I detailed my eight month treadmill desk experiment here and also my water drinking, and noted that neither of them caused any net weight loss. I'm sure I must have swapped some muscle for fat in those eight months, but as the water drinking was accompanied with a reduction in my soda drinking habits, I was expecting some sort of net weight loss. But no dice.
Of course, I started doing the Reams program in solidarity with The Boy and, much to my dismay, it worked. So, now I'm eating a largely vegetable diet, with meat two, three (okay, sometimes four) times a week. And there are things I am not eating.
No white flour. No white sugar. No white potatoes. Also, no corn syrup, and really, I'm not supposed to be eating corn (unless it's white corn on the cob). I do have popcorn and soda at the movies.
Well, I guess it's not mystery where my extra pounds were coming from. I've lost 20 pounds in two months. Without any exercise at all. I'm not supposed to exercise too much yet though I am finally back on that a little bit.
My interpretation of the various food prohibitions fall into two categories: Some foods are bad because they are actually harmful while others are bad because they take up the space you'd normally have for nutritious food. Shellfish, pork, protein bars are examples of food in the actually harmful category--something about the high protein content. (Again, this is my casual impression. I'm not claiming to understand this.)
Sure has made weight loss simple, though. If you call this living....
Saturday, June 13, 2009
Friday, June 12, 2009
When Numbers Get Serious
A week ago, The Boy and I took one of our not infrequent road trips to visit the dietitian. I've been a little suspect of his devotion to the whole regime of vegetables, and I thought he'd been a bit lax with some of his supplements (vitamins and minerals).
But the numbers came back great. Mine came back pretty good, too, which sort of surprised me, since they'd been so bad before. I'm allowed to exercise a little and eat a little meat. (This diet discourages heavy meat eating. Three times a week, maximum.)
I spent a year and a half as a mostly-vegetarian. That is, I didn't eat any meat during the week, but since I went home for weekends and mom considers vegetarianism a personal affront, I did eat fish then. It was actually very difficult for me to start eating meat again. I mean, just contemplating it was sort of appalling.
Weird, eh? Well, I just spent six weeks as an actual vegetarian and I assure you my celebratory hot turkey sandwich was quite welcome. (I'm not even a turkey fan but--well, I'm not going to food blog just yet, but the sandwich will be back.)
I could observe that I continue to benefit from this program, and The Boy continues to reduce his insulin, but I see the government has already established that alternative forms of treatment are pretty much universally bunk.
Well, not really: They've apparently spent $2.5B paying other people to test them, in God knows what fashion. I've linked to this guy, Phil Plait, instead of to the direct article because he captures so well the attitude I've seen of some: It's vitally important to them that nobody ever believe anything that can't be proven in a double-blind study.
Frankly, I don't think most of these things work, but since placebos (called "dummy pills" now, apparently) have something like a 20% success rate, I tend to think the placebo is under-prescribed. I mean, I doubt those "male enhancement" pills have any effect whatsoever, but if a guy believes that they do and benefits from that belief, how cruel to take that away from him!
Most of the programs I've seen that seemed very effective were not really pharmaceutical replacements, they were regimens. Lifestyle changes. You could argue (successfully, I think) that the gains were from a variety of banal things, rather than, say, distilled water or walnut tincture.
And I wouldn't really care if you did, so long as I'm free to do whatever crazy thing I want.
My concern, of course, is that the government will get both wrong: Prescribing things that don't work while proscribing things that do. In fact, I can guarantee you that already happens, routinely.
But the numbers came back great. Mine came back pretty good, too, which sort of surprised me, since they'd been so bad before. I'm allowed to exercise a little and eat a little meat. (This diet discourages heavy meat eating. Three times a week, maximum.)
I spent a year and a half as a mostly-vegetarian. That is, I didn't eat any meat during the week, but since I went home for weekends and mom considers vegetarianism a personal affront, I did eat fish then. It was actually very difficult for me to start eating meat again. I mean, just contemplating it was sort of appalling.
Weird, eh? Well, I just spent six weeks as an actual vegetarian and I assure you my celebratory hot turkey sandwich was quite welcome. (I'm not even a turkey fan but--well, I'm not going to food blog just yet, but the sandwich will be back.)
I could observe that I continue to benefit from this program, and The Boy continues to reduce his insulin, but I see the government has already established that alternative forms of treatment are pretty much universally bunk.
Well, not really: They've apparently spent $2.5B paying other people to test them, in God knows what fashion. I've linked to this guy, Phil Plait, instead of to the direct article because he captures so well the attitude I've seen of some: It's vitally important to them that nobody ever believe anything that can't be proven in a double-blind study.
Frankly, I don't think most of these things work, but since placebos (called "dummy pills" now, apparently) have something like a 20% success rate, I tend to think the placebo is under-prescribed. I mean, I doubt those "male enhancement" pills have any effect whatsoever, but if a guy believes that they do and benefits from that belief, how cruel to take that away from him!
Most of the programs I've seen that seemed very effective were not really pharmaceutical replacements, they were regimens. Lifestyle changes. You could argue (successfully, I think) that the gains were from a variety of banal things, rather than, say, distilled water or walnut tincture.
And I wouldn't really care if you did, so long as I'm free to do whatever crazy thing I want.
My concern, of course, is that the government will get both wrong: Prescribing things that don't work while proscribing things that do. In fact, I can guarantee you that already happens, routinely.
I'm In The Money?
At least, potentially, according to this New Scientist article.
It was actually never my plan to be a Data Scientist. And I don't really know anything about statistics, so I'm not quite there. I think it's probably right, though. We're at the point where we have tons of data, but nobody understand it.
I miss the '90s.
It was actually never my plan to be a Data Scientist. And I don't really know anything about statistics, so I'm not quite there. I think it's probably right, though. We're at the point where we have tons of data, but nobody understand it.
I miss the '90s.
Wednesday, June 10, 2009
Phrases That Should Begin MORE Movie Synopses, Part I
A bikinied sky diver (Raquel Welch)...
--Fathom (1967)
--Fathom (1967)
Tuesday, June 9, 2009
How To Freak Out A Conservative
Fast forward the following video past where it shows that it's from The Onion.
Then call them over and play it.
Hilarity shall ensue.
Then call them over and play it.
Hilarity shall ensue.
Nursery University, or WTF is wrong with New Yorkers
Well, I say "New Yorkers" like they were all the same, but that's my prerogative as a guy from L.A. Really, of course, I'm referring to Manhattanites, who are like our West Siders: Wealthy, mostly white, socially conscious, status seeking, etc.
Not sure they're competing for spots in nursery school for their kids, though, which is what Nursery University is about. This documentary follows around some of these people as they navigate the overcrowded pre-school system in the hopes of pawning their spawn off on somebody.
Sorry. That was needlessly snarky. But I couldn't help but feel that some of these kids would be better off at home. Mostly, though, I found myself marveling at how old everyone was. This is not just prejudice, although I'd be surprised if any of the white folk were under 40. And one woman had twins at 57!
Isn't that nice? She's single, 57 and has twins, one of whom (the boy) pretty clearly has a brain injury. That's gonna be fun when she's 70 and he starts going through puberty.
The big question I had was whether these particular schools actually offer, you know, better education, or if it was just a matter of prestige in getting in and paying for them? It's not addressed clearly in the documentary but it's hard to believe that there aren't some reasonably good $15,000/semester schools that might be nearly as good. Or even $12,000. Laws of supply and demand being what they are, I couldn't figure out what the supply was so small given the degree of the demand. (According to one admittance person, the demand has been going on for five years. Certainly enough time for more schools to open up.)
The pre-school people themselves are quick to point out that the value of the nursery school education, while not insignificant (in some impossible to quantify way) is certainly exaggerated. This doesn't seem to encourage them to expand, but curiously, it also doesn't seem to encourage them to raise prices.
I suppose this is very indicative of my mindset. Normal economics just didn't seem to be in play. Making things more confusing was the fact that most schools used a lottery for admission! So, how prestigious could it be to get into a place that selects (at least in part) through sheer randomity?
And then I had a stylistic question, documentary-wise. When the kids that get into their schools do get in, was triumphant music really in order? I mean, what is it we've witnessed here, exactly? People who have chosen to live in this strange place, by these strange rules, have achieved some sort of victory.
So. Yay for them.
The minority couple from Harlem got into a school, too, along with some financial aid. But I just wasn't clear on what this was buying them.
This is probably because I'm not from Manhattan. And don't think much of status-based education. But I know this can end up being big money and opportunities, so I really had a hard time loathing the parents. Even the guy who seemed really gay and his South American wife were ultimately endearing. Though one can't help but hope that they wouldn't end up warping their poor children--particularly the family that relocated because their child wasn't accepted into nursery school.
It's a strange, distorted world. But, hey, it supplies "Law & Order" with plenty of plots.
Nice documentary. Not great. Left a lot of unanswered questions. But an interesting peek into that particular, peculiar world.
Not sure they're competing for spots in nursery school for their kids, though, which is what Nursery University is about. This documentary follows around some of these people as they navigate the overcrowded pre-school system in the hopes of pawning their spawn off on somebody.
Sorry. That was needlessly snarky. But I couldn't help but feel that some of these kids would be better off at home. Mostly, though, I found myself marveling at how old everyone was. This is not just prejudice, although I'd be surprised if any of the white folk were under 40. And one woman had twins at 57!
Isn't that nice? She's single, 57 and has twins, one of whom (the boy) pretty clearly has a brain injury. That's gonna be fun when she's 70 and he starts going through puberty.
The big question I had was whether these particular schools actually offer, you know, better education, or if it was just a matter of prestige in getting in and paying for them? It's not addressed clearly in the documentary but it's hard to believe that there aren't some reasonably good $15,000/semester schools that might be nearly as good. Or even $12,000. Laws of supply and demand being what they are, I couldn't figure out what the supply was so small given the degree of the demand. (According to one admittance person, the demand has been going on for five years. Certainly enough time for more schools to open up.)
The pre-school people themselves are quick to point out that the value of the nursery school education, while not insignificant (in some impossible to quantify way) is certainly exaggerated. This doesn't seem to encourage them to expand, but curiously, it also doesn't seem to encourage them to raise prices.
I suppose this is very indicative of my mindset. Normal economics just didn't seem to be in play. Making things more confusing was the fact that most schools used a lottery for admission! So, how prestigious could it be to get into a place that selects (at least in part) through sheer randomity?
And then I had a stylistic question, documentary-wise. When the kids that get into their schools do get in, was triumphant music really in order? I mean, what is it we've witnessed here, exactly? People who have chosen to live in this strange place, by these strange rules, have achieved some sort of victory.
So. Yay for them.
The minority couple from Harlem got into a school, too, along with some financial aid. But I just wasn't clear on what this was buying them.
This is probably because I'm not from Manhattan. And don't think much of status-based education. But I know this can end up being big money and opportunities, so I really had a hard time loathing the parents. Even the guy who seemed really gay and his South American wife were ultimately endearing. Though one can't help but hope that they wouldn't end up warping their poor children--particularly the family that relocated because their child wasn't accepted into nursery school.
It's a strange, distorted world. But, hey, it supplies "Law & Order" with plenty of plots.
Nice documentary. Not great. Left a lot of unanswered questions. But an interesting peek into that particular, peculiar world.
Monday, June 8, 2009
Gun Play
Guns are popular around Casa 'strom which is largely due to The Boy. I've done some gun blogging before--click here or on the "weapons" tag--but if I've written about The Boy as a driving force here, I can't find it.
Basically, I never had a toy gun until I started hanging out a lot with my friend who had a lot of toy guns, and I never held a real gun till I was about 30. And then only once. The Boy, however, loves weapons of all kinds, not least of all guns, so now we go shooting.
I've gotten worse over the years. I'm getting a little better over time, but I'm more subject to the whims of the day. (We go at night, so sometimes I'm tired when we get there.) The Boy, naturally, gets better and better. (With the occasional odd day where he's way off, though not so much since he's gotten his sugar under control.)
Last night, he selected a .22 pistol, which misfired like crazy--and it was the only .22 pistol around, so we swapped it for a .22 rifle. Rifles, of course, are easier to aim than pistols. Submitted for you scorn is my target:
The grouped ones, near-ish the center were done with the rifle. The wilder ones were the pistol.
And now, The Boy's:
The green and yellow shots around the heart were from the pistol. The pinkish holes were from the pistol. And his paper was curling in while he was shooting. Despite this, he put his last few shots through Bambi's head. The big holes in the heart come from shooting in the same place over and over again. The long streaky hole in the comes from the bullet's trajectory matching the curl of the paper.
This is probably the best he's ever done, which made me scratch my head a bit since we really haven't gone much this year. But The Boy has himself some BB and air guns that he loves and shoots around the backyard, so I wonder if that's part of the improvement.
Now I just have to figure out how to set him up a lane where he can practice with his throwing knives and such.
Basically, I never had a toy gun until I started hanging out a lot with my friend who had a lot of toy guns, and I never held a real gun till I was about 30. And then only once. The Boy, however, loves weapons of all kinds, not least of all guns, so now we go shooting.
I've gotten worse over the years. I'm getting a little better over time, but I'm more subject to the whims of the day. (We go at night, so sometimes I'm tired when we get there.) The Boy, naturally, gets better and better. (With the occasional odd day where he's way off, though not so much since he's gotten his sugar under control.)
Last night, he selected a .22 pistol, which misfired like crazy--and it was the only .22 pistol around, so we swapped it for a .22 rifle. Rifles, of course, are easier to aim than pistols. Submitted for you scorn is my target:
The grouped ones, near-ish the center were done with the rifle. The wilder ones were the pistol.And now, The Boy's:
The green and yellow shots around the heart were from the pistol. The pinkish holes were from the pistol. And his paper was curling in while he was shooting. Despite this, he put his last few shots through Bambi's head. The big holes in the heart come from shooting in the same place over and over again. The long streaky hole in the comes from the bullet's trajectory matching the curl of the paper.This is probably the best he's ever done, which made me scratch my head a bit since we really haven't gone much this year. But The Boy has himself some BB and air guns that he loves and shoots around the backyard, so I wonder if that's part of the improvement.
Now I just have to figure out how to set him up a lane where he can practice with his throwing knives and such.
Conversations From The Living Room, Part 14: Teachable Moments
The Boy is playing "Left 4 Dead", blasting away at zombies while I watch.
"Oh, it's fast zombies."
"Yeah."
"I prefer the shambling types."
"Me, too. These are just ugly people who can't use guns."
"So, they're liberals?"
"Exactly."
"Oh, it's fast zombies."
"Yeah."
"I prefer the shambling types."
"Me, too. These are just ugly people who can't use guns."
"So, they're liberals?"
"Exactly."
Sunday, June 7, 2009
Drag Me To Hell (but try not to scratch the floors)
Thirty years ago a bunch of kids went out to the woods and a young director made a balls-out horror movie by hanging from the rafters, attaching to cameras to 2x4s and running with them, and (according to some rumors) attaching cameras to motorbikes and nearly running down actors.
The uneven mess that resulted (Evil Dead) made an impact. It created a genre. Inspired a generation. Accidental camp and genuinely effective moments created a uniquely harrowing experience. I'd say it launched a career, but it was 10 years before Sam Raimi got a shot at a real movie (Darkman).
He remade Evil Dead as the much better Evil Dead II, which substituted the accidental camp and amateurishness of the first with an almost bizarrely acute awareness of how horror and humor overlap, and how you could make an audience laugh, squirm and scream at the same time.
This distinguishes it from the grimly serious style of horror and the wisecracking style. This is the William Castle-style, the James Whale-style, and it's remarkably refreshing. Raimi may try to gross us out, but there's no sadism in his film. At the same time, he's never letting his characters out of the vice: they don't get to laugh along with us, no matter how absurd the situations. And there are are a lot of absurd situations here.
The funny thing is, Sam Raimi claims to not even like horror movies. (Hence the near complete transformation of the Evil Dead series to action/comedy in Evil Dead 3, Bruce Campbell vs the Army of Darkness.) But there were occasions to think he missed the genre: The stark presentation of A Simple Plan and the horror overtones of The Gift certainly suggested it, but nothing moreso than the use of his Evil Dead camera tricks and stylistic approaches for the surgery scene in the excellent Spiderman 2.
Well, most (but not all) of those tricks are present in Drag Me To Hell. In fact, there's a seance scene that could have been right out of the original movies, complete with a floating body, and vocal distortions saying a line very close to "I'll swallow your soul." (The only thing conspicuously missing is Raimi's trademark zoom-stop, where the camera zooms in and stops when something makes a big noise.) Which isn't to say he doesn't have a few new tricks in his repertoire.
Still one thing hasn't changed in three decades: Nothing is scarier than an old woman with cataracts who vomits goo.
So, what do we have here?
Christine Brown is a girl from down on the farm who's trying to make her way in the big city, and has made it to bank loan officer. She's landed rich guy psych professor Clay Dalton and she has a nice home in the Hollywood Hills. (A little too nice, I think, to be realistic. It's not big, but those places are expensive.) Her big problem is that her boss is considering new-guy suck-up for the position of Assistant Manager, because she's maybe a little too sweet.
Enter the old gypsy woman. Yeah, you heard me. Next to ancient Indian burial grounds, there's probably nothing more hack. But it's okay. This is a carinval ride: The point is not breaking new thematic ground but to scare you with the familiar. (A harder trick if you think about it.)
Anyway, the gypsy is behind on her payments and already has had two extensions. But Christine's manager leaves it to her: extend again or foreclose. I won't say what she decides to do here, but I will say she ends up with a curse on her. 'cause, you know, that's what the movie is about.
This is a tightly compressed movie where Christine ends up terrorized by an evil spirit (called the Lamia) and she's got three days to get rid of the curse or end up being dragged to Hell (do not pass go, do not collect $200). Along the way, she gets beaten up, terrorized, betrayed and rebuffed in attempt after attempt to make things right.
She looks for help among the gypsies, with a spiritual reader, and finally with the Lamia's old nemesis. The climax of the film has the previously mild-mannered Christine pushing herself to the limit to rid herself of this curse.
And then there's the "twist" ending. The Boy and I were of two minds about it. We both saw it coming. I saw the device they used to set it up, but got distracted by the expertise of the execution. He thought, "Well, this is how they all end," and so was just disappointed by it when it finally came.
So, we both agreed: Excellent movie, disappointing ending. Again, the execution here is top notch. It's just the way Raimi chose to end it was just very typical.
Still, hard to complain: Genuinely good horror movies are few and far between. This one was, in turn, scary, funny, clever, involving, suspenseful, squicky and just plain fun.
I've heard that Raimi was disappointed with the third Spiderman movie, and has said that he wasn't given the creative freedom he was given with the first two. And also that that would be his criteria for moving forward. I tend to believe that, and would rather have him make fewer and lower-budget films he has control over rather than lots of big budget films he doesn't.
Don't drag me to hell for saying so.
The uneven mess that resulted (Evil Dead) made an impact. It created a genre. Inspired a generation. Accidental camp and genuinely effective moments created a uniquely harrowing experience. I'd say it launched a career, but it was 10 years before Sam Raimi got a shot at a real movie (Darkman).
He remade Evil Dead as the much better Evil Dead II, which substituted the accidental camp and amateurishness of the first with an almost bizarrely acute awareness of how horror and humor overlap, and how you could make an audience laugh, squirm and scream at the same time.
This distinguishes it from the grimly serious style of horror and the wisecracking style. This is the William Castle-style, the James Whale-style, and it's remarkably refreshing. Raimi may try to gross us out, but there's no sadism in his film. At the same time, he's never letting his characters out of the vice: they don't get to laugh along with us, no matter how absurd the situations. And there are are a lot of absurd situations here.
The funny thing is, Sam Raimi claims to not even like horror movies. (Hence the near complete transformation of the Evil Dead series to action/comedy in Evil Dead 3, Bruce Campbell vs the Army of Darkness.) But there were occasions to think he missed the genre: The stark presentation of A Simple Plan and the horror overtones of The Gift certainly suggested it, but nothing moreso than the use of his Evil Dead camera tricks and stylistic approaches for the surgery scene in the excellent Spiderman 2.
Well, most (but not all) of those tricks are present in Drag Me To Hell. In fact, there's a seance scene that could have been right out of the original movies, complete with a floating body, and vocal distortions saying a line very close to "I'll swallow your soul." (The only thing conspicuously missing is Raimi's trademark zoom-stop, where the camera zooms in and stops when something makes a big noise.) Which isn't to say he doesn't have a few new tricks in his repertoire.
Still one thing hasn't changed in three decades: Nothing is scarier than an old woman with cataracts who vomits goo.
So, what do we have here?
Christine Brown is a girl from down on the farm who's trying to make her way in the big city, and has made it to bank loan officer. She's landed rich guy psych professor Clay Dalton and she has a nice home in the Hollywood Hills. (A little too nice, I think, to be realistic. It's not big, but those places are expensive.) Her big problem is that her boss is considering new-guy suck-up for the position of Assistant Manager, because she's maybe a little too sweet.
Enter the old gypsy woman. Yeah, you heard me. Next to ancient Indian burial grounds, there's probably nothing more hack. But it's okay. This is a carinval ride: The point is not breaking new thematic ground but to scare you with the familiar. (A harder trick if you think about it.)
Anyway, the gypsy is behind on her payments and already has had two extensions. But Christine's manager leaves it to her: extend again or foreclose. I won't say what she decides to do here, but I will say she ends up with a curse on her. 'cause, you know, that's what the movie is about.
This is a tightly compressed movie where Christine ends up terrorized by an evil spirit (called the Lamia) and she's got three days to get rid of the curse or end up being dragged to Hell (do not pass go, do not collect $200). Along the way, she gets beaten up, terrorized, betrayed and rebuffed in attempt after attempt to make things right.
She looks for help among the gypsies, with a spiritual reader, and finally with the Lamia's old nemesis. The climax of the film has the previously mild-mannered Christine pushing herself to the limit to rid herself of this curse.
And then there's the "twist" ending. The Boy and I were of two minds about it. We both saw it coming. I saw the device they used to set it up, but got distracted by the expertise of the execution. He thought, "Well, this is how they all end," and so was just disappointed by it when it finally came.
So, we both agreed: Excellent movie, disappointing ending. Again, the execution here is top notch. It's just the way Raimi chose to end it was just very typical.
Still, hard to complain: Genuinely good horror movies are few and far between. This one was, in turn, scary, funny, clever, involving, suspenseful, squicky and just plain fun.
I've heard that Raimi was disappointed with the third Spiderman movie, and has said that he wasn't given the creative freedom he was given with the first two. And also that that would be his criteria for moving forward. I tend to believe that, and would rather have him make fewer and lower-budget films he has control over rather than lots of big budget films he doesn't.
Don't drag me to hell for saying so.
Saturday, June 6, 2009
"Are you crying?"
"No."
...
"Maybe my eyes are tearing up a little."
"Did someone kick you in the nuts?"
(Discussion between me and my daughter during the first few minutes of Up. Her older brother is going to get a talking to.)
Friday, June 5, 2009
In For A Penny, In For A Pounding
I might as well go full NSFW here--well, not me, but this site which details WWII sexual psyops. The various countries embroiled in WWII used (or tried to use) sexual suggestions to demoralize enemy troops.
This site details the perversion, the anti-semitism, and the psychology used on your (great?)grand-parents to get them to surrender or turn back. In this day of "2 girls 1 cup" (never seen it, thanks) these pictures seem positively quaint, but they're not all blurred out so beVARE (as Bela Lugosi would say).
Interestingly, the author's thesis is that these psychological attacks had the reverse effect. The men would use the naked girl pictures as pin-ups. This tells you something very basic and true about beauty, if true. The picture--the promise of beauty, love and sex--completely overrides any text.
In the soldier's mind, it's the girl he's fighting for. And since she's in his mind, he's not likely to believe any of your libelous statements about her. She's Rita Hayworth in The Strawberry Blonde or Lauren Bacall in To Have and Have Not or maybe even Judy Garland in Love Finds Andy Hardy.
You're likely to just make him mad by suggesting anything else.
This site details the perversion, the anti-semitism, and the psychology used on your (great?)grand-parents to get them to surrender or turn back. In this day of "2 girls 1 cup" (never seen it, thanks) these pictures seem positively quaint, but they're not all blurred out so beVARE (as Bela Lugosi would say).
Interestingly, the author's thesis is that these psychological attacks had the reverse effect. The men would use the naked girl pictures as pin-ups. This tells you something very basic and true about beauty, if true. The picture--the promise of beauty, love and sex--completely overrides any text.
In the soldier's mind, it's the girl he's fighting for. And since she's in his mind, he's not likely to believe any of your libelous statements about her. She's Rita Hayworth in The Strawberry Blonde or Lauren Bacall in To Have and Have Not or maybe even Judy Garland in Love Finds Andy Hardy.
You're likely to just make him mad by suggesting anything else.
Palette Cleanser: A Totally Sexist and Inappropriate Objectification of a Woman Who, Through Sheer Genetic Chance
...or perhaps surgery, is rather more well-endowed than most.
Yes, that's what my doctor looked like, except she had a way better butt. (Also, she was middle-eastern.)
Again, though, it's her medical advice I'm following. So, maybe Denise Richards as a nuclear physicist isn't conpletely absurd. Well, someone who looks like her, anyway.
Yes, that's what my doctor looked like, except she had a way better butt. (Also, she was middle-eastern.)Again, though, it's her medical advice I'm following. So, maybe Denise Richards as a nuclear physicist isn't conpletely absurd. Well, someone who looks like her, anyway.
More On More: Beauty and Sexuality (Update at bottom)
Although the point of my tennis post was obviously to take a poke at Darcysport (who was my 25,000th visitor, by the way, thanks, Dar!), my return to the local clinic for the ear infection from hell, prompted me with one of those "let's take a closer look at those breasts" moments so common for the Althouse commentariat. (Weirdly, Althouse doesn't come up first for that phrase on Google, but someone linking to her iconic post does.)
The thing is, the doctor was stackedd with a double-D. I guess it was casual dress day, because she was wearing a form fitting sweater and tight jeans (which she also filled out spectacularly). There was nothing especially provocative about the outfit; it was simply her figure. What's more, it was the sort of outfit that wouldn't even have registered a blip on a less curvy woman.
Now, obviously, I didn't pull a Tex Avery Wolf thing. She's the junior in this medical partnership, I think, but she's been pushing a different approach from the head doc. And one that my other nutrionist-nee-MD agrees with, so I respect that.
But there's an interesting mix of life's unfairness all in this one little encounter. It's not fair that a woman, by virtue of her figure, risks being reduced to that figure, despite being an MD. It's also not fair that women get to be the sole arbiters of whether a glance is welcome flattery or perverted lust. Life is a lot less pleasant for everyone as a result, I think.
Large Breasts confer certain benefits on their possessors--er, when they're women--but also bring with them a lot of liabilities which can be particularly difficult for girls who develop early, since they also bring an appearance of maturity. (We'll just assume for the sake of a pleasant illusion that the pigs who leer and catcall after a girl would refrain if they knew she was eleven.)
And other girls (or even fully grown women) seem eager to impute to large breasts sexual promiscuity. Males, as well, but while they do it out of wishful thinking, females do it (apparently) out of jealousy. And not just promiscuity, but shallowness and stupidity.
I remember a friend of mine who worked as a bank teller telling me that a female bank robber had been very successful robbing banks in low-cut blouses, because the male tellers she would select couldn't describe her face. (She was allegedly caught when she selected a gay male teller.) This is probably apocryphal, and certainly more reflective upon men than women.
Then there's stuff like this from F My Life:
The thing is, the doctor was stackedd with a double-D. I guess it was casual dress day, because she was wearing a form fitting sweater and tight jeans (which she also filled out spectacularly). There was nothing especially provocative about the outfit; it was simply her figure. What's more, it was the sort of outfit that wouldn't even have registered a blip on a less curvy woman.
Now, obviously, I didn't pull a Tex Avery Wolf thing. She's the junior in this medical partnership, I think, but she's been pushing a different approach from the head doc. And one that my other nutrionist-nee-MD agrees with, so I respect that.But there's an interesting mix of life's unfairness all in this one little encounter. It's not fair that a woman, by virtue of her figure, risks being reduced to that figure, despite being an MD. It's also not fair that women get to be the sole arbiters of whether a glance is welcome flattery or perverted lust. Life is a lot less pleasant for everyone as a result, I think.
Large Breasts confer certain benefits on their possessors--er, when they're women--but also bring with them a lot of liabilities which can be particularly difficult for girls who develop early, since they also bring an appearance of maturity. (We'll just assume for the sake of a pleasant illusion that the pigs who leer and catcall after a girl would refrain if they knew she was eleven.)
And other girls (or even fully grown women) seem eager to impute to large breasts sexual promiscuity. Males, as well, but while they do it out of wishful thinking, females do it (apparently) out of jealousy. And not just promiscuity, but shallowness and stupidity.
I remember a friend of mine who worked as a bank teller telling me that a female bank robber had been very successful robbing banks in low-cut blouses, because the male tellers she would select couldn't describe her face. (She was allegedly caught when she selected a gay male teller.) This is probably apocryphal, and certainly more reflective upon men than women.
Then there's stuff like this from F My Life:
Today, I was buying an expensive pillow for my mother from a store clerk who wouldn't stop staring at my boobs. After paying, I saw an elderly lady who had dropped a bag, so I walked to help. I walked back to the clerk, who refused to believe I paid. The reason? He didn't recognize my face. FML
So, what does one do with the yin-and-yang here? Men are going to desire; women are going to envy. Desire and envy make a mess of a lot of things. (The solution is probably some combination of manners and logic, but if those two things ever took hold, breast ogling would be near the bottom of the list of important bad behaviors curbed.)
And it's not just breast size, but beauty. Media Lizzy writes on the perils of being beautiful, in particular as it relates to the Miss California case, and links to Melissa Clouthier on the same topic. I don't necessarily agree with either of them, but I do know that all beautiful women are plagued to some degree with assumptions of limitations in other ways.
Hell, I know women who dowdify themselves (in the sense of "make dowdy", having nothing to do with Maureen Dowd) in order to be taken seriously. (Then there is the Buddhist tale of the beautiful woman who scarred her face in order to be accepted into study, having previously been denied for being a potential distraction.)
I've been struggling with this post for a while, I think because I have no particularly profound insight--or even anything that rises above the banal. I like beauty; I particularly like feminine beauty. Prejudice, whether pro- or anti-beauty disturbs me.
But it doesn't surprise me that certain political elements seek to destroy what is beautiful. A devotion to beauty, like love, sex, family, religion and God, are things that the state cannot control. And what the state cannot control, it seeks to destroy.
And it's not just breast size, but beauty. Media Lizzy writes on the perils of being beautiful, in particular as it relates to the Miss California case, and links to Melissa Clouthier on the same topic. I don't necessarily agree with either of them, but I do know that all beautiful women are plagued to some degree with assumptions of limitations in other ways.
Hell, I know women who dowdify themselves (in the sense of "make dowdy", having nothing to do with Maureen Dowd) in order to be taken seriously. (Then there is the Buddhist tale of the beautiful woman who scarred her face in order to be accepted into study, having previously been denied for being a potential distraction.)
I've been struggling with this post for a while, I think because I have no particularly profound insight--or even anything that rises above the banal. I like beauty; I particularly like feminine beauty. Prejudice, whether pro- or anti-beauty disturbs me.
But it doesn't surprise me that certain political elements seek to destroy what is beautiful. A devotion to beauty, like love, sex, family, religion and God, are things that the state cannot control. And what the state cannot control, it seeks to destroy.
Update: And how fitting that while I pondered this list, Playboy.com published a list of 10 women whose ideas (being right of center) were so appallingly hateful, it diminished their true value as sexual objects. Way to go Playboy!
And let's just round (heh) this out with a study that purports to tell what a woman is like (including how she feels about sex) based on her breast shape. Enough of the shapes are women who don't like sex to make me think it's based on the researcher's personal exprience.
Wednesday, June 3, 2009
Up--and Away
Seeing Pixar release a new movie is like watching a great figure skater do a triple axel. First, you realize that when all those other figure skaters are up, you were kind of nervous. They might land it, they might not, and you're really on the edge of your seat. But then the gold medalist comes, and you just relax and watch the beauty unfold.
Remember last year, when the money men on Wall Street predicted that movie about the robot--the one with almost no dialogue--couldn't possibly be a hit? And then the one about the rat? And the cars? And on and on.
I wasn't worried in the least.
The two things that you can count on hearing when a Pixar movie come out are: "That was the best (Pixar) movie ever!" and "That wasn't as good as [some other Pixar movie]." In the former case, they sometimes leave out the "Pixar" part. In the latter case, the person is typically referring to a Pixar movie that uniquely resonated in some idiosyncratic way.
But, really, the key thing about Pixar movies is that they're all different. Even Toy Story 2 was thematically different from Toy Story. It's not hard to make meaningful comparisons between them, but it is hard to state outright that of any two elements, one is necessarily better than the other. (I think this is true of all the movies, even A Bug's Life and Cars, which are often unfairly maligned.)
Which brings us to this, the tenth Pixar film, and the tenth triple axel to be landed perfectly.
But differently.
In this case, we have the story of Carl Fredricksen (Ed Asner), a 78-year-old widower who's about to get put into an old folks home. Now, a lot of kid movies feature old people, but this one is about Carl. This is his story.
Showing, once again, that they know how to tell a story without a lot of expository dialog, director Pete Docter (Monsters, Inc.) and co-director/writer Bob Peterson (Finding Nemo co-writer) use the first few minutes of the film to give us a love story between Carl and Ellie. They meet as kids, and through a love of adventure, share their lives for the next 65 years.
No child is going to experience this the way an adult does, particularly older adults. But this opening provides the hook that powers the movie. The older kids will get the connections, but if you're an adult there will probably be parts that make you tear up.
It's no surprise that Carl--a balloon salseman--rigs up a bunch of balloons to make his house float away, but when it happens, it's nonetheless magical. And Carl's expression as he floats through the air is sublime. But of course it only lasts a few seconds.
The fly in Carl's ointment is young Wilderness Scout Russell (Jordan Nagai), and the subsequent adventure includes a giant toucan-ish type bird, talking dogs, and aerial combat. These are the sorts of things you expect from a kid's movie. But as a grownup, you're never far away from these little moments that ground the story in a peculiarly real way.
In a way, Carl's actions are those of a man who's life is almost over. This final grand gesture is his tribute to his wife, and yet Russell keeps interrupting that by embroiling him in things that are going on now. And because we've seen Carl at Russell's age, we feel the wealth of emotions he feels at certain things Russell says and does, even while Russell himself doesn't realize the impact he has on the old man.
So, plenty for the kids--and The Flower liked it a lot--plenty for the adults--as did I. If I were going to pick a demographic this wouldn't appeal to, it'd be the teenagers, yet The Boy also liked it a lot.
Darcy pointed me to this blogcritics review, which is perhaps, an interesting. idiosyncratic counterpoint to mine: The reviewer loved Carl's story but was dismayed by the actual adventure parts (while noting that the kids in the audience loved those parts, while seeming restless during the parts he liked). He even asks whether he is Carl, curmudgeonly hanging on to his old dreams.
At least he sees what's going on: Many of the early Cannes reviews derided the picture's "de-evolution" into an action film. They missed the point. Or maybe just made their choice.
Remember last year, when the money men on Wall Street predicted that movie about the robot--the one with almost no dialogue--couldn't possibly be a hit? And then the one about the rat? And the cars? And on and on.
I wasn't worried in the least.
The two things that you can count on hearing when a Pixar movie come out are: "That was the best (Pixar) movie ever!" and "That wasn't as good as [some other Pixar movie]." In the former case, they sometimes leave out the "Pixar" part. In the latter case, the person is typically referring to a Pixar movie that uniquely resonated in some idiosyncratic way.
But, really, the key thing about Pixar movies is that they're all different. Even Toy Story 2 was thematically different from Toy Story. It's not hard to make meaningful comparisons between them, but it is hard to state outright that of any two elements, one is necessarily better than the other. (I think this is true of all the movies, even A Bug's Life and Cars, which are often unfairly maligned.)
Which brings us to this, the tenth Pixar film, and the tenth triple axel to be landed perfectly.
But differently.
In this case, we have the story of Carl Fredricksen (Ed Asner), a 78-year-old widower who's about to get put into an old folks home. Now, a lot of kid movies feature old people, but this one is about Carl. This is his story.
Showing, once again, that they know how to tell a story without a lot of expository dialog, director Pete Docter (Monsters, Inc.) and co-director/writer Bob Peterson (Finding Nemo co-writer) use the first few minutes of the film to give us a love story between Carl and Ellie. They meet as kids, and through a love of adventure, share their lives for the next 65 years.
No child is going to experience this the way an adult does, particularly older adults. But this opening provides the hook that powers the movie. The older kids will get the connections, but if you're an adult there will probably be parts that make you tear up.
It's no surprise that Carl--a balloon salseman--rigs up a bunch of balloons to make his house float away, but when it happens, it's nonetheless magical. And Carl's expression as he floats through the air is sublime. But of course it only lasts a few seconds.
The fly in Carl's ointment is young Wilderness Scout Russell (Jordan Nagai), and the subsequent adventure includes a giant toucan-ish type bird, talking dogs, and aerial combat. These are the sorts of things you expect from a kid's movie. But as a grownup, you're never far away from these little moments that ground the story in a peculiarly real way.
In a way, Carl's actions are those of a man who's life is almost over. This final grand gesture is his tribute to his wife, and yet Russell keeps interrupting that by embroiling him in things that are going on now. And because we've seen Carl at Russell's age, we feel the wealth of emotions he feels at certain things Russell says and does, even while Russell himself doesn't realize the impact he has on the old man.
So, plenty for the kids--and The Flower liked it a lot--plenty for the adults--as did I. If I were going to pick a demographic this wouldn't appeal to, it'd be the teenagers, yet The Boy also liked it a lot.
Darcy pointed me to this blogcritics review, which is perhaps, an interesting. idiosyncratic counterpoint to mine: The reviewer loved Carl's story but was dismayed by the actual adventure parts (while noting that the kids in the audience loved those parts, while seeming restless during the parts he liked). He even asks whether he is Carl, curmudgeonly hanging on to his old dreams.
At least he sees what's going on: Many of the early Cannes reviews derided the picture's "de-evolution" into an action film. They missed the point. Or maybe just made their choice.
Monday, June 1, 2009
This one's for Troop
Trooper York tells a tale of a buddy lost to an unfortunate hookup. This reminded me of one of my favorite quirky Loudon Wainwright songs, "IDTTYWLM", embedded below.
It's not exactly relevant, but it is funny.
I don't think that your wife likes me
I don't think that your wife likes me
Why do you suppose that is?
I don't know
It's not exactly relevant, but it is funny.
I don't think that your wife likes me
I don't think that your wife likes me
Why do you suppose that is?
I don't know
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
