a thaumaturgical compendium

Hey fellow New Yorkers—this looks like an interesting (free!) talk this Monday…

I’ve been looking a lot at search lately, and revisited Zoominfo, a site that was designed to automatically generate personal profiles based on stuff out on the web. I found mine amusing. It has a few references to me. It claims, for example that I am:

• An Assistant Professor & Grad Director of Informatics at the University at Buffalo. (Dated, but close enough).
• An Assistant Professor at Quinnipiac University. (Bingo.)
• a Founder of Bloglines.
• in a position among a group of mainly Ph.D. students at Maryland.
• dean of the Buffalo-Niagara Partnership.
• a Contributor. To what, we’re not so sure.
• a FAQ, as well.
• Part of the Publication Process at Wikipedia.
• Finally, I am a Reverse Cowgirl at Gawker.

Heck, I’d hire me.

Went to see Michael Moore’s most recent documentary, Sicko, today. I enjoyed the film very much and strongly encourage folks to go out and see it. I was pleasantly surprised by it in a number of ways. In particular, there was some very inspiring stuff in there about democracy and self-rule. You probably have already decided whether you want to like a Moore movie before seeing it, most likely because someone has told you either to like it or not to. My relationship to Moore’s style is complicated, very much love/hate, and so I will tell you to go see it, but leave it up to you whether or not to like it.

In classic teacher/drama geek style, I’ll start with the good. Moore knows how to tell a story. He knows how to draw out its pathos, how to draw the viewers attention, how to exemplify and surprise. He’s the guy who is the life of the party, but is also a little annoying. You know, he’s loud, and a little obnoxious, likes the sound of his own voice, but he seems like a pretty decent guy and you find it hard to dislike him too much.

I detest the sloganistic shallowness of much of Moore’s work. I defy anyone to find a cogent argument in Bowling for Columbine. I agree that it is an entertaining and informing film, but he goes for the jugular, and doesn’t bother making his way up to the frontal cortex. Lots of pathos, light on the logos. Fahrenheit 9/11 follows much the same pattern. A number of critics have come forth to say that Sicko is his most “balanced” film.

I think any examination of the film would suggest it is far from balanced. Perhaps what they mean is that we see a bit less of Moore and his histrionics. Of course, much of his oeuvre has been in the gonzo/Punked! style of uncovering the secret underbelly of… whatever. And when that underbelly isn’t that secret, he still makes it seem so. As such, I’m torn with most of his films. I generally agree with his perspective on political issues, but I hate that he comes to represent the “Voice of the Liberal,” especially because the view presented is so often obviously partisan. With the exception of the flotilla to Gitmo—which seems to be a bit of a nod to his earlier approach—this film comes together more tightly, and far less obnoxiously. In large part, I think that’s because Moore surrenders more of his frame to others’ faces; the audience spontaneously applauded several of Tony Benn’s comments.

But balanced? Hardly. The viewer leaves the theater convinced that universal health care is the obvious choice, that the government should do our laundry for us (yes, really) and that the only reason it hasn’t happened yet is that Big Med is paying off our politicians. I think that’s probably a big part of the story, and I think that it’s vital that we do create some form of universal health coverage in the US. But in order for that to happen, I think people need to understand that there is a trade-off. I recently saw an interview with four anonymous physicians in, I think, New York magazine. Their argument was that unless you are half of a pair of Siamese twins, or otherwise need some miracle cure—in other words, if you are part of 99.9% of the population—you would be better served by a government-sponsored universal health care system than our current mess. Although I am not a fan of big government, I have to agree strongly. The question we are left with is how to do that.

And here’s were we come to the problem with the film. It’s affecting, no doubt: not a dry eye in the house. It’s inspiring, and it’s the kind of inspiration that is hard to come by because it goes to the root of who we are as individuals and as a people. But it is also shallow. Nowhere does Moore talk to anyone who opposes universal health care. Nowhere does he talk about some of the real obstacles to changing our current system, or the difficulties Canada, France, and the UK have had in managing their own health care systems. Of course, Moore’s approach to such people would make it hard to find anyone willing to discuss it with him, but I’m left wanting to hear the arguments against, if only to know how he would refute them.

In the end, if enough people go to see this film, it will raise it to the level of an issue for the presidential campaign, and may force whoever is elected to make some substantial change in how health care is handled in the US. In the best of worlds, I think the film could do that. As a film, it’s really quite good—entertaining and engaging. But there remains some part of me that gives that praise grudgingly, knowing that it is more screed than cogent argument.

We live with a Mastiff, named Finnegan, who is just now five years old. He’s generally a well-behaved, gentle, and playful dog, but he does tend to lunge at other dogs sometimes, and at skateboards. So, we decided to get professional help in the form of a trainer. We had our first session on Friday, and while she was great with the dog, I don’t think she was quite prepared for the celebrity status the Finn tends to attract in the neighborhood. A walk, particularly during busy times out on Broadway, is likely to attract throngs of admirers. To that end, we’ve thought about printing up a T-shirt for him to wear, with the following facts:

• No, I’m not a St. Bernard, or a Great Dane, or even a Bull Mastiff. I’m just a Mastiff, or an “English Mastiff” if you prefer.

• Beethoven: no. Sandlot: yes. Cujo: no. Turner & Hooch: not quite. Clifford: no. Mudge: yes. Hound of the Baskervilles: half right.

• 205 lbs, give or take.

• Yes, very friendly, and quite slobbery.

• About 4 cups of dry food a day—so not as much as you might think.

• 5 years old, and yes, that’s middle aged.

• “Madigan’s Fearless Finnegan,” or “The Finn,” or just “Finn.”

• No, I don’t live in a giant apartment, but I don’t need one, and I love living in the city.

• “Put a saddle on him”? Oh, very nice. Well played. Will have to remember that one. You know, in case some miracle occurs and I never hear it again.

• No, despite what your mother is telling you, I will not eat you if you are bad. (I may eat her, though, because I don’t like her much.)

• No, I’m not available for studding for your dog-fighting operation. No, really, I mean it, I am not even properly outfitted any more. Besides, my temperament swings way closer to “lover,” or barring that, “lounger.”

• Yes, actually, I do know that I am descended from the Alaunt and Molosser, that I was a Roman War Dog, and guarded English estates, and that the largest recorded dog was also an English Mastiff—but thanks for the reminder. (It amazes me how encyclopedic some people’s knowledge on this subject is, especially those who don’t look like they would have any interest in the topic.)

Just a quick note: a thaumaturgical compendium is still officially endorsing Obama in 08. However, if we end up with a different Democratic nominee, I would be interested in seeing what a newly independent Bloomberg has to say about the presidency. He already has his campaign tagline, to counter Guliani’s constant references to 9/11: “Stop worrying, get a life.” Maybe it’s time for a centrist third-party (or non-party) candidate.

On the rare occasion that it comes up, I’ve always called them “sexed” quotes, but it seems I get a lot of funny looks when I do. So I turned to the oracle and found little to defend that use. Wikipedia’s article refers to them variously as “book quotes,” “curved quotes,” “curly quotes,” and, presumably thanks to Microsoft Word, “smart quotes.”

That’s not to say that there are no references to “sexed quotes.” That phrase draws 48 hits from Google, and “sexed quotation marks,” returns 6 hits. Does anyone know the source of the term? I know I didn’t imagine it. It must have been a teacher or editor somewhere along the line who used that phrase, and it stuck with me. But it may just be that I am a typographical pervert.

Today the block is once again surrounded by trailers: they’re going to be spending the better part of the next few weeks filming Titanic II in my building. It’s funny, I spent a lot of time in southern California, and rarely saw movie stars, and in New York they come to my house.

I also kind of get why it is that people become attached to their buildings in New York. I’ve lived in a lot of places, and although some had a kind of a backstory—the former Navy barracks in Seattle, the former crack house in Buffalo—most lacked any kind of character. This is a 1929 building; not all that old by New York standards, but you do get a bit of the feeling of that history.

We don’t have doormen any more, since the doors are electric (leading to all sorts of interesting problems for our conservative Jewish residents), but we have “concierges.” Frank, our oldest concierge, retired last week after working here for 60 years. When he left, he gave a short talk, the text of which was left in the lobby. As part of that talk, he reminisced about some of the people who had lived in the building: actors, writers, musicians. It seems some people have been living here since the building was built, and are probably paying rent that seemed steep in the late 1940s. Some of the folks in the building are mythically old—Yoda old.

As for the rest, it’s the mix you might expect on the Upper West Side. Several professors and lawyers, as well as some writers. Next door is an opera teacher, and on weekends we hear arias. Sometimes these are in conflict with the musicals being practiced in two of our other neighbors’ apartments. As far as I know, we’re the only apartment on our floor without a piano.

It’s a bit strange getting used to living in the city. We lived for a short while on Capitol Hill in Seattle, a block from the main strip, and at the time, it felt pretty urban. This so trumps that. When I took the job up in Connecticut, I made a pitch for living half-way between, so that Jamie and I could split commutes. In practice, Jamie already had the long commute—in Japan she spent even longer on the train than I spend on my back-and-forth—and so now it’s my turn. Besides, this is the sort of place that we knew we liked right away, and has, over the last two years (!), started to feel familiar and, well, homey.

At this point, I think it would be hard to get us to move anywhere in the US besides New York City, back to California, or over to Hawaii.