We Heart The World

OR, Thank G-d for Steve Jobs and Al Gore, without whom most Americans' lives would really suffer.

Re: iPad tops 300,000 on its first day of sales

I've been thinking a lot lately about how we humans can better share this planet. (Phew! There's some light dinner conversation!) One critical step forward lies in the direction of convincing our neighbors to stop blowing themselves up, because it's really getting in the way of all that "nation building" President George W. Bush et al set out to do in Iraq, and all that "Taliban Cleansing" President Obama has bolstered in Afghanistan. Thank G-d at least the Afghan president, Hamid Karzai, is onboard with that one!

Now, as a Luddite, I don't know what an iPad is, nor why it should be so auspiciously named--but just as sure as shootin' I think the obvious solution to all the people-blowing-themselves-up issue in the Middle East is--Wait For It--technology. After all, it ended World War II.
Didn't it?

But in the 21st Century, we don't incinerate civilians anymore with
B-29s and aircrews. Instead, it's a guy in fatigues at a console in Langley Nevada, playing what has to be the world's most awesomest video game. (For maximum verisimilitude, why not go with khaki fatigues to match the desert terrain?)

But I'm not here to talk about us trying to get people to stop blowing themselves up by blowing them up ourselves.... No, I'm here to talk about technology--

Steve, Al, send the next 300,000 iPads to Baghdad. Actually, send 150,000 to Baghdad, and the other 150,000 to Kandahar, where Coalition Forces are apparently locking and loading for a major June offensive. There's not a single doubt in my mind that Apple's new iPad "device"--like a nuke, except it creates instead of destroys--coupled with Internet Technology Made Available by Al Gore--is going to clear up a lot of misunderstandings Over There, and prevent a lot of needless killing, just like today's modern conveniences make multitasking easy
in all areas of the home.

To illustrate how we're really more alike than we think, I've devised a BlaiserBlog "meme" that reinforces what I've always suspected--that the Truth is but a few keystrokes away. (Think of it as another small stone in my masonry effort to build a wall in the 21st century)

To wit: I will take a randomly selected paragraph from the BlaiserBlog archives and successively convert it into several Major World Languages--via an Internet-obtained translator that is no doubt standard on an iPad, along with its airbag-equipped phallus stylus and Etch-O-Sketch erasibility--and then back to English, thereby proving that deep down, not only are we all of the same tongue, but also that an iPad will bring peace and prosperity to any region fortunate enough to have access to the best that life has to offer, like we here in the West enjoy.

Original Text, from There's Only One Smoking Gun?

Change does not usually come swiftly to the opera house, until it does. For the stagehands, one classic manifestation is that whenever a particular production is first mounted, whatever technology they used at the time is forever bonded to that production no matter how often it's revived. In other words, one night you're struggling with an electrics prop or a chandlier that up close looks like Dr. Frankenstein got medieval with some sheet metal and a spot welder--for a 1985 Zeffirelli production of Tosca--and the next, you're programming robotic lights for a very modrene re-design of 2005's Madama Butterfly. Old shows chug along until a General Manager or a Board smites it with the Divine Hand of Upper Management and commissions a completely new design.

For your convenience, please enjoy an old-school mashup in its own right, "We Are The World," a record from the mid-80s, in which we learned that even Huey Lewis cared enough to send the very best. *


To follow along at home, scroll down the paragraphs at evenly spaced times of the soloists' performances, every five singers. i.e., scroll to Hindi with James Ingram, to Yiddish with Dionne Warwick, to Icelandic with Steve Perry, and back to English with Bob Dylan. Go ahead and hit Play, and I'll get to work translating.

James Ingram (that someone, somewhere...)

आमतौर पर बदलने के ओपेरा हाउस के लिए तेजी से नहीं आती है, जब तक यह नहीं करता है. stagehands के लिए, एक क्लासिक अभिव्यक्ति है कि जब भी एक विशेष मुहिम शुरू की है पहली उत्पादन, प्रौद्योगिकी वे समय पर इस्तेमाल किया जो हमेशा के लिए बंधुआ है कि उत्पादन करने के लिए कोई बात नहीं कितनी बार इसे पुनर्जीवित किया है. दूसरे शब्दों में, एक रात आप एक electrics सहारा या एक chandlier कि करीब अप डा. फ्रेंकस्टीन की तरह दिखता है कुछ शीट धातु के साथ मध्ययुगीन गया और एक स्थान वेल्डर - एक 1985 Tosca Zeffirelli के उत्पादन के लिए है - और अगले के साथ संघर्ष कर रहे हैं, आप 2005 की Madama तितली का एक बहुत ही modrene फिर से डिजाइन के लिए रोबोट रोशनी प्रोग्रामिंग कर रहे हैं. पुराने शो एक जनरल मैनेजर या एक बोर्ड के साथ इजाफा होगा जब तक यह ऊपरी प्रबंधन और आयोगों की एक पूरी तरह से नए डिजाइन के हाथ से देवी smites.

Dionne Warwick ( So, send 'em your hearts.....)

 

אָפּערע הויז צו ענדערן יוזשאַוואַלי טוט ניט קומען פעסט, ווי לאַנג ווי עס קען ניט סטיידזשכאַנדז, אַ קלאַסיש אויסדרוק אַז ווען מאָונטעד דער ערשטער פּראָדוקציע פון אַ באַזונדער טעכנאָלאָגיע געניצט אין די צייַט וואָס איז אויף אייביק באַנדיד צו פּראָדוצירן קיין ענין ווי פילע מאָל עס איז לעצטנס. אין אנדערע ווערטער, אַ נאַכט אָדער אַ ריזאָרט טשאַנדליער ילעקטריקס איר נאָענט אַרויף וואָס קוקט ווי ד"ר פראַנקענסטעין זענען מידיוואַל מיט עטלעכע בויגן מעטאַל וועלדער און אַ פּלאַץ - אַ 1985 טאָסקאַ זעפפירעללי ס פּראָדוקציע - און סטראַגאַלינג מיט די קומענדיק ביסט דו אַ זייער מאָדרענע 2005 מאַדאַמאַ באַטערפליי שייַעך-פּלאַן פון די לייץ זענען פּראָגראַממינג די ראָבאָט. אַלטע ווייזט וועט זייַן ענכאַנסט מיט אַ גענעראַל פאַרוואַלטער אָדער אַ ברעט ביז עס ס אויבערשטער פאַרוואַלטונג און אַ גאָר נייַע פּלאַן קאַמישאַנז פון די דיווינע האנט סמיטעס.

Steve Perry  (There's a choice we're makin'...)

Opera hús til að breyta yfirleitt ekki koma hratt, svo framarlega sem það gerir það ekki. Stagehands, klassísk tjáningu að þegar reimt fyrstu framleiðslu tiltekins tækni og notuð er í tíma sem er að eilífu tengt til að framleiða sama hversu oft hún hefur að undanförnu. Með öðrum orðum, eina nótt eða Úrræði Chandley Electrics þú lokar allt sem lítur eins og Dr Frankenstein eru Medieval með nokkrum málmur lak skóginum og mikið - framleiðslu 1985 Tosca Zeffirelli's - og barátta við framtíðina ertu mjög nútímalegum 2005 Maddamma Butterfly aftur - hönnun ljósin fóru Forritun vélmenni. eldri athugasemdum verður endurbætt með almennur framkvæmdastjóri eða stjórnarmaður til þess 'efri stjórnun og a fullkomlega nýr Umboð hönnun guðlega smites hönd.


Robert Zimmerman -- bring it on home! (there's a choice we're makin'....)

Opera house to change usually does not come quickly, as long as it does not. Stage Hands, a classic expression of the Haunted when the first production of a particular technology used in the time that is forever linked to produce no matter how often it has recently. In other words, one night or Resort Chandley Electric closing up that looks like Dr. Frankenstein is Medieval some metal sheet wood and hard - production 1985 Tosca Zeffirelli's - and struggling with the future are very modern in 2005 Maddamma Butterfly again - design lights went Programming robot. old notes will be amended by general manager or board member to it's upper management and a completely new designs divine mandate smites hand.

See? Now why can't we all get along?

Thanks for reading, and always try to remember: 1. That it's nearly impossible to think of starving Ethiopians without thinking of John Oates, and also that 2. Thanks to U.S. war planning, everyone involved in this "scheduled" major offensive in Kandahar can book their Labor Day weekend places in impunity, for hostilities will surely be wrapped up by September 1--even earlier if we get those friggin' iPads over there. Who's with me?

* Truthfully, Huey Lewis appears to be a really cool. He crossed the street in New York opposite to my son once, and apparently stopped and talked to him and was just a super guy. I just used him as a joke because he only got one line in the song. And you know what? He really did sell it.

She Blinded Me With Vinyl

I make no bones about hating i-Products, maintaining suspicions on mp3 formats and generally whinging about the deteriorating-mazationings of actual, physical things that I can touch. When Y2K hit, my response was to start buying up manual typewriters, like some kind of ironic literary survivalist. When Douglas Adams wrote words to the effect that "And you thought digital watches were pretty neat," I was that guy, but I would have preferred things had stopped with Ms. Pac-Man and that four-player Dungeons & Dragons game, Gauntlet. However, Time Has Passed, and now Elf needs food, badly.

Food for thought, that is, and music that requires neither one, nor zero. (Note that analog music reaps metaphorical benefit from the other 8 digits.) The awesomest sound I've ever heard from a cone was in my parents' basement, when my audiophile brother, Matt, was testdriving a dbx-encoded jazz LP. (Think Dolby Z-Cubed...) I know crates of records are a pain to lug around, but it's not only worth it, it's essential.

And so.... I invested in two classic Technics 1200 turntables, and a mixer.* The Technics 1200 Mk2 is the shark of turntables.... essentially unchanged by evolution for millions of years (OK, slightly more than 30, but you see my point.) The rig is powered by the Panasonic dual-cassette Boom Box with which my parents bundled me off to sleep-away college in the late 80's.

Its left channel is intermittent, and comes and goes like Mary Poppins--when the wind changes. Sometime last week, it healed itself again, and I'm living large in stereo. One has to make the most out of an uncertain world.

And so my 9-year-old son and I are nurturing a weekend ritual: Sunday brunch a la vinyl. A most recent utterance: "Daddy, what's Styx?" ** (He already has something of a foundation in mythology, so he knows about Achilles and the River. Now he's learning about the concept album, a concept that's all but gone the way of the dodo.)

Here's what else I'm finding so fabulous about this trend: Not only is it a joy to dance around with your 9-year-old to rockin' tunes, but his ear horizons have stretched global. That is to say, up to now, he's never thumbed through all the CD's to find something new and interesting. But put him in front of a crate of vinyl, and he's doing exactly that, and here's why: It's fun. It's fun to put the needle on the record; it's fun to play with the pitch, or play a Bruce Springsteen album on 45 rpm so that the Boss sounds like an indignant chipmunk; it's fun to look at the photos on a jacket sleeve--many of them are as large as an entire CD case, nevermind the ridiculous dwarf-photos that show up on someone's i-Product.

Maybe the point is that running around with earbuds and paper-thin music players belies an essential truth of music: Rock is large. Power chords mean more when played on a 12" disc. The Magical Mystery Tour is trippier when flipping through the "24-page full color picture book" included inside. In fact, I'll go ahead and say it: Digital is synthetic.

Disc-uss below: As always, thanks awfully, for reading. And remember, if my busmates on our senior class trip to Washington, DC, hadn't ruled the music choices under threat of extreme violence, I might never have come to fully appreciate AC/DC's You Shook Me All Night Long, which we listened to, in its entirety, 37 times straight.

* Full disclosure: the mixer also sports two CD players with adjustable pitch. When we're playing vinyl, we play vinyl. When he graduates from Mixing 101, we'll entertain other media. I'm not a total crank...

** And lest one think I'm a purveyor of cheesy pop music alone, get hip to other parts of my vinyl catalog: Bob Dylan, Marlene Dietrich, Lady Day Holiday, Herbie Hancock, Joni Mitchell, Rodgers and Hammerstein, Bil Cosby, as many Beatles as my son can eat.

The ides of Blogust (or A Fear of Facebook)

And we're back..... back into the fold, back in the saddle, back where we belong, back in black, after three glorious weeks as a returning staff member at Camp Ballibay for the fine and performing arts, and, let's face it, finely performed arts.

About this word, Fine. What on earth does it actually mean? Many words, I find, lose their meanings when repeated several times under one's breath. Fine, fine, fine. Arts that are fine. Immediately, I start reassigning possible interpretations, like Find Art--a directive from a suspicious governing body, perhaps; or Art Fine, a duty paid by the audacious.

No, this was kidz. A lot of kidz. Rockin' kidz, dancing kidz, drawing kidz, actin' and singin' kidz. This was a return to the summer camp of my youth, where I spent all the summers of the 80s plus 1990, for good measure. This is where I grew up.

This was Ballibay's 45th year--many things the same from my era, many things changed. New buildings, new programs, and best of all, new food. Lovingly sculpted muffins; camper curated pizza; 30-minute old organic radishes, lettuce, tomatoes from the new camp garden; local dairy offerings; real-deal maple syrup; artisinal beets; and once-a-week-reliable burger night, but not the mass-produced hockey pucks of yore. Rather, these are grass-fed, happy cows who attained, on average, a third-grade reading level before they self-determined to a humane slaughter. I do not in any way mean to degrade. It was good beef.

And no electronic distraction--cell phone posession on campus is verboten, and happily for me, my Verizon coverage has failed to penetrate the magic bubble of the Ballibay mountain. Add to this analog logorithm an e-mail check only every three days, and for 21 days and nights, swear off Facebook.


And here's where the fear comes in. Hi--My name is Andrew, and I was addicted to Facebook. My day job as a light-board programmer put my laptop within arm's reach, enabling relentless social networking and a captive audience of whomever was signed on at the time. I lived for the red square of notification and the circled numerals of a robust inbox. I measured the comments on my Notes as a personal ego inflator. I was an online Narcissist. 'Tis true.

And now? Well I am taking bets with myself on what's awaiting my return--are weeks' old notifications really all that important? Have I lost more than a half-dozen chances to save the planet with a virtual tomato plant? How many of my "friends" have excised me from their ranks? Perhaps a few requests will be there, too, given all the new friends I've made at camp.

But the lesson is thus: I didn't really miss it--I watched the other, younger staff obsessively check-in with their FB accounts every chance they got, and I just walked on by. For these three weeks, what concerned me was the immediate: directing a play, teaching a few writing workshops, getting the kidz' postal packages to the dining hall every day at 12:15...decrying the iPod at every available turn.
Look -- it's great as the 21st-Century Walkman. But it's not great as a human aggregator. What I mean is that information at our fingertips gives the illusion of mastery, and when it comes right down to it, if we can no longer acknowledge the ineffable in everyday life, and pretend that it's only a matter of time before Steve Jobs comes up with an "Ap" that somehow makes it easier, then the battle is already lost. Sure--your iPhone can now tell you how to decode the Paris Metro, but what is the loss in that gain? Here's the parallel lost opportunity: talk to a fellow human being to find out the same information; learn a whole bunch of interesting things you weren't bargaining for, because your head wasn't buried in some i-Screen; get invited to leur cousine's bistro for an apres-hours cafe au lait. Learn the oral tradition from a dying breed. iProducts may be great for self-insulation, but they're eroding the crap out of our shared planetary culture.



Eh bien. Myself, I'll try limiting the FB Narcissism to just once or twice a week. I have plans to make, anyway, like what I might direct next at Ballibay, and how it'll be lit. Or unwritten poetry to contemplate: the full moon rising over a misty horse pond; the dew-laden spiderwebs on Ballibay's Outdoor Platform; the fungilike artwork that springs from the campus--five-part harmony totems, painted and hoary, each one a paean to the three Jannones and their multi-generational vision of how to wind-up one's artisitic pogostick and do God's work in the mountains of Northeast Pennsylvania.