Virtual Flaneurism

I read an article a month or two ago about the physiology of how we enjoy music. The article (which is lost to time, so you'll just have to trust my recollection, and that the article exists at all) suggested that your brain releases serotonin or some other pleasure-inducing hormone twice for each bit of music you hear. The first release comes from the act of "predicting" the note/chord/progression about to occur, and the second release comes in reaction to your "prediction" being right.

This makes a lot of sense, considering what music is most popular. Many popular songs involve more generic chord progressions that follow easy to follow patterns, which are therefore easier to predict and would more easily elicit hormone releases. This also explains why tone deaf people wouldn't enjoy music -- they can't "hear" the tones correctly, so their brains fail at or elect to avoid "predicting" outright, meaning they get no pleasure from music.

Like most things, I would imagine some of us are better at deducing future notes than others. This may explain varieties in musical taste, like jazz, which I imagine would be more complicated to predict. It also would touch on why some people may dislike pop music, which is generally simpler and would, for someone with more skill in predicting upcoming tones, pose an underwhelming challenge.

I like this idea; it means that listening to music is an active experience, and somewhat akin to solving a puzzle. Your brain works to figure out what tone logically comes next, and derives pleasure from being right. Amusingly, in this scenario, your brain is a smug and self-satisfied ass who enjoys music because it's good at listening to it.

I just returned from a house road trip to Tennessee, where I caught the LSU v. UT game and did my best to blend in as a local despite being a yankee 'mo. This would have worked better had I not attempted to stir up the proud "Rocky Top" locals by chanting, "GO BIG TOP, GO BIG TOP, WOOO, I LOVE BIG TOP," into the stands.

Something I find absolutely perplexing is many people's - including my friends - insistence that any music listened to be contemporary as possible. As someone who grew up with a tone deaf brother and parents who adored music, I've spent the majority of my life listening to oldies, and, as a consequence, have very different music taste than most people I know. I just got off fourteen hours of road trip which, while delightful, was stuffed full of meaningless rap blather.

I guess my main confusion is over rap lyrics. I don't mind rap in general, but I really find nothing impressive about an atonal rant about rape (read: Eminem) or constant blathering about sex (Kanye manages to underwhelm with startling randomness: "Have you ever had sex with a pharaoh?/Put the pussy in a sarcophagus/Now she claimed that I bruised her esophagus/Head of the class and she just wanted a swallowship." Not only are these lyrics unimaginative and bizarre, but at their best they make zero sense). Anyway, rap music has always confused me. I can do hip hop, as at least there's thoughtful wordplay, but rap blows my mind. I'd rather have some simple lyrics over some purposeful harmonies.

tl;dr: I have little respect for a song just because it is "fresh," nor do I understand most people's appreciation for the Babelfish mishmash that is most things Kanye West. Moving on.

I love this song, but the line, "I changed 'stranger' into 'starman' in the Sunday New York Times," always bugged the hell out of me. Stranger has eight letters, while starman has seven. They are not interchangeable in a crossword. Think this shit through, Aimee.

Today is my birthday - my twenty fifth, no less - and I'm in class all day. Ho hum.

I'm having one of those Mondays Tuesdays where, having done absolutely nothing productive the entire weekend, I am attempting to survive a manic e-mailing high and doing my best not to tweak myself right out of my pants. Solution? Listening to Aimee Mann music and hoping she can settle the internet-infused adrenaline darting through my veins.

I swear, if I were a coffee drinker, someone might be dead right now.

I worked out an art project over the past three days. It involved paint, which is the medium I am least comfortable with, though I balanced my inexperience by using a stencil and some other art tricks I'm more familiar with. I took a handful of pictures throughout the process to give you an idea of how I made the final product, and some of the snags I met along the way.

This part of the project was the easiest: I bought some cheap black paint at Rite Aid and covered an old canvas with it. I was actually very pleased -- the inexpensive paint has absolutely no sheen and created a nicely unobtrusive backdrop for the acrylic paint I'd be using for the foreground.

Using poster board, I made my stencil. It's a D.C. flag, for those who don't know. I actually made a separate stencil of the star so that (1) they'd be the same shape and (2) I could get them the appropriate size without worrying about freehanding it three times.

Then I taped the stencil down with masking tape. Having actually painted with stencils before, I knew that paint would get under the edges unless they were all taped down. This part actually took the longest, as I tried to very carefully tape a thin line along the star's edges.

Then I painted! Acrylic paint. Blending acrylics is something I'm still working on -- and getting the paint think enough that the black background did not show through took a bit more than I'd expected, especially with the yellow.

Peeled off the tape, and voila! Or I wish. Lessons learned: (1) Masking tape, while meant to mask, can and will peel off base paint. Beware; (2) Acrylic paints dries very differently than oil-based or watercolors, and forms something resembling hard plastic. This hard substance will, if painted over tape, sometimes adhere to the tape and not the canvas. So, touch ups were necessary. No worries, though -- the touch ups went pretty well, and I was able to steady my palsied hands to keep the brushes steady.

Anyway, art projects ahoy. Class on Monday, so this may be the last arty farty thing I get to do for a bit.

Last weekend I popped down to New York City for a hot second to go to a Paul McCartney concert at Yankee Stadium with my parents. The concert was fantastic - there were fireworks, drunk-looking children, a cameo from a surprisingly sober Billy Joel - but for my mother's decision to lean in to me during "Let Me Roll It" and whispered, "You know what this beat is good for." Then she prodded my father and made an "Mhhhhmmmm!" noise that carried so much undertone that the sound of it will haunt my nightmares until the day I die.

The following video is certainly nothing new; while Aaron Sorkin is a master of compelling dialogue (or here, monologue), the speech he gives Martin Sheen is merely a rehash of the general warn-out arguments against relying on the Bible to justify homophobia. And despite the fact that it very precisely picks apart why this reliance is hypocritical and illogical, the video itself is the antithesis of cathartic. There is no pleasure in watching Sheen expertly slam this uber-conservative because we know that his points aren't landing. While Sorkin may have written his Ann Coulter amalgam as embarrassed and considering repentance, the viewer knows better: using logic to try and sway the opinions of those who celebrate their unreasonableness is the equivalent of bringing a knife to a gunfight.

As someone who thinks of himself as very logical, it is mind-boggling to me that some people actually choose ignorance. What goes through the minds of a person like the woman in this video when they face arguments not that they are necessarily wrong, but irrationally inconsistent? I assume they can understand the absurdity of condemning one practice prohibited in a book while completely ignoring another mere pages away. The only conclusion I can reach is that they don't think about it, don't care to reflect on the things they believe or their consistancy. And someone who doesn't think about what he or she believes is not someone who will ever be swayed by logic, written with punch by Aaron Sorkin or otherwise.

It is because of this underlying sense of futility that this video is strangely unsatisfying. Even more, it is troublesome: how do you co-exist with people who do not respond to logic? How can you open a dialogue and try to, at the very least, seek a compromise? The worrisome part, I think, is that you can't. And that is why people like Sarah Palin, Rick Santorum and Herman Cain are terrifying prospects for president: not because we disagree, but because the stances they take are arbitrary and their stubborness unflinching. They are the embodiment of a different kind of Big Brother, one that does not necessarily silence you through censorship, but through their self-imposed blindness to the dialogue going on all around them.

Anyway, watch the video, relish the points, and shout out loud if you disagree with any of the rambling above.

This is how I avoided studying the other day:

Shut Up, Bitch. My Mama's a Star

I just spent too fucking long writing a story for a party invite and not studying to leave that shit in an e-mail, so I present to you, THE DARTY -- A HISTORY:

For those of you with a healthy liver and a penchant for being lame as shit, a quick answer to the question: a darty is a party held during the day. While many believe that "darty" is a mere portmanteau of the words "day" and "party", the most reputable scholars of liquistory insist on a very different truth. In fact, the derivation of "darty" is a sordid tale deeply entwined in American history, righteous feminism and the beginnings of the gay sex movement. This important piece of history unfolded as follows:

Imagine the White House in 1810. Now, if you're thinking of the pillared, egg-white McMansion perched at 1600 Penn today, you're an ignorant slut who clearly blew her way through American History. I'm talking about the original White House, a three story bordello more closely resembling a skanked-out Choate than the seat of American Government. This shit stood tall and proud until 1814, when British invaders tweaking hard on Chinese opium and struggling to see straight after years of impassioned inbreeding burnt the shit out of D.C.. This, you should know, was because Americans looted Toronto. That's like setting fire to the Met because someone took a dump on the counter at your local 7-11.

Back in 1810, James Madison is our illustrious president. In those days, a time with no televisions, cat videos or poppers, there was quite literally nothing to do during the day but inspire civil unrest and sleep with your female slaves. Having already written the ILLEST CONSTITUTION KNOWN TO MAN, Madison thought it was his due to get hot and heavy down on the plantation Monday through Friday -- and sometimes on the Lord's day if it/he wasn't blistering. This left poor blue-balled Dolley Madison all alone in that gigantic cock-block of a house day in and day out. A good puritan shiksah, Dolley kept it classy, even though Alexander Hamilton was trolling for her like she was one of the Billy Goats Gruff.

But Dolley was no saint. You see, if you couldn't be stiffing the help and you were too fucking illiterate (read: female) to be quill-deep in some boss pamphlet drafting, a lady had to find something to do. Ever resourceful, Dolley laid claim to a ten by ten swatch of crab grass right outside of Thomas Jefferson's first floor manscaping parlor (there were three throughout the house). Within weeks, a majestic cherry gazebo appeared, complete with a large round table and a half dozen baller-ass wicker chairs. Here, Dolley planned, she would get her chill on.

Dolley was a hostess mindful of her duty, but she was no stupid bitch. Invites to meet in her gazebo went out to only the most elite of the Washingtonian housefraus. Clearly Abigal Adams was first on her list, a bi-polar alcoholic who could always be relied on to get the party started by accidentally lighting a brush fire or killing one of the house cats by riding it like Paul Revere. John Jay was invited, a rip-roaring dandy who was most famous at the Continental Congress for demanding the infantryman uniforms be made of "the fiercest of taffeta" and "lift and separate amongst the buttocks." Last but certainly not least was Mr. Samuel Adams, brother in-law of Abigail and notorious for starting the War of 1812 by stirring up the best appletinis east of Indian Territory -- a direct threat to the British Isles, who had been known world-over for making the best pussy drinks around. Martha Washington was considered, but everyone agreed that she was a frigid teetotaling bitch who would spend the afternoon making the group uncomfortable with thinly veiled complaints about how George's sexual appetites left her regularly pulling splinters from her thighs.

Here began the first "dolley", a daily boozarama named after its ravishing hostess and one of the most fabulous events of its day. With two empty chairs left at the table, a wide range of guests made their way through Dolley's gazebo. Lewis and Clark spent a shit-show of a week tanked on absinthe, drunkenly agreeing on Friday to a race to the West Coast where the loser, "willt have thine testicles scalped in the way of the Sioux." John Hancock had a notorious two day stint at the table, angrily storming across the lawn halfway through the Tuesday's 3 o'clock power hour after a furious debate with Samuel Adams about what the size of his signature implied about his penis length (Adams insisted on the table referring to him thenceforth as "John Halfcock"). John Jay often stirred up a series of unnamed gentlemen, unnamed not because they're names have been lost to time but because he'd picked them up at the Navy Yard Pier and per his taste spoke absolutely no English. It was one particular Chinese gentlemen - a man who Jay introduced to the group as Mister Bottoms - who changed the name of the Dolley forever. It was he who pronounced it "darrey", a tic in translation that the ethnocentric assholes in the Gazebo thought too fucking hilarious not to repeat (but don't worry: Jay apologized to Mr. Bottoms in his own way -- they didn't call him a Founding Father for nothing). It was not until the Irish, a people whose very religion is based upon maintaining of a good daytime buzz, got a hold of the event that the "dorrey" was unceremoniously plowed by a phallic and ragingly Catholic "t". That day, the darty as we know it was born.

I just spotted this sweater at a bar, and convinced the owner to trade me his sweater for my own with the promise of some cash in return.

Please do not ask how much I paid to be the owner of this most glorious of hipster shirts. I am glad for the purchase despite the expense. And, as always, I am willing to expend cash for a great, sweater-laden story.

Plus, this is the Lee Carvallo's Putting Challenge Sweater, I swear to god.

I've been chugging through my house's most recent selection for our book club, Everything is Illuminated. I was struck by a certain passage tonight. It contains no spoilers and goes as follows:

"Do you like thinking about Mom?
No.
Does it hurt after?
Yes.
Then why do you continue to do it? she asked. And why, she wondered, remembering the description of her rape, do we pursue it?"

This lingered with me: why do we somewhat fanatically revisit the memories of lost loves that give us pain? I don't find my wandering mind returning to a bad smell or a bitter taste. I don't continually relive stubbed toes and broken bones. And while I realize the difference between the simple, nonpartisan agony of a punched gut and the what-was-is-no-more despair of reflecting on something once good, I nonetheless find it peculiarly anti-evolutionary that we compulsively return to agonizing thoughts as if they contained some veiled lesson waiting to be gleaned. God knows I can't think of one thing I've learned from ten years of on-and-off lament over the men that got away other than to avoid them altogether. And genetics says a compulsive habit resulting in a "I can do fine fucking myself, thank you" attitude is about as likely to get passed on as a penchant for eating live bees.

Anyway, here's one of my favorite depressing Beatles songs. Also, don't mind me -- I've been figuratively man-menstruating for a few days now and there's only so much Aimee Mann can do before the moodiness tumbles over onto the blog. Count yourself lucky that I was waxing philosophical and not posting a polemic about love or badgers or something.

Given that I hit my year blogoversary the other day, I thought I'd give you some geographical facts about visitors to the blog. Why? Because it interests me, that's why.

In the past year, VF has had visitors from 65 countries, representing each of the six normal, non-penguin laden continents. The top ten countries were:

1. USA
2. Canada
3. Chile
4. Brazil
5. UK
6. Germany
7. France
8. Taiwan
9. Australia
10. Italy

Looking at at that list, I have to wonder why my humor appeals only to Eurocentric nationalities. I thought that the cat videos would get me hits from South Korea at the very least. I'm going to blame internet blockage for this discrepancy. Shame on you, China. Let your people see children fall down! It is the democratic way.

Let's move a little closer: to America.

First, let me send out a big eat it to Hawaii and North Dakota. Every state got its shit together this year and had one of their residents look at my damn blog -- except for you two.

Hawaii I'll cut some slack - as I stated above, apparently I don't appeal to the Eastern sense of humor. Plus Hawaii's like really, really far away (that matters for the internet, right?). But North Dakota? What on earth could people in North Dakota have been doing that got in the way of visiting this blog? I'm going to blame it on computer illiteracy due to mass inbreeding and move on.

Our top ten states (and enclaves, since D.C. is at the tippity top of the list):

1. D.C.
2. New York
3. Virginia
4. Texas
5. California
6. Maryland
7. Pennsylvania
8. Illinois
9. Ohio
10. Delaware

I am perfectly satisfied by the Mid-Atlantic tilt of this top ten. Seriously, do I have a demographic or what? Kisses to you, my longitudinally middling brethren. We have been unfairly lodged between a hick/yankee war for too long. Let us meet at the Bennigans and rejoice in our splendor.

Finally, U.S. Cities. Don't get your hopes up, Duluth.

1. Washington, D.C.
2. New York, NY
3. Austin, TX
4. Arlington, VA
5. Ft. Myer, VA
6. East Syracuse, NY
7. Takoma Park, MD
8. Columbus, OH
9. Herndon, VA
10. Bear, DE

Things I learned from this list: There is apparently a place in America called Bear. Also, diverse Virginians love sassy cats.

I apologize for this post. It's just a half post, though! It doesn't really count.

Don't worry, more poop jokes and cats to come.

I've got a new ass-grabbingly good-looking recipe for you today, my little piglets. Feast your eyes on the Pie-La Deen:

Pie-La Deen

Mac & Cheese Pie Studded with Deep-Fried Mac & Cheese Balls with a Lattice Bacon Top

Makes one 9" deep pie or 10" regular pie

for pastry:
2 cups flour
1/4 tspn salt
6 oz. extra sharp cheddar cheese, coarsely grated
2/3 cup butter, cold and cut into cubes
1 Tbspn tabasco sauce
5 Tbspn ice water

1. Combine the flour and salt in a bowl.
2. Using a pastry cutter, cut in the grated cheddar cheese and cold butter into the flour until the size of small peas.
3. Gradually add the tabasco sauce and the ice water one tablespoon at a time until, when you press the dough between your fingers, it holds together. Do not overmix!
4. Wrap the dough in parchment paper or plastic wrap and chill for at least 1 hour.
5. Preheat oven to 425 degrees F.
6. Remove the dough from the refrigerator roll it out, about 1/8" thick. Place the dough into the pie plate and crimp the edge. Using a fork, pierce the bottom of the crust several times.
7. If the dough has become soft from rolling, place the prepared pie plate in the freezer for about 5-10 minutes.
9. Line the inside of the pie crust with parchment paper and fill with pie weights or dry beans.
10. Bake for 15-17 minutes, then remove from oven. Remove the beans and parchment paper and line the edge of the pie crust with foil. Return to the oven for 5-7 more minutes until the crust is golden. Remove. Keep the oven on.

For filling and topping:
mac'n'cheese*
seven deep-fried mac'n'cheese balls
bacon

11. Spread a layer of mac'n'cheese at the bottom of the pie. Top with the seven deep-fried mac'n'cheese balls and fill the pie with the remaining mac'n'cheese.
12. Create a lattice top with bacon, making sure to cut the bacon strips long, since they will shrink in the oven.
13. Return to the 425 degree oven for about 8-10 minutes until the bacon is cooked. Remove.
14. Serve with hot sauce and maple syrup. (or don't, because that's fucking weird)

*PERSONAL INTERLUDE FROM YOUR VIRTUAL FLANEURISM HOST:

In a recipe blog EPIC FAIL, this run-down for how to make mac 'n cheese pie includes no explanation for how to make mac 'n cheese. I imagine they don't expect you to be boiling up a pot of Kraft Scooby Doo Easy Mac, so I'm going to be a nice guy and share with you my fatty shit-show version of mac 'n cheese. Be frightened by the fact that I have made this recipe so very often that I have it memorized. Be further frightened by the IMMINENT EXCESSIVE CALORIES NOM NOM NOM:

CHEESUS CHRIST THIS IS GOOD MAC 'N CHEESE RECIPE

Ingredients:

- 1 lbs or more (it doesn't matter as long as there is enough cheese sauce) of the fanciest-shaped noodles you can find. Any pasta will do, but do you really want to be that guy serving fucking elbow macaroni? Be a boss and buy some fancy ass orecchiette shells.
- 5 tbsp. butter
- 1 1/2 cups flour
- 1 1/2 cups heavy cream
- 1 cup buttermilk
- 16 oz. medium or sharp cheddar
- 16 oz. of any block cheese your sweet little face desires (I suggest making this recipe a few times and trying a variety - pepper jack is good, as is gruyere (or its slutty cousin swiss). Cheeses similar to cheddar are all fine and good but won't do anything to mix up the flavor).
- A handful of sea or kosher salt. We're talking big grains.
- OPTIONAL: bacon pieces, fried onions, garlic salt, chili pepper, your tongue in the bowl

Note: I should share that I invariably botch this recipe every time I attempt it and it still comes out fork-licking tasty. Namely, I decide to make mac 'n cheese when I'm on the phone with my mother at the store, fail to pay attention to anything I'm buying, and come home with half & half and whipping cream instead of the above mentioned milk products. It doesn't matter. The only proviso I'd make is this: if you can't find buttermilk, add a quarter cup or so of vinegar to whatever cow juice you do buy. Problem solved, buckaroo.

1. Melt butter in saucepan. Whisk in flour and stir until slightly browned.
2. Add in dairy products. Bring to boil while whisking vigorously. Or sort of half-assed. I assume you're dancing to some BritBrit, so why don't you just whisk to the beat.
3. Oops, you forgot to cook the pasta. Follow the box instructions, fool.
4. Pour in the many grated cheeses. Stir until they melt and join with the milk products. Bitch, look at you! You just made a rue. That's like half of the French naturalization exam right there.
5. Add the salt and whatever extra crap your fat ass decided to include in this recipe. Bacon is a must unless you're a vegetarian, in which case I suggest you get the hell out of my kitchen.
6. Stir in the fancy pasta.
7. Mange, mon frere. This makes literally a shit ton of pasta, so you probably are going to want to share/buy larger pants. Your choice.

The rumor mill is saying that the Yale Law School Library has recently made a hypoallergenic border terrier available to students for 30 minute reserved play sessions. His name is General Montgomery, shortened to Monty the Therapy Dog for efficiency.

I am beyond envious: why aren't my tuition dollars going toward the adopting of precious animals for me to cuddle in-between classes? Is this something the SBA can get done for me? Who do I talk to about this?

Inb4 discussion of the negative effect this kind of rental plan could have on the dog's well-being. I have to imagine playing with law students all day is more emotionally fulfilling than sitting alone on your owner's couch for ten hours.

I can hardly believe it, but today is the one year anniversary of this craptacular blog. And the gears keep on spinning...