Hardly tricked or treated

With Halloween upon us, Dash finds himself in the midst of his annual October dilemma: to eat a melange of Brach’s, ghost cupcakes, candy corn and pumpkin beer, or

to continue to engage in monophagy. No, not “The action or process of eating alone. Obs. rare,” but “The eating of only one kind of food.” (Although, how the OED decided that the G.W. Dasent quote, “Monophagy makes a man melancholy and unsocial” goes with the first of these definitions and not the latter is beyond me. ) While it can, and probably should, be argued that eating only salads (and here you thought the salad of Yesterday was related to the police, as in salad basket; slang, police van) constitutes polyphagy, as the typical salad is composed of more than one type of vegetable (though one hardly needs to be Bruce Robbins/Mark Bittmann to come to this realization), if eating only salads results in melancholy (and scurvy!), perhaps it qualifies as monophagy. Note: if melancholy sets in, please consider engaging in Xerophagy, “The eating of dry food, esp. as form of fasting practised in the early church,” or, if you’re really desperate, theanthrophagy, a system of belief involving the theanthtropos, “A title given to Jesus Christ as being both God and man.” For what it’s worth, all these great words come from the 17th century when one was apparently apt to monophagize, to eat alone.

Nonetheless, regardless of today’s esn, the day itself calls for a bit of word related play. For example, let us replace hallow-v1 with hallow-v2 so that halloween now has to do with shouting rather than sanctification. Surely that would better explain the noises coming from the square than supplications to the Gods. Although, perhaps the two are combined at a werewolf bar mitzvah.

De tempore novo

Oh Woe and Damnation, sheer and utter, to those who dare disparage the glorious powers of the men and arms who in this overly soft age take to the hardwood floors, scraping them with shoes of the victorious goddess, and bouncing the laughing spirits trapped in the spheres. O Muse, turn my song, let your gold plated lyre strum of the more martial and more manly pursuits of our age of plastic. Indeed, I find that I can no longer contain myself, a honey sweet song, half dyed by the weavers of rhetoric, a rock unshaped, deserving to be rejected by the architect, now leads itself on to this page. Tell not to me of suburbs and fashion and the pursuits of the overly soft. Rather let me sing, O Muse, of Lakers and Suns and and the naked Gauls, who have neither guards nor strategic depth.

Happy Basketball Season

Look here kids goddamnit. Put your collars down.

WRITE AN ARTICLE EVERY WEEK, DSalad says to me. I WANT YOU TO he says to me.

FASHION I say to him. FASHION. This is the only world in which I may, I MAY have more knowledge than the geniuses who are my fellow Saladeers. So I say to DailyS TUESDAY YOU WILL HAVE IT. EVERY TUESDAY. COUNT ON ME.

It wasn’t a lie when I was saying it. Maybe I didn’t say which Tuesday. I do not recall.

You know what I do recall? I recall a time when an upturned collar, a starched preppy “popped” look, was a douchebag flag. Yesterday of last week, the day before this article would’ve been on time getOffMyAssEditorOkay?, I saw an upturned collar and my only thought was, “Oh my but this poor gentleman is sadly out of fashion.”

And I set down to write this blog and I realized, MY MEDIUM IS NOT EXPLANATION, IT IS CONVICTION.

So stop judging and pity. They do not know better.

I’ll see you next week. You won’t see me because I’m a fucking ninja.

The Power of 10 (Or, Underestimating the Accessibility of O’Hare)

Although I’ve written a lot about Drew Carey recently, today’s post will not be an paean to the ponderous Power host (nor, for that matter, will it have anything to do with “liquor and foreign language speaking,” our recent search engine mastery of said phrase notwithstanding…butwithawhimper). Rather, inspired by the eyebiter’s apprection of 30 Rock (many of his points align with some of my own views), I’d like to vivify (To render more animated or striking) a recent top-10 list featured on the incomparable aviation.com: the top-10 easiest U.S. airports to get to.

Overall, aviation.com is probably pretty accurate in the sense that most of the airports on the list should probably be on there. That said, the list is rife with inaccuracies. Here is their description of transport hither and tither Chicago’s O’Hare aeroport: “The Airport Transit System (ATS) is a free train that connects all terminals to a Metra subway/train station. You can take the Metra to numerous locations in downtown Chicago.” Aviation.com, it would seem, has conflated two separate modes of transport, the Metra and the CTA Blue Line, both of which serve the airport. In fact, the Blue Line, which runs 24/hrs a day (at least for now), is the far superior option for commuters, especially as the CTA is finally making traction on that pesky slow-zone problem.

Aviation’s number one aeroport is Boston’s Logan. Served by both the Blue Line and the Silver Line, the local BRT, Logan is well-served by public transport. In fact, 30% of all passengers to Logan use public transit, second only to San Francisco (aviation’s #3). While Dash is a staunch believer in converting the Washington street branch of the Silver Line to light rail, the airport branch is actually quite efficient, and a very successful BRT line. Of course, the number one reason the line works is the exclusive right-of-way for much of its route, something most BRT lines surely lack.

Still, the best possible way to get to any of these aeroports would be a flight on the new A380.

Dash’s private suite–for review purpose only

Hopefully one of these beautiful planes will fly to America soon. But, until then, there’s always Emirates air with its less loverly/more plebeian first-class suites.

2008 Watch: The Return?

Where have I been? Astute readers will note I was last seen here challenging the internuts to duels. It’s not everyday that I get the chance to brandish my cherished flintlocks, so naturally I entered into honorable combat with a certain gusto. What I had not counted on was that the LAPD would choose to uphold the law–also with a certain gusto (and with significantly more modern weaponry). I was detained by the authorities, but I promptly escaped from a maximum security stockade to the Los Angeles underground. Today, still wanted by the government, I survive as a blogger of fortune. If you have a problem, if no one else can help, and if you can find me… no wait, that doesn’t sound right.

Regardless, I was on the run from the law and had to maintain radio silence at all times. My benefactor and semi-professional linguist Dash Hammarskjold recently managed to track me down. In exchange for my eternal servitude, he agreed to smuggle me out of California and into a third world country with poor extradition laws. That’s right: Dash (or Herr Hammarskjold as he insists on being called) sent me to Iowa to resume my duties as lead political correspondent for YSMedia and our sister blogs worldwide.

The fact is that whoever wins Iowa will probably be the next president. All of the campaigns have invested so many resources here that to lose will be a huge sign of weakness. Needless to say, there is a lot riding on these January caucuses, especially if you are under the (mistaken) impression that the president actually runs our government. So, here now, is what’s really going on in Iowa which the news media may is ignoring. To be honest, I have no idea what they’re reporting. Per company edict, Dash had forbidden the viewing of any TV network not owned by GlobalSlaladTech Inc. As you may have noticed, however, our TV division pretty much sucks. There, I said it. Actual content after the break.

Ten Reasons Why 30 Rock is Such A Great Show

1. Alec Baldwin. His comedic sense and timing is great. His ownership of his character is even better.
2. Tina Fey’s ever-improving acting. You can almost watch her get better from one episode to the next.
3. Tina Fey’s cleavage. I am of the opinion that Tina Fey’s cleavage needs to be given its own character credit on this show. It appears more frequently than half the cast members, and seems so carefully arranged and presented that I would not be surprised to also see a credit for: Assistant to Ms. Fey’s Cleavage.
4. Appeals across many demographics. For instance, I can watch this show with my beautiful girlfriend, who has way better cleavage than Tina Fey! The same cannot be said for Grey’s Papaya Anatomy (her) or re-runs of Star Trek: The Next Generation (…also…uhh…her.)
5. Tracy Morgan. Not as talented an actor as Alec Baldwin, but displays a similar ownership of his character. Credit the creators and writers of the show for this bright spot as well. It has a lot to do with how expertly they handle Tracy Jordan’s different displays of ‘crazy behavior.’ If they can get away with just saying ‘he’s crazy,’ they do it and move on. If the plot calls for something more, for whatever reason, they address the reason and move on. Tight, smart writing – and as I said, Morgan pulls his job off expertly as well. He is clearly having a lot of fun with the role. This is probably something I completely missed, because I don’t watch television too often – but is he playing a version of himself?
6. Kenneth the Page. Another character whose oddities and quirks are treated with alternating looseness and precision. Another good acting job. In fact…
7. Very good supporting cast. From Morgan Fairchild look-a-like Jane Krakowsi (no relation to John Krasinski) to Jack McBrayer’s Kenneth the Page, to the guy whose only real job is to look dirty and wear funny hats, the supporting cast of 30 Rock does a very good job of making sure that those moments falling in between major plot points actually support what’s going on in the show – instead of degenerating into typical network filler-fare. Filla-fare. Falafel. I’m hungry. Don’t even like falafels.
8. Utilizes its humor equitably and towards positive effects. This may be a minor point – but I enjoy the way in which the show seems to dole out its good-natured knocks equally among any and all ‘victims.’ One episode will end up with Big Bad Republican Jack Donaghy teaching Little Mousy Cleavage Pushin’ Liz Lemon about how to be assertive, strong, and…rich. At the end of the next, Lemon will be scurrying to save Donaghy from some trapping of Red State life. Last week’s episode was particularly indicative of this tendency. Maybe we can all get along after all. (Not really. Ibiteyoureyes.)
9. Not afraid to get weird. Now, I’m not talking about Liz Lemon’s geek-girl characteristics. Geekdom is slowly but surely (ge)eking its way into the mainstream taste. A different subject for a different time. I’m talking more about the occasional ridiculous plot point (cookie jars?) and the occasional one-liner (often delivered by Baldwin) that after the first few episodes started to (thankfully) take the place of your average, run-of-the-mill, cheap…sitcom jokes.
10. I am too hungry to finish this list. Discuss among yourselves. Ibitesomefood.

The Cat’s Meow

The expression “The cat’s meow” is a quaint piece of Americana denoting superlative goodness, perfection, and even sexual desirability. Particularly popular during the Jazz Age, it was said to have been coined first by Thomas Dorgan, a turn-of-the-century cartoonist and possibly the most successful turner-of-phrases eveeeeerrrrrr. (He was also missing a few fingers on one of his hands – this will prove important later in the post).

This past summer a dear friend of mine, in his infinite hospitality, offered to make me a new cocktail he had devised just that day. He called it The Cat’s Meow. Or maybe he called it A Cat’s Meow in which case I was remiss to have not embarrassed him publicly. On the other hand, it may be considered poor form to bite the hand that tends your bar. Regardless, this friend (who constantly uses the non-existent word “irregardless”) introduced me to a tasty libation and I am in his debt.

The Cat’s Meow

Whiskey (amount to be determined according to one’s evening plans and amount of responsibility the following day)

Ginger Ale (nearly top off)

Red Grenadine (one shot)

*Warning: The Cat’s Meow is high in sugar and will most likely leave its owner with a serious hangover.*

Perhaps my attachment to this concoction is due in part to the immediate association I make upon hearing its ingredients. Sing along if you know it:

Brown eyed women and red grenadine/The bottle was dusty but the liquor was clean/Sound of the thunder with the rain pouring down/And it looks like the old man’s gettin’ on

We miss you, Jerry. Good Americana deserves good Americana as company. Now two great Americans who were without all ten fingers and have made significant cultural contributions are forever linked courtesy of alcohol and language. That’s the cat’s meow.

Pro Urbe Seattlo

Once, as a young man, I used to study in dim halls, exerting myself in, clad in toga, among the rocks and lilies and redundant light rail systems which as you all know then were the hallmarks of my city. I would go down to the plain, clad in my own virtue, in one hand wielding a naked gladius, in the other, some choice drink, on my brow, the branch from the Minervan tree, and do battle with words and sword, ever for the honor of the city, the city, the city! Dare I turn my pen now to her defence? Dare I fight the rash of journalistic timidity now rife upon YS, brought about by my arch-rival, a man too cowardly to be named, a base and cruel plebian of the worst sort, the Catilinian? I do and in so doing, join with the Rabbi Doctor, a most notable and most honorable comrade, one worthy of the highest honors that may be rightly given to a barbaros, not only in praising the commonly acknowledged Golden Age that was, but also in looking to strive now in this hard age of iron for manly courage and civic grandeur. In short, let us together eat a peach.

       While faced with grim exile brought about nefarious crimes far too evil to describe, tidings have reached me of my home. Once, in 1995, my city was the fairest gem in the imperium. In those days, gods masqueraded as mortal men upon the basketball court. It be not right, to name them. More storied than the men of Pindar, more virile than Cato the censor, more cultured than Scipio Africanus, these were hard obdurate men carved out off soft Seattle stone. Yet like us, their memory is as naught, long swept away by the grim Parci, who measure out and spin the cords of life into emptiness. Would that such Gods now walked and saw that great evils that men do to their name! Specifically, I  speak of the incident well known to all, in which that madman of a land whose name I dare not utter, because of its unseemly sound, wishes to snatch away all the glory and the praise and manly virtue which has so long embedded itself in the heart of our fair city. For want of what! This man, too greedy and filthy to name, has Greeked away his fortune and his virtue, spending on unholy luxuries and nefarious rites, now wishes to recoup on his investment through the erection of a new stadium. Would that his erection for the unholy would recede! Is he not associated with our laws? Has his reason failed him? Does he not know that the money of our urbs is, by proscription of the optimus maximus, only to be spent upon useless light rail lines? He seeks to hold us hostage with his threats. But, we and they, will not be moved, we are obdurate hard men, the sort who cover ourselves in blood and impregnate our wives once a year. Take your soft, impious, ways from our city. Begone foul scoundrel!  Criminal worse than all that have been conjured through all the years, bringing sedition and destruction to the Populum Seattlorum, begone thou half witted son of a Judean prostitute! We want none of your wheelings and dealings in our city, go out and lose your fortune in ways most fitting to your foolish and lowly pride! Yet, even in that it is necessary for our people to expel this strange and unelegant monster from our midst, it is sad day for our people, to see such a once glorious basketball team fall so low such that they must play in such a location.

…The Bad Ones Just Go on Forever

Although Dash doesn’t exactly believe in goals, one of the original ideas of the word of the day column was to serve as a primer to academic English, to serve as a quasi-mediator between the common parlance of the teeming, toiling American masses (i.e. decepticate, river-v) and the sublime, sub-prime jargon of academia (i.e. deseutude) whilst providing a(n) history of the idiom. To that end, I’ve probably gone astray, becoming the embodiment of Ambrose Bierce’s definition of a lexicographer: “a pestilential fellow who, under the pretense of recording some particular stage in the development of a language, does what can to arrest its growth.”

Certainly I haven’t proven myself to be as good a lexicographer as Bierce who divined this terrific definition of “orphan”:

A living person whom death has deprived of the power of filial ingratitude — a privation appealing with a particular eloquence to all that is sympathetic in human nature. When young the orphan is commonly sent to an asylum, where by careful cultivation of its rudimentary sense of locality it is taught to know its place. It is then instructed in the arts of dependence and servitude and eventually turned loose to prey upon the world as a bootblack or scullery maid. (From The Devil’s Dictionary)

But like the Houston Light Rail, which after struggling through idiotic Houston drivers (video evidence to follow),

has not only gotten approval for major expansion but managed to create a new paradigm for light rail growth (care of the terrific Overhead Wire blog), Dash will hereafter endeavor to palimpsest (verb. trans. to write again…after the original writing has been effaced; to overwrite (an earlier text). Usu. in pass. Also fig) and will return to the occasional practical word.

Today’s word is “encomium.” An encomium is a very high-flown expression of praise, eulogy or panegyric. The word is derived from the greek meaning eulogy, and is was a favourite of Jacques Derrida. There are also two obsolete verbs relating to “encomium.” 1) “encomionize” meaning “To pronounce an encomium upon; to eulogize”; 2) “encomiate”, meaning, “To pronounce an encomium upon; to extol, commend.” That is to say, one encomionizes someone who has passed away, and encomiates someone who is till alive.

So let us now (not) praise famous men and resist the urge to encomiate, but instead encomionize. As the joke goes, “I have come to bury Caesar, not to praise him.” Though Houston might have gotten approval for their plans, given the failure of Houston drivers, it probably would have been better if they had built the monorail, or at least consider elevating some of the light rail.

Zer ver two peanuts, and one vas ‘assaulted’

Akatosh has recently released a tremendous little game, “Washed Ashore,” which you should go play.  The game follows the (mis)adventures of legendary zeppelin commander Wilhelm von Hadenberg, as he seeks to salvage the remains of his command and save his first mate and top engineer, Hindenberg.

Admittedly, Herr Not with a bang. comes to this game with more than a little bit of positive prejudice. Although a native of Chicago and frequent resident of New York City, NWB comes to be such by way of the quaint little town of Kelkheim-Fishbach, und diese Plätze sind mir gleich.  While other members of the Salad gang may be the legitimate heirs to titles of German royalty (no, seriously), NWB maintains his street cred by remaining a staunch Hessian.

While revealing more of the plot of “Washed Ashore” would spoil the creatively anarchic premise of the game, suffice it to say that the plot and its manifold cuteness remains surprising throughout.  The game suffers from a few technical glitches (most acutely from a lack of ‘filler’ dialogue when making less-than-useful moves), but the remarkably cute graphics more than make up for any such shortcomings, including the necessary addition of many of those darling pointed hats.  Go.  Play.  Jetzt.