make it through the first 25 pages or so, which can be slow, but in retrospect are great, then buckle your seat belts for a helluva ride. Among a plethora of great scenes, the book contains undoubtedly the greatest escape from an old folks home scene ever.

So there's my Santa's helper gift to you all: looking for a great book to give to someone who likes a little challenge in his or her reading? Cloud Atlas.

Talking Heads-The Book I Read

Paper or Air?

I've always considered myself a rather straight forward, opinionated not wishy-washy guy. With most of the necessary choices offered me, there isn't much musing: I know what I like. Surf or turf? Turf. Wilma or Betty? Betty. Heads or tails? Tails. Beatles or Stones? Stones. Toilet paper unspooling from over the top or from under the bottom? Over the top. Laverne or Shirley? Leather Tuscadero.

So imagine my surprise today while in a public restroom when I turned from the sink and saw both a towel dispenser and a hand blow-dryer on the wall. I would think most places don't offer a selection; you get either one or the other and live with it. And surely I've been in such smorgasbord-offering public loos before, but I've never felt the existential angst that gripped me today, as I stood there with dripping hands and wondered, nay, worried about which method to pick to dry my hands. Is there a correct choice in this matter, as there obviously is with the Beatles/Stones question? Of course the hand blow-dryer industry will have you believe that their product is much more environmentally friendly and healthier, but I take all such boasting with a large grain of skepticism. Certainly paper towels require less time, but really, when you think of it, they also--counter-intuitively--require more work. More work, less time: that's a weird sell.

Mind you, I didn't really consider all this while my hands dripped. I quickly yanked on the handle, tore off a good-sized wad of towel, dried my hands, disposed of the wet towel in the waste basket and went on my way, a way though, that for two hours has been nagging me. Did I do the right thing? The best thing? The more I ponder, the less I'm sure about anything, as if after all these years, a night out with Laverne at Red Lobster with the Beatles on constant repeat suddenly sounds like heaven. I know that using towel dispensers and expending all the required effort can be awfully skeevy at times, but there's something about standing alone in a public restroom rubbing my hands vigorously under a machine forcefully blowing hot air that makes me feel like a skeeve, not just feel skeevy.

Help me out here, I just don't know. Maybe I need to go to Costco and buy a package of a thousand moist towelettes and carry them around with me everywhere I go from now on. Either that or just work on crossing my legs more effectively.

Talking Heads-Air

Talking Heads-Paper