The federal Government has just announced a new Scientific Task Force Unit (STFU) whose main goals are to debunk all the misinformation, misstated facts, mis-attributed quotes, and other moronic notions that seem to be circulating in unprecedented quantities.
"Since the advent of the internet," says Mikael Bleschevenitz, Chief Scientist in charge of STFU and former Dean of the College of Mundane But True Information at Stanford, "there has been more opportunities than ever before for the gullible to be heard." While normally a champion of free speech, Bleschevenitz says that we should be championing factual free speech. He added, "I happen to know from personal experience that a duck's quack echoes. I take my pet mallard, Sophie, to the Grand Canyon every year."
Be sure to forward this to everyone unfortunate enough to be in your address book.
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Friday, November 13, 2009
Monday, November 09, 2009
Desire and Anxiety
Anxiety filled every crevice. Every corner. It pushed on his chest from the inside making it hard to breathe. He could feel it foaming up from deep inside the center of his chest, expanding, making his arms and legs physically ache from the pressure. It made him want to cry, to let the tears spurt out as if from a fire hose.
He didn’t understand where it came from. It must be fear but of what? It happened every time he sat down to a project—writing a paper, drawing a commissioned portrait, editing a commercial. It was fear. Fear of not getting it perfect the first time.
It didn’t bother him quite as much when he was editing a commercial. The clients the TV station took on were so cheap that he didn’t care what he turned out. His buddies called him the turd polisher. That’s probably why he’d stayed at his job for so long—15 years now—because it was safe. He could polish turds with the best, and since no one paid any attention to turds, unless the stink was particularly bad, there was no real accountability. The clients who’d never done a commercial before thought he was amazing because they didn’t know what a better editor might be capable of given a greater budget and more time.
But when he sat down to write or to draw, he actually cared about what he was producing. He wanted it perfect. His life depended upon it, somehow. It was what he’d really wanted to with his life before he’d entered the advertising world as a lowest-tier tv editor. He’d wanted to be Ray Bradbury, then Tobias Wolf, then Richard Adams or a male Margaret Atwood. He’d also wanted to be Monet, Matisse, Degas, and even Warhol.
The force of his desire to create something that, at the very least, didn’t stink at all, and at the most, people would clamber to see or read or watch had always violently collided against this seemingly immovable wall of fear with him caught in the middle. He’d tried to reconcile the two, or to conquer the one and nurture the other (many times he wasn’t sure which he was doing to which). But he’d inevitably feel like he’d have to escape or be crushed.
He gave up the crazy idea of becoming a writer or artist for a time, feeling as if he were drowning in a sea of artists and writers who’d already expressed every idea humanity was capable of. But the idea kept pursuing him. Especially the writing idea. He went long, long stretches of not writing but it kept nagging at him, pulling at the hem of his shirt, needling him in the back of the neck. People had no idea he was a writer, or wanted to become one. Most knew he was an artist because he was always drawing. Drawing came easy and there was no pressure because he had no intention of trying to sell it or push it on others. No one saw his blog, though. No one he knew, anyway. He didn’t want them to. He only wrote because if he didn’t appease the nagging little pest every once in a while, it might irritate him to death.
He knew he’d have to write something substantial sooner or later, though. He’d have to brave the violent clash of anxiety and desire and either perish under the onslaught or come through it somehow a changed man.
He didn’t understand where it came from. It must be fear but of what? It happened every time he sat down to a project—writing a paper, drawing a commissioned portrait, editing a commercial. It was fear. Fear of not getting it perfect the first time.
It didn’t bother him quite as much when he was editing a commercial. The clients the TV station took on were so cheap that he didn’t care what he turned out. His buddies called him the turd polisher. That’s probably why he’d stayed at his job for so long—15 years now—because it was safe. He could polish turds with the best, and since no one paid any attention to turds, unless the stink was particularly bad, there was no real accountability. The clients who’d never done a commercial before thought he was amazing because they didn’t know what a better editor might be capable of given a greater budget and more time.
But when he sat down to write or to draw, he actually cared about what he was producing. He wanted it perfect. His life depended upon it, somehow. It was what he’d really wanted to with his life before he’d entered the advertising world as a lowest-tier tv editor. He’d wanted to be Ray Bradbury, then Tobias Wolf, then Richard Adams or a male Margaret Atwood. He’d also wanted to be Monet, Matisse, Degas, and even Warhol.
The force of his desire to create something that, at the very least, didn’t stink at all, and at the most, people would clamber to see or read or watch had always violently collided against this seemingly immovable wall of fear with him caught in the middle. He’d tried to reconcile the two, or to conquer the one and nurture the other (many times he wasn’t sure which he was doing to which). But he’d inevitably feel like he’d have to escape or be crushed.
He gave up the crazy idea of becoming a writer or artist for a time, feeling as if he were drowning in a sea of artists and writers who’d already expressed every idea humanity was capable of. But the idea kept pursuing him. Especially the writing idea. He went long, long stretches of not writing but it kept nagging at him, pulling at the hem of his shirt, needling him in the back of the neck. People had no idea he was a writer, or wanted to become one. Most knew he was an artist because he was always drawing. Drawing came easy and there was no pressure because he had no intention of trying to sell it or push it on others. No one saw his blog, though. No one he knew, anyway. He didn’t want them to. He only wrote because if he didn’t appease the nagging little pest every once in a while, it might irritate him to death.
He knew he’d have to write something substantial sooner or later, though. He’d have to brave the violent clash of anxiety and desire and either perish under the onslaught or come through it somehow a changed man.
Thursday, June 25, 2009
Cheesy Song Day
I'm working on a cheesy show so I thought it appropriate to delcare today, "Cheesy Song Day." Enjoy.
Monday, February 23, 2009
An Unfortunate Reminder
Sometimes humility comes at a high price.
Last week I produced some tribute videos for my boss who died on Friday and they ran on the local TV station that I work for. It was a stressful day and I was hit harder than expected by the loss of this man. I received many compliments for the pieces and that felt good but I tried to keep it in perspective.
This morning that perspective was jackhammered into me with an email from a viewer which my GM passed on to me:
"I have nothing against ______________, but I was appalled to see a serious misspelling on one of the photos honoring him. I don't know who wrote it, but it was shown on ______. You may have heard from some other educated people in Utah. There's a photo of Mr. ________ with the phrase underneath - "He loved Utah. It's land, it's people." Everyone should know that the possessive form of "it" is "its" not "it's." "It's" is a contraction for "it is." This was terribly hokey and Utah doesn't need any more bad publicity. I have seen so many horrendous misspellings on ALL local news channels too. Just thought you might like to know. Sincerely ____________, Park City, Utah."
This has been a big wake-up call. Reading this email makes me realize that I'm as big a jerk as she is because I've been tempted to send out the same email when I see the very same mistake. But I never before took into account what extenuating circumstances might exist. For instance, there is a difference between a typo and a stupidity-driven misspelling or punctuation error. I find myself typing an apostrophe all the time when I shouldn't. That's what rewriting is for. In this case, I don't need a lesson in punctuation (what she has chosen to refer to as spelling) as much as a proofreader. And then there's the stress and shock of losing someone you respect and trying to do right by them by putting a tribute to them on the air in a timely fashion.
So I can't be too hard on this woman. I have been just as much of an asshole as she is.
Last week I produced some tribute videos for my boss who died on Friday and they ran on the local TV station that I work for. It was a stressful day and I was hit harder than expected by the loss of this man. I received many compliments for the pieces and that felt good but I tried to keep it in perspective.
This morning that perspective was jackhammered into me with an email from a viewer which my GM passed on to me:
"I have nothing against ______________, but I was appalled to see a serious misspelling on one of the photos honoring him. I don't know who wrote it, but it was shown on ______. You may have heard from some other educated people in Utah. There's a photo of Mr. ________ with the phrase underneath - "He loved Utah. It's land, it's people." Everyone should know that the possessive form of "it" is "its" not "it's." "It's" is a contraction for "it is." This was terribly hokey and Utah doesn't need any more bad publicity. I have seen so many horrendous misspellings on ALL local news channels too. Just thought you might like to know. Sincerely ____________, Park City, Utah."
This has been a big wake-up call. Reading this email makes me realize that I'm as big a jerk as she is because I've been tempted to send out the same email when I see the very same mistake. But I never before took into account what extenuating circumstances might exist. For instance, there is a difference between a typo and a stupidity-driven misspelling or punctuation error. I find myself typing an apostrophe all the time when I shouldn't. That's what rewriting is for. In this case, I don't need a lesson in punctuation (what she has chosen to refer to as spelling) as much as a proofreader. And then there's the stress and shock of losing someone you respect and trying to do right by them by putting a tribute to them on the air in a timely fashion.
So I can't be too hard on this woman. I have been just as much of an asshole as she is.
Thursday, January 08, 2009
Come on, Cyrano. Why her?
I went down to my home office last night to work but realized I wouldn't get much done because my son had to scramble to get his project done for the science fair and that he needed the computer. It's a fact of life at our house that if something is due tomorrow, he's pretty much starting it tonight--usually after 7pm. Even though he had the whole holiday break to work on it. Even though his mother and I (mostly his mother) badgered him about it every day.
So the futility of getting any work done and the lack of sleep but inability to do so that came from working on late-night projects for the last two days drove me to our new HD television that pulls it's signal not from a cable or a satellite dish but from a pair of rabbit-ears. I flipped through all of the new digital stations (a novelty that's already beginning to wear off) until I landed on the long protuberance that I instantly knew to be the nose of Cyrano. It was a stage play and I was mildly intrigued so I put down the remote and watched. I don't know how much of the play I'd missed but I entered in the middle of a duel between Cyrano and some fop. The actor playing Cyrano was a delight to watch. I don't like "Thespians" much--I prefer the subtlety and range of film acting. But this was no ordinary stage performance. For one thing, he didn't feel the need to shout as his counterparts were doing, yet he still filled the stage with his presence. I was instantly drawn in, not the least by the deftness with which he brought humor into the scene. I knew that I was familiar with the actor but I couldn't quite place him. It wasn't until a few scenes later that I realized it was Kevin Kline. So the comedy finally made sense--the kind of sense that can be summed up in 4 words: A Fish Called Wanda.
But it was more than just funny. Kline portrays Cyrano's confidence in his fighting and poetry that's born from the resignation of a man whose appearance is less than ideal with amazing agility. I absolutely loved it. I also loved how the audience responded to him.
Then there was Roxanne. I didn't recognize her at first, either, but it didn't take long to realize that that was the beautiful Jennifer Garner sitting there, enjoying Kline's performance with the rest of us. Then she started to speak and the beauty drained away. I hate to say these things about her because I think she's a great actor but her stage performance can be summed up in five words: A Fish Out of Water. She was the opposite of Kline in every way. There was no subtlety. She overplayed and forced her confidence and this exposed an odd lack of confidence. She contorted her face and gestured wildly, shouting every word. It very nearly ruined the whole thing for me. I got to the point where I had to ignore her and focus on the other performances. Kline's made the whole thing worthwhile but I can't imagine how much better the production would have been if they'd cast someone else for his leading lady.
So the futility of getting any work done and the lack of sleep but inability to do so that came from working on late-night projects for the last two days drove me to our new HD television that pulls it's signal not from a cable or a satellite dish but from a pair of rabbit-ears. I flipped through all of the new digital stations (a novelty that's already beginning to wear off) until I landed on the long protuberance that I instantly knew to be the nose of Cyrano. It was a stage play and I was mildly intrigued so I put down the remote and watched. I don't know how much of the play I'd missed but I entered in the middle of a duel between Cyrano and some fop. The actor playing Cyrano was a delight to watch. I don't like "Thespians" much--I prefer the subtlety and range of film acting. But this was no ordinary stage performance. For one thing, he didn't feel the need to shout as his counterparts were doing, yet he still filled the stage with his presence. I was instantly drawn in, not the least by the deftness with which he brought humor into the scene. I knew that I was familiar with the actor but I couldn't quite place him. It wasn't until a few scenes later that I realized it was Kevin Kline. So the comedy finally made sense--the kind of sense that can be summed up in 4 words: A Fish Called Wanda.
But it was more than just funny. Kline portrays Cyrano's confidence in his fighting and poetry that's born from the resignation of a man whose appearance is less than ideal with amazing agility. I absolutely loved it. I also loved how the audience responded to him.
Then there was Roxanne. I didn't recognize her at first, either, but it didn't take long to realize that that was the beautiful Jennifer Garner sitting there, enjoying Kline's performance with the rest of us. Then she started to speak and the beauty drained away. I hate to say these things about her because I think she's a great actor but her stage performance can be summed up in five words: A Fish Out of Water. She was the opposite of Kline in every way. There was no subtlety. She overplayed and forced her confidence and this exposed an odd lack of confidence. She contorted her face and gestured wildly, shouting every word. It very nearly ruined the whole thing for me. I got to the point where I had to ignore her and focus on the other performances. Kline's made the whole thing worthwhile but I can't imagine how much better the production would have been if they'd cast someone else for his leading lady.
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