The Future Is (Almost) Now

Given the rate at which technology advances, it seems likely that in about five years somebody is going to have to blast this thing with an RPG until it falls into an open vat of molten steel:

Baseball, You Are a Little Bit Weird

This is certainly a topic for a longer post at another time, but it is worth pointing out that baseball is kind of a strange sport. I have often [stolen my dad's theory and totally failed to credit him when I have] hypothesized that if baseball had invented and introduced as a new sport today, it would not possibly draw major public interest. Wait, I'm supposed to get excited about the outcome of a single contest that makes up only 1/162nd of a team's season? And a 1-0 score represents the height of excitement? And the statistical analysis necessary to truly understand the game requires advanced degrees in both Quantum Mathematics and American History?

Again, this is not to say I don't like baseball, per se, but even the die-hardest fans out there have to admit that it is a little bit weird. To wit:

A sport that inspires this brand of statistical curiosity - and yields these strange results, no matter how explicable they seem to be - is not operating within the bounds of traditional athletic inquiry.

Inner Monologue Squasher

You know that voice inside your head that tells you what you need to be doing at a given moment and provides you with motivation to do it? I'm not talking about the voice that dictates large moral decisions, reminding you not to cheat on your wife or that puppies are not appropriate for making into stew. I mean the voice (or level of consciousness or line of thought, call it what you will) that tells you not to eat six more cookies, or that it would be a good idea to take five minutes and respond to that e-mail your mother sent you a week ago, or that yes, the emotional benefit you'll receive from finally grading that stack of papers far outweighs the actual hassle of grading them. It's the voice that turns a moment back in a civil direction, ("Don't be an a-hole right now, okay?"), that gets you going ("Get up and clean out the gutters already.") and that pushes a little further ("Come on, do one more mile").

This is a good voice, one of simplicity and truth. This is not a nag ("Sure, you vacuumed, but you didn't dust the bookshelves.") or a martyr ("Your sacrifices are amazing but nobody appreciates them!") or a glutton ("You deserve six more cookies, come on."). It is a voice that knows, crystal clearly, what the obvious, healthy, correct choice is for the next moment.

It is my belief that television silences and suffocates that voice more effectively than any other non-addictive substance in the known universe. Television is designed to do one thing: make you want to watch more television. This is not to say that the TV is evil, because it isn't. You need that release, that brainmelt, or you'll go crazy. The voice knows this, and because it is a good voice, it will not condemn you for turning on the TV. What it will do, however, is whisper quietly that at some point soon, that TV should probably get turned off because there are better things to do. Thus, television must silence the voice or face an existence punctuated by long, lonely silences inside the cabinet. The TV does not want moderation or thoughtfulness or simplicity or truth. It wants attention.

So how to have them both? Can you heed the voice and enjoy the television? I say yes, but I've just outlined a debate that is going on between an inanimate object and a voice inside my head, so maybe you'll want to consult other authorities. My answer, as with nearly everything except breathing, lies in moderation. Listen to the voice when it tells you to get off your ass and go find life.

Art

There is at this moment someone crying hysterically just down the hall from my office. I can hear her clearly. I would be concerned about this except that in all likelihood she's just practicing. I love being in a performing arts building. Never a dull moment. Two days ago I actually walked down the hall to check on an apparent shouting match between two people, complete with shrieks of emotional anguish from the woman, only to find that it was two students rehearsing a scene. Moments like these are complemented by the acting classes that take place one floor above me. There is nothing quite like listening to twenty undergrads do vocal warm-ups (ME-ME-ME-ME-ME-MAAAAAAAAA! ME-ME-ME-ME-ME-MAAAAAAAAA! OH NO, DON'T GOOOOO! OH NO, DON'T GOOOOOO! ) and stomping in unison on the floor in the middle of the day. Good stuff.

Follow-up on the above, ten minutes later: I walked down the hall to get some water to find that the person practicing hysterically crying was, in fact, actually hysterically crying. So now I feel bad. She was working through "an artistic process" of some kind. I didn't ask too many in-depth questions.