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Ethel the Blog
Observations (and occasional brash opining) on science, computers, books, music and other shiny things that catch my mind's eye. There's a home page with ostensibly more permanent stuff. This is intended to be more functional than decorative. I neither intend nor want to surf on the bleeding edge, keep it real, redefine journalism or attract nyphomaniacal groupies (well, maybe a wee bit of the latter). The occasional cheap laugh, raised eyebrow or provocation of interest are all I'll plead guilty to in the matter of intent. Bene qui latuit bene vixit.

The usual copyright stuff applies, but I probably won't get enraged until I find a clone site with absolutely no attribution (which, by the way, has happened twice with some of my other stuff). Finally, if anyone's offended by anything on this site then please do notify me immediately. I like to keep track of those times when I get something right.

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Thursday, February 22, 2001

MOAB IS MY WASHPOT
The verbal pyrotechnics found in
Stephen Fry's autobiography Moab is My Washpot should come as no surprise to anyone familiar with his appearances in Jeeves and Wooster, A Bit of Fry and Laurie and Wilde (with my personal favorite probably the haircut sketch in the Bit of Fry and Laurie video). A hallmark and highlight of the book is Fry's frequent brief and not-so-brief digressions, with one early one involving music. After whinging on for a few pages about his inability to swim any better than a brick, he allows that while this might be annoying, a worse matter is "God's unforgivable cruelty in denying me the gift of music." He then launches into a soliloquy about music being the deepest of the arts:
Sculptures are either figuratively representative or physically limited by their material, which is actual and palpable. The words in poems are referential, they breathe with denotation and connotation, suggestion and semantics, coding and signing. Paint is real stuff and the matter of painting contains itself in a frame. Music, in the precision of its form and the mathematical tyranny of its laws, escapes into an eternity of abstraction and an absurd sublime that is everywhere and nowhere at once. The grunt of rosin-rubbed catgut, the saliva-bubble blast of a brass tube, the sweaty-fingered squeak on a guitar fret, all that physicality, all that clumsy "music-making," all that grain of human performance, so much messier than the artfully patinated pentimenti or self-conscious painterly mannerism of the sister arts, transcends itself at the moment of its happening, that moment when music actually becomes, as it makes the journey from the vibrating instrument, the vibrating hi-fi speaker, as it sends those vibrations across to the human tympanum and through to the inner ear and into the brain, where the mind is set to vibrate to frequencies of its own making.
Later, sneaky Fry enters the headmaster's study to pinch a stamp and discovers the results of an intelligence test recently taken by the entire school. His name at the top inspires a lengthy philosophical detour into the meaninglessness of such things as a true measure of a person's abilities, with the following nicely balanced paragraph serving to finish off the digression:
I"m the last person on earth to bear with equanimity that kind of homespun anti-intellectual who blaters on about nous, gumption, common sense and the University of Life - "you see, they're all very well these Oxbridge-educated so-called intellectuals but have you ever seen them trying to boil a tyre or change an egg...?" - and all that pompous bum-wash, but, awful as such attitudes are they are no worse than the eugenic snobbery of those who believe that the ability to see the word "carthorse" scrambled in the word "orchestra" or to name every American state in alphabetical order raises them above the level of the average twitcher, trainspotter or drippy word-game funster.
Scattered amongst the digressions are several passages about Fry's family, his public school years, his realizing why he really liked the novels of Ronald Firbank and Norman Douglas, and the influences that made Fry the actor and writer what he was and is. On the latter:
Whether we are the sum of influences or the sum of influences added to the sum of genes, I know that the way I express myself, the words I choose, my tone, my style, my language is a compound which would be utterly different, utterly, utterly different if I had never been exposed to any one of Vivian Stanshall, P. G. Wodehouse or Conan Doyle. Later on the cadences, tropes, excellences and defects of other writers and their rhetorical tricks, Dickens, Wilde, Firbank, Waugh and Benson, may have entered in and joined the mix, but those primal three had much to do with the way I spoke and, therefore, how I thought. Not how I felt but how I thought, if indeed I ever though outside of language.
Leaving aside that last bit cleverly alluding to Mr. Sapir and Mr. Whorf, I have to say that a chap would have a hard time finding a better set of primary influences. I'll let the unlucky few who've not yet discovered the late Mr. Stanshall discover him at their leisure.

My only real gripe with the book is that Fry cuts us off after 364 pages AT THE FUCKING AGE OF 20!!!! CRIKEY!!! That's right, not a single word about the years during which he did what made him famous. He even baits us with a picture of he and Hugh Laurie playing chess in the brief picture section, but the only other mention Hugh gets is in a disgression about humor. Ah well, Fry's a wordy bastard what with all the comedy writing, the three novels, and this obviously first part of his autobio. We can all look forward to further volumes, among which I'm sure there'll be another volume or two of autobio. Perhaps he's taking quantitative aim at Osbert Sitwell's "Left Hand, Right Hand," although given the relative sizes of the typefaces in the versions I have, Fry's at least six volumes away from passing Osbert. As to quality, I'll give Osbert the edge for now, although, should Fry survive as long, he'll be giving the Ozter a good run for his money.
posted by Steven Baum 2/22/2001 08:01:48 PM | link

Wednesday, February 21, 2001

WORD TO YOUR BANKER
Leave it to those silver-tongued devils at
Counterpunch to get in the best comments about the latest "Evil Pop Star of the Century of the Week" pseudo-controversy:
In other words, it's not about making music, expressing the condition of the alienated working class in Detroit, but about making money. Eminem said this precisely in his attack on Napster. He's marketing hate to kids for money. It's that simple and not that different in kind from tobacco advertising - which could be defended on artistic and 1st amendment grounds as well, and indeed has been by the tobacco industry's hired guns.

Eminem's lyrics are a kind of premeditated infantilism, but not a healthy regression toward the polymorphous perverse, but a summons to the thanatic impulse, a call for division, repression, an invocation of the very forces that have divided the working class for decades. He serves the interests of the State. The idea that Eminem might be "censored" is a ruse, and a tired one, and an insult to those who have truly been censored. Cross the powerful, question the System and you risk censorship, lawsuits, SLAPP suits, beatings, harassment or worse. As long as Eminem remains a whore for the corporations, he will continue to accumulate wealth and be shielded from the censors of the state. And he is a corporate mercenary, whether it's flacking for Nike or for the music industry's trade association, the Recording Industry Association of America.

Although rock and/or roll and its associated "rebellion" overtones have been effectively assimilated by corporate interests since Bill Haley first rocked around the clock, I like to imagine the final nail in the coffin being the moment we started laughing at the Who for becoming a beer commercial rather than with them about their "The Who Sell Out" album.

As for real musical rebellion, Billie Holiday's first public performance of Strange Fruit was a bolder and more dangerous moment than anything I can recall rock or rap ever producing.
posted by Steven Baum 2/21/2001 10:31:25 PM | link

LIES, DAMNED LIES AND STATISTICAL GRAPHICS
The
Gallery of Data Visualization offers examples of the best and worst of statistical graphics. The good categories are:
  • Historical Milestones, a collection of graphical displays considered "breathtaking in information design and artistic beauty" including Henry Minard's classic depiction of Napoleon's 1815 march on Moscow called the "best statistical graph ever drawn" by Edward Tufte
  • Bright Ideas, the first identified appearances of effective graphical techniques now considered common, e.g. boxplots, bagplots, hanging rootograms, scatterplot matrices, etc.
  • Graphical Excellence, examples of seemingly cluttered graphics that use all the extra details to paint a lucid rather than an obfuscatory picture
  • Visual Delights, a collection of particularly pleasing non-statistical visual explanations including cheese and bread maps of France
The bad categories are:
  • The Lie Factor, graphs wherein the representation of numbers on the surface of the graph are not directly proportional to the actual quantities
  • Goosed-Up Graphics, making things appear better than they really are by fiddling with the scales of the graph
  • Missed Opportunities, graphs that might have made a big difference if done better, e.g. a graph showing O-ring test results before the Challenger disaster
  • Context: Compared to What?, graphs that mislead by showing data out of context
  • Something to Say, a graph Tufte considers to be the worst graphic ever to find its way into print

posted by Steven Baum 2/21/2001 03:04:32 PM | link


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