How is Science?

“The writing process” by Jack Mack

- write 1-2 sentences
- re-read sentences
- erase most of first sentence and re-write
- think “I should find a citation for this”
- look up a citation by attempting to search through all the published literature in the discipline looking for the single most relevant example
- find an interesting article and begin to read it
- get inspired by some idea that is completely tangential to the original topic. write it down, don’t want to forget!
- get up to get a drink of water, think about new idea
- look in fridge
- “ugh, how long has this been in there?”
- put that back in there
- remember something I need to fix/buy/etc.
- write that down on a piece of paper somewhere
- think, I need to get back to work
- return to computer
- re-read sentences
- think “those are some pretty decent sentences.”
- oops, the verb tenses don’t match the rest of the paper
- change verb tenses
- think, “what was I going to write next? I had an idea.”
- check original outline
- see a topic on my original outline that I haven’t covered yet. “that’s ripe for some writing, maybe I can put that in here.”
- no, I can’t. it doesn’t make sense here
- start a new paragraph and write it down anyway. “I’ll use that later.”
- notice how much I have left to do
- “okay, let’s get down to business”
- get up to go to the bathroom
- pee, thinking “man I drink a lot of water when I write”
- realize that all the water is gone, so refill the cup
- notice dog
- scratch dog
- ask dog how his day is going
- tell dog I love him
- receive blank look from dog
- think of the perfect next sentence
- thank the dog
- return to computer
- forget perfect next sentence
- re-read sentences
- look at list of tangential ideas from “inspirations”
- none of that matters with what I’m writing
- look at outline, books, and journal articles until I see something related to what I’m writing
- in reading it, realize that some famous author has already written exactly what I’m writing, but better
- re-think entire topic/paper/career
- “whatever, I’ll just cite this and say that mine is adding something to it”
- find a relevant quote and use it as the next sentence
- write another sentence
- continue writing sentence
- continue, thinking “man, this is kind of a long sentence”
- remember something I previously read that I should cite in this sentence
- find reference I remembered
- cite it
- put a comma after the citation
- add the contradictory point to the other half of the sentence
- read sentence of extraordinary length, riddled with commas
- “this sentence is too long, I need to split it into two sentences”
- realize all my sentences are too long
- also they all use the same parallel construction
- also also they are all in the passive voice
- think “whatever, all stupid science writing is in the stupid passive voice and I like it anyway.”
- feel guilty because of Grammar
- page back through the paper and find a long sentence to split into two
- “now I have created two new sentences!”
- repeat

A trickle

One's life is a little stream. Families can combine into creeks. Whole communities can become rivers. Most people have some innate sense of this, and those who are socially inclined can learn to navigate these waters. But it takes a certain social deftness to sense the vast tides of human nature. Most people get so caught up in the eddies and rapids of their own lives that they cannot be open to these great, glacial movements. It is a rare opportunity. How rare, I'm not sure, because I currently feel barely able to see over the next rock. My waters have been turned inward, caught in a whirlpool that has eroded away at the depths but has not gone anywhere. I hope and plan to pull away from this, to join and invigorate my communities, big and small, with my own uniquely enriched current. I believe I am already possessed of a significant social acuity. I perceive the glints and swells of the streams around me with a modestly happy clarity. I hope one day to adapt that perspective; to sharpen, and broaden, and sharpen and broaden and so on, so as to sophisticate myself to sense those vast tides. Occasionally I feel the gravitas of the distant ocean's slow breathing, but I hope one day to rest my head over its heart.

"I am a serious dude who loves Spongebob"

Last semester I was working with an arts integration program at the Oracle Charter School. The school was not a great place. Middle school is a rough time for everyone, but some middle schools are more enriching than others. Oracle was a place where the strains of adolescence were constantly compounded by a student culture of near-constant derision and a faculty culture of every-man-for-himself disempowerment. This was a place that seriously needed the arts, but the students were so guarded that it was like pulling teeth to ask them to do something creative. Whenever the slightest point of creativity broke the surface it was all we teachers could do to nurture it before the environment inevitably crushed it back under the surface. The triumphs were small, but meaningful. The following poem was written by a student in 6th or 7th grade. I believe it speaks volumes about the processing of the author's internal life and the prospects of his external life.


Spongebob by Nijio Porter

I am a serious dude who loves Spongebob
I wonder why the sky is blue
I hear the phone ringing loudly
I see a book about Spongebob
I am a serious dude who loves Spongebob

I pretend that I could meet Spongebob
I feel so light in the water
I touch the top of my doghouse
I worry there will be no more Spongebob
I cry when I miss Spongebob when he is on
I am a serious dude that loves Spongebob

I understand that animals are dumb
I say reading is good
I dream I would be famous
I try to do good in school
I hope I will have a life
I am a serious dude who loves Spongebob

What's the big Idea?

It has been over two months since I last posted anything here. I'm sorry to admit that, but it is the Truth. I have heard that it should set me free. I am looking forward to that.

From what I am in need of free-setting? The GRE Psychology Subject Test, that's what. The adjective I chose to describe it two months ago was "heinous," and I stand by my diction. There are about 1 million things that could be on the test, some of them absolutely unpredictable, and I'm convinced a few of them are unknowable (at least, no Reasonable person could known them). But I have been studying, for two months putting Facts into my brain. I have not done much else. My social life has waned. I haven't seen a movie or heard a new record in weeks. Several friends have forgotten I existed. Upon seeing me at work, one friend fainted, thinking me a ghost. Parts of my skin have become transparent due to lack of exposure to the sun. My family members cut me out of their wills. I have lost the ability to communicate verbally. I dream in college-rule.

But, like Dave Eggers, I have found the perfect panacea for my personal problems: a magazine! Or more accurately, a 'zine, because you and I both know I can't afford any "maga." It is only in a very conceptual stage right now, as I am thinking of it as The Next Project after I finish this test. It will probably be very similar in interests and style to this blog. This should not be surprising.

It should be good. I mean, they always say "it looked good on paper" for a plan that doesn't work in the practical world (see: Communism, Trickle-down economics), but there is no idiom for a good plan that has not yet been set to paper.

At this point I realize that I'm just killing time, and I should get back to my test review. More on all this later. By the way, the test is tomorrow morning. So good luck to me,
(and good luck to you too, whatever you're doing,)
Jack

doodles

I need to get a scanner, if for no other reason than scanning pictures I've drawn and posting them on this blag. (Yes, blag.)

I have been reading through my old psychology texts and notes recently. I have been doing this for two reasons:
1) To try and keep my mind somewhat scientifically oriented
2) To study for the upcoming Psychology GRE Subject Test.

One of the things I sort of forgot about was how I doodled in the margins of my notes. Some classes' notes have no doodles, indicative of fast paced note-taking (or particularly gripping lectures). The classes where we could download powerpoint slides beforehand are pretty intricately decorated. I tended towards illustrations of silly phrases that popped into my head, and occasionally abstract designs that I would then try to turn into pictures. Sometimes there is commentary on the text of the notes. Sometimes there are pictures of me stabbing my eyes out with pens because I was really bored. All around, it's made the note re-reading process interesting.

Which brings me to one doodle in particular. It is not a picture, but clearly came from the same frame of mind. And given my currently abiguous future, it's strange to see how my mind was working on the options one sleepy morning in class. It reads:

        Future jobs:
            -Rock Star
            -Work at Monkey Colony
            -Psychologist

The first is, of course, everyone's dream. The third is the current plan. The second... I don't remember this nor do I know what to say about it. I will simply point out that "Monkey Colony" is capitalized, so clearly in my mind it was some sort of proper noun. If you find one, let me know, I'd like to keep my options open.

Sunday Morning

Sunday mornings are a special time. My mother is at church, usually gone before I wake up. My father spends the whole morning in the basement doing work or goofing off or doing whatever it is that he does, presumably enjoying the change in routine as much as I do. I sleep as a first order of business. I work Sunday evenings, so Sunday morning is the one time I can sleep without my subconscious buzzing with the thought that maybe I’m late for work. I don’t always sleep late. In fact sometimes I’m up rather early, ready to start my (Sun)day.

I wake up on Sunday mornings and instantly try to fall back asleep. I was never able to fall back asleep until a year or two ago, and I’m still not great at it. If I can’t, I usually smile and mash my face into the pillow, enjoying the warmth and the lack of urgency. There is no “usual” time to wake up on Sundays, sometimes it’s 6:30am, sometimes it’s noon. While I am mashing my face I let a few thoughts drift through my head, and more often than not one of them sticks and I ponder that for a while. I reach my hand over the side of the bed and pad it around until I find one of two things: (1) my cell phone, or (2) the book I’m reading. If I find the cell phone first I check the time (smiling again at my lack of schedule) and see if there were any messages left for me after I fell asleep. Usually I find the book first, it is a bigger object after all, and I completely ignore the phone and its time and its messages. I turn on the light next to the bed and snuggle back into my cocoon with only the tips of my fingers exposed to hold the book. Before I can get through a page my eyes start to water and I have to wipe the tears and sleep dust away, but since no part of me wants to leave the warm womb of my bed, I just mash my face against the pillow again. Having cleared my eyes, I read the book that is balanced on its side in front of my reclining face. I don’t stop myself from dozing off in the middle of a sentence.

I stay in the warm bubble of flannel sheets and printed words for as long as I can. Usually the first thing I do in the morning is head for the bathroom to evacuate, but not on Sundays. Every step on Sunday is a sort of game where the goal is to press back against the usual morning routine. How long can I go without opening my eyes? How long can I stay in bed? How long before I have to go downstairs? To eat? To shower? To put on pants? Eventually, after maybe an hour, the need to eat or wash overtakes me. Usually it’s the need to eat, but that depends on the Saturday night that preceded the Sunday morning– notably if I ate something substantial or hung out with lots of smokers I’ll feel the needs to bathe before I need to eat. (This morning my hands smelled like plastic, which was as distracting as it was inexplicable.) Often, after eating or showering or both, I’ll go back to bed, reclaiming my cocoon, and read or sleep some more. Sometimes I’ll feel compelled to write and I reach for the pad of paper that lives under my bed. Occasionally I’ll find something scrawled on the paper already, the last remnant of Saturday night left behind before I drifted off. I’ll write whatever Sunday thoughts I’ve got going on in the form of a note-to-self journal or a letter to a friend. All the writing invariably gets shoved back under the bed into a pile of late-night and early-morning thoughts. That pile, if anyone was to read through it, tells the story of my life from the periphery of consciousness. I have not read through it. I took the pile from Cleveland back with me in a box and started a new pile here in Buffalo.

Finally Sunday morning (long-since turned in to Sunday afternoon, just not in my mind) will come to a logical close. A friend will call me and invite me to lunch, my mother will return home from post-church brunch and rouse me, or I’ll just have my fill of dozing and reading and writing and thinking. I will put on pants, which is the final step in my acceptance of a new day. The writing goes on the pile, the cell phone goes from charger to pocket, the book lays closed beside the bed. Today I looked out the window and was surprised that it was snowing, because in my Sunday morning world there is no weather, there are no seasons, there exists nothing beyond my immediate surroundings and the comfort of my mind. The snow draws me out the window into a world with weather systems, traffic patterns and even Other People. I see the cars on the street and know that the world doesn’t value Sunday mornings the way I do. I doubt they could understand the value of my lazy Sunday morning life. But Sunday morning has bolstered my constitution for another week, and I am ready to confront this world. I am wearing pants after all.

For a minute there, I lost myself

Today I was driving a car on the road and I saw a sticker. It was on the bumper of the car in front of me and was very easy to read when I was stopped at a red light. It said ONE LESS SUV.

I liked the idea. The car was a sensible sedan and the girl driving the car looked fairly crunchy. If I had a car with which I felt inclined to communicate, I might wish for it to say the same thing. But I would not have it speak the same way.

I would want it to say "ONE FEWER SUV."

Then I thought of Radiohead's "Karma Police" in my own special way...

Grammar police, arrest this man, he talks in maths
He buzzes like a fridge, hes like a detuned radio
Grammar police, arrest this girl, her Hitler hairdo, is making me feel ill
And we have crashed her party
This is what you get, when you mess with us

I SWEAR TO YOU I AM NOT LAME.

how do you like your blueeyed boy
Mister Death?


also...

The Movie Of Your Life Is An Indie Flick

You do things your own way - and it's made for colorful times. Your life hasn't turned out how anyone expected, thank goodness! Your best movie matches: Clerks, Garden State, Napoleon Dynamite

If Your Life Was a Movie, What Genre Would It Be?

This makes me say "awww, man!" You always take these "Which genre thing Are You?" things hoping that it will say something really cool or profound, maybe even creepily accurate. ("You are smart and social and make good first impressions, but you have goals that you find hard to prepare for and often get lost in escapist fantasies when you should be doing something productive. You are... any band purported to be the "next Radiohead"?) But then they end up with something horoscope-bland. It irritates me that they're always complimentary too. They want you to link to them, so obviously they're not going to say anything bad, but wouldn't that be more interesting?

You are Joel Schumacher's Batman & Robin
You are possibly the worst movie ever made.
Perhaps you should consider killing yourself?

Don't be afraid of "me"

Listen up, users of English. I'm looking particularly hard at users of the internet who post pictures for the public to view. I am tired of being offended. I'm sick of all the obscenity. The assault on my eyes, mind, and sense of decency has gone on long enough, and it's time to set you all straight.

This is a brief synopsis on when to use "I" versus "me."

Don't worry about the actual rule, I'll teach you a simple trick that is accurate 100% of the time. All you have to do is take your sentence and make it as simple as possible. Take out any extra people's names, places or times. Then look to see if your I/me use makes sense. When you add the other people back in, put your name at the end.

So:
"Ashley, Kelly and I at midnight at the pool in Cancun! Wooo!"
becomes....
"I at the pool!"
Does that sound right? No, instead you would say Me at the pool or if it's clearer This is a picture of me at the pool. (It should not sound right to say "This is a picture of I at the pool." That doesn't work ever.) Make sense? The caption should read...
"Ashley, Kelly and me at midnight at the pool in Cancun! Wooo!"

Let's try another:
"In this picture me and Tiffani are at the bar."
Now this one would be simplified to Me am at the bar which is totally wrong unless you're in Bizarro World. Of course you would say I am at the bar. So then simply add the other name with yours at the end:
"In this picture Tiffani and I are at the bar."
HOWEVER...
It would be wrong, and arguably worse, to have the caption be "Tiffani and I at the bar." Why? Because that would be simplified the same way as the first example: "This is a picture of I at the bar." You would say "This is a picture of me at the bar" and thus you would say "This is a picture of Tiffani and me at the bar" or simply "Tiffani and me at the bar."

That is the number one mistake of this kind that I notice: people who know that there is a difference between "I" and "me," and think that "I" is supposed to be more proper, so they use it when they actually would have been right using "me."

Is this making sense?

Just make the sentence as clear and simple as possible, then look at your pronoun choice. Why don't you try some with this random girl's pictures I found on myspace (I don't know her):
Jenn and I at Club Sin- yeah we know we look good:)
Jenn, Ash, and I before a night out in Toledo
Me and the girls in Key West:) We had so much fun!

Did you get them? In all three cases the correct pronoun choice was "me!" See? Don't be afraid of "me," it's more proper than "I" in myriad circumstances. Now go out there and properly label things, and use the same trick to speak good too!

6R4MM3R 15 C00L!

Kathy's Song

Tonight I had the interesting privilege to hear The Paul Simon Songbook. It's pre-fame, and (for the most part) pre-production. It's a raw example of how Paul Simon cut his teeth in his early songwriting/recording career. It shows that he was destined for greatness from the start.

As an aside, I feel it's relevant to mention here that Paul Simon is my favorite since way back. The whole story is for another day, but for now suffice it to say that he is sort of my "musical father."

Everyone at my friend's house had at least a working knowledge of Simon, and Simon and Garfunkel, so this early work great discussion fodder for late in an evening. About halfway through the album we all took pause as we were drawn in to one of the most captivating pieces: "Kathy's Song." For me, the reason it was so fascinating went beyond the delicacy of the poetry or the purity of the music. The most interesting part was that the early demo sounded almost precisely like the later, studio recorded version. In the 60's a producer could completely change the sound of a song as he saw fit. In fact, the sleepy, creepy folk/acoustic version of “The Sounds of Silence” was changed into the folk/rock version that we all know and love, and rocketed Simon and Garfunkel into stardom. In the case of "Kathy's Song" something elevated it above the rest, so when the producer was deciding how it should sound he decided not to change or add a note.

On the way home I was inspired to listen to the version that I knew. Sure enough, beyond better equipment there are no notable changes. Art Garfunkel is nowhere to be found, nor are the strings and over-production that were commonly added to folk songs in the 60's. It's just Paul Simon, his voice and poetry and guitar, against the weight of the world. It washed over me. I absorbed it. I got choked up. I was inspired down to the very essence of what I call "me." I really, really heard it.

Kathy's Song is one I have heard scores, if not hundreds, of times before. Yet this time it reached across 40 years and down to the core of me. I am glad to know that I can still feel that revelation from music, and from Paul Simon specifically. I am glad to know that I can still feel that much. I have been in a safe place for a while, with nothing to push me too hard in any direction. In a way, it's important for me to know that I am still vulnerable. I don't want to become so comfortable that all my doors are closed. If nothing else in my life is going to do it, music will still break me, and rebuild me in a new place.

Jack Returns, a summer blockbuster in the making

Hello, The Internet. How are you.

Yes, it's me.

I hope this is not a bad time. I don't mean to barge in on you like this, but I just got the guts to come over and, well, I guess that's about as far as I had thought it out. I know I have been gone a long time, and I expect you have moved on. But I just wanted you to know that I thought about you often during my adventures. I did, I missed you, The Internet.

I missed the easy access to pop-culture and general information that Wikipedia so happily provides. I missed the ability to find a picture of anything at a moment's notice with Google. I have webcomics that have taken whole new directions since I last talked to them, and I feel left out of their new lives. I even missed writing a Thing on my blog, hoping that someone will read it someday. Any reader(s?) I had have undoubtedly given up on me. It was a risk I had to take. I had to go.

Adventures are great. Everyone should have Adventures. But when you come back it's hard to reintegrate in the busy world that has gone on without you. I have had so many new and different experiences, but all people want to know is, "How were the Adventures?" They sound mystified that their pat and disinterested "how are you" has been reworded, but they please themselves by expecting the same answer. "Adventures were great," you say, and nothing more. Somehow the content is out the window and my entire experience is summed up in one superlative. I try to follow up with stories, but my listeners' eyes glass over as they think about how great it is that yesterday and last week were the same as today. A drop of envy and the desire to return to the status quo go a long way.

How funny, here I am rambling like nothing has changed. Just like old times, huh Internet? I'm all going on about how no one wants to hear my great stories, and in the meantime I haven't told a single one. Honestly, now that I have the chance, I don't really feel like it. Another time, when you're interested.

Goodbye for now. I'm back now, and things are going to be, well, great.

That's not how you spell "sammiches"

A little while ago I said "One thing I like" and ended up talking about something unrelated. Such is the beauty of a blog. Sometimes I will carefully craft my thoughts into pithy bits of interesting writing. Much more often I will turn my head down towards the keyboard and let some thoughts spill out. I assume if you have made it this far in the blog, you are down with that style. Let me say, bless you for being down with that style.

The other thing I was thinking of on that day in question was: AMBULANCES and, more specifically, the idea that their sirens elicit such a universal reaction. I'm sure there are awful exceptions, but almost universally people will pull to the side of the road and let an ambulance through. I was just talking with some friends about the pace of everyday life, how it's nice that we can abandon worries of "will I eat today" for worries of "did my email get through?" It may seem equally life-and-death to the person emailing, but when they hear that siren, it momentarily falls into perspective. No matter how late you are, there's someone dying and that just takes societal precedence. I doubt most people even think about that moment when it happens, which just proves my point even more. No one can say our culture is entirely narcissistic as long as people make way for ambulances.


This is one of my favorite quotes of all time:

"Outside of a dog, a book is a man's best friend.
Inside a dog, it's too dark to read" - Groucho Marx

An Open Letter To: Portobello Mushroom Sandwich

Dear Portobello Mushroom Sandwich,

You put me in conflict. I find you delicious, but for some reason my gastrointestinal tract does not digest you properly. That is to say, it does not digest you in the manner to which I'm accustomed: effortlessly and inconspicuously. Is it because you are hard to digest, and my GI tract become discouraged? I doubt it, because that would be a rather grand personification for a GI tract. I was told once by a vegetarian that most humans, as omnivores with an almost limitless diet provided by modern foodstores, have very inefficient digestive systems because they had to be so encompassing. He further argued that since his digestive system was streamlined to only break down fruits, vegetables, and spices, he never had gas. I don't know if I believe him (he also believed that the calcium in milk was BAD for your bones). But perhaps that is why you, Portobello Mushroom Sandwich, and my GI tract cannot get along, despite my personification? That would make me sad because if I had to choose between you and All Meat, I have to go with All Meat. A. Meat is great.

Should I eat more Portobello Mushroom Sandwiches to offset my digestive laissez faire? That could get unfortunate for the people around me. Perhaps my only hope is to save a Portobello Mushroom Sandwich experience for when I am not going to be around anything with a nose. I was lucky today. The only things around me with noses were my parents and they are required to love me by evolutionary mandate. It could be a lonely friendship, PorMusSand. You will be like a mistress that I steal away to visit on "business trips" away from my friends and my Meat. Fortunately for everybody, you and feta cheese are an unbelievable combination. I will carry the torch for you. I will be back.

One Thing I Like

It has been days and days since I last added words to this blog. I have been filling up my head, and occasionally the air around me, with words, and have spared none of them for the world of 1's and 0's. This is largely because of the inconvenience of my only port of entry into digital space. I have recently moved from Cleveland, OH to Buffalo, NY, and (more importantly to the blogging world) from an apartment with the computer in the bedroom to a house with the computer in the basement. My father has quite a nice setup down here, but it doesn't have the friendly allure of my little iMac that seemed to smile at me, from the desk next to my bed, as I awoke. I used to stand, scratch, rub the eyes, et cetera, then wake the computer up on my way to the bathroom. We practiced our own morning rituals that prepared us for working together. While I occasionally felt like a slave to the heroin-like world of instant access, with my unassuming iMac as the irresistible needle, it was more often a convenient way to start the day. I enjoyed it, the morning ritual of checking favorite websites, planning my dress according to the hourly weather forecast and finding something to entertain my eyes during breakfast. But I suppose part of the reason I moved cities was to break out of my patterns and habits, and this is the roundabout way of me telling myself, "apparently it's working."

I started writing this with an entirely different intention. Instead, you are party to a small moment of self-discovery. My original thoughts, on something entirely different that I like, can wait. For now, I will see you in your dreams.

The entry about shaving

I consider myself an expert on shaving. I have been practicing for many years, ever since middle school when my dad first showed me how to not look like a scrub. 10 years later I still have to do it a lot and carefully. When I shave I tend to think about shaving. Sometimes I try to think about other things instead, but there’s something about holding a razor against your throat that commands the attention. After all this time thinking I have accrued some nuggets of wisdom, which I believe will improve your shaving experience.

Why we shave:
We shave because it makes our faces smooth. It also makes us aerodynamic, for anyone planning on moving very quickly through any fluid.

Supplies: There are a few items you must have in order before you dive in.

1. A good razor: The most important aspect of shaving after a corporeal body, invest in a good razor. Don’t even bother with disposables. That is like shaving with a cheese grater, and will remove hair (and skin) about as well (not well for hair, very well for skin). It is worth the expense to get a good razor, and to keep it outfitted with fresh blades. Every Cub Scout knows you are more likely to cut yourself with a dull knife than a sharp one, because a sharp blade gives you more control and is less likely to skip. Most brands feature some color-changing strip that will tell you when to stop using the blade. They’re trying to get you to buy more blades, so don’t trust them implicitly. However, the moment you feel your blade catch or scrape, change it for a new one. The time and blood saved will offset the cost. I recently upgraded from the Gillette Mach 3 to the Gillette Fusion. Shaving with the Fusion is like wiping the hair off your face.



2. Warm water: Rinse your face with warm water before you begin. Warm water will open up your pores. This makes the hairs a little looser and the skin less likely to be irritated. Don’t use scalding hot water, because that is dumb.



3. Shaving cream: Find a brand that has a smell you enjoy. I have tried many different kinds and haven’t found a significant difference beyond the smell. Maybe if you have sensitive skin or something it is more important.



4. A well-lit area with a mirror: Self-explanatory.

Shaving: The act itself.

1. A big secret!: Do you know what shaving cream does? It does two things. First, the little bubbles get under the hairs and make them stand up straighter. Second, which most people do not realize, it conditions the hair and makes it softer. It acts just like conditioner for your head, and similarly must be rubbed in to the hair to work. Take a minute to massage the cream into your face, and watch your number of nicks go down.



2. Go with the grain: Shave DOWN. At least, shave down first, but we’ll get to that in a minute. Shaving with the “grain” of your hair is like sanding with the grain of wood, resulting in fewer snags. This also supposedly helps avoid ingrown hairs, which are kind of gross.



3. Don’t rush: You can’t just drag a blade across your face and expect it to feel good. Take your time, especially in dense areas. Clean blades work better, so rinse your razor often in warm water. You should rinse between every stroke. For tougher areas, use shorter strokes to maximize clean blade time.



4. Use your other hand(s): Shave an area, then feel to see if you really got it. Classic spots to miss are the top of the cheek and the back edge of the neck, as I’ve illustrated using this picture of a young Brad Pitt.
   This leads us to…



5. Rinse, lather, repeat: After you’ve carefully shaved your whole face, rinse with more warm water. Look/feel for any spots you missed. Re-lather a little shaving cream and go over the area in a different direction than you did the first time. Now that you’ve gotten rid of most of the hair, it shouldn’t be as troublesome to go against the grain. Indeed, shaving against the grain can lift up those last few hairs and make the difference between a good shave and a perfect shave. But be even more careful, because without the protective layer of hair you are more likely to cut yourself.

Clean yourself up: Maximize the benefits of your hard work.

1. Final rinse: When you’re satisfied with your face’s lack of hair, give it another good rinse with warm water. Make sure to clean away any extra shaving cream, including around the nostrils, down the neck, and behind the ear where it tends to hide. If you miss some it will dry up, and later in the day someone will point out how unhygienic you are.



2. Cold rinse: Another big secret! You kept those pores open with warm water, now close ‘em up with a few splashes of (n)ice cold water. This will tighten up your skin a little, which feels and looks great. It will also help close any cuts and slow bleeding. I don’t suggest the Homer Simpson method of leaving little bits of tissue over cuts. Just dab excess blood off while it clots, then brush away the clots a few minutes later.

A matter of opinion:
Shaving is classically done in conjunction with a shower. Shaving after a shower will capitalize on the warm water to open your pores and will make sure your skin is nice and clean. I prefer to shave before I shower. I find that the natural oils of my skin that accumulate while I sleep help soften the hairs. Also, if I cut myself I have the shower time to clean it up, instead of running out the door with a bloody face.

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I have been planning on writing this entry since blog day #1, and here it is. It feels very good finally to have it written down. I suppose it’s like a manifesto for me. The hirsute will rise and break the bonds of oppression!

R&B discussion

Morgan Dontanville to Jack @ 2:48 pm

Ok Jack, of anyone I know you might be able to explain it to me.

At what point did R&B switch from singing songs to just talking like Usher switching back and forth between A and B.

So they will just talk some nonsense "singing" A, A, B, A, A, B, B, A, A, B etc.

Do you know what I'm talking about?

Morgan


The most merciful thing in the world, I think, is the inability of the human mind to correlate all its contents.

--H. P. Lovecraft

_ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

John Mack to Morgan 6:59 pm

I think I know what you mean, and I think I know the answer. R&B used to be about really good songwriting. It was the black equivalent of Rufus Wainwright or Billy Joel or whoever else you might call a "singer-songwriter." Every song has a "life" and a story, and singles were chosen by which of those songs was the best and most sellable. That's why Stevie Wonder and Marvin Gaye albums are such beautifully orchestrated collections.

R&B used to be more closely associated with soul and gospel where the artistic content was at least as important as the inspiration towards hip-shaking. R&B (and hip hop, for that matter) is now all about the dancey and/or radio-ready single. Instead of a songwriter creating a piece of art that will carry emotion or a message, a few catchy beats and a hook get filled in with whatever is necessary to make the song 3 minutes long. Once they have a few single-worthy tracks, the album is stuffed with filler so it can be 10 tracks long. You know this, that's how pop music works. I guess that's the difference: R&B is now seen as a sub-genre of pop, instead of an artistic and cultural world all its own. Instead of Stevie Wonder working out exactly which chord progression will bring the best effect to the song he's been working on this week, Usher goes in to the studio with a few beats and hooks prepared for him, knowing that most of the work of the album is done. No one listens past the beats and hooks on those few singles anyway. I can't believe that the iTunes music store and other buy-1-song stores haven't eliminated the need for Usher to make full albums, but I guess they probably put so little work into the filler tracks anyway that it's worth it. Basically they're selling a collection of 3 singles for the price of a full album, with very little extra work.

There is, however, great R&B still being made. Common's last album ("Be") was about half great hip-hop and half great R&B. I just picked up Gnarls Barkley's (DJ Danger Mouse and Cee-Lo) "St. Elsewhere" and I've been really digging on it. It's just straight-up R&B at its best. Check it out, every song is so well crafted and it sounds so good.

Anyway, I hope this helps. Thanks for the question, it was interesting to think about.

<3 Jack

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"Try to learn something about everything and everything about something." - Thomas H. Huxley English biologist (1825 - 1895)

*today's gimm*ick

*So guess what I have? I*'ll give you *a hint. *It comes in semi-regular interva*ls, *is distracting* while you *type, and is a spasm of* your diaphragm. Give *up? It's the hic*cups! Hooray*! Actuall*y I think the hiccups* are super-annoy*ing, but I thought I'd try and do something interesting with them sinc*e I've got them. *Every time you see a*n asterisk, that's when I hiccuppe*d. So *there you have it. Thi*s is what it's *like to type with* the hiccups. In case you hav*en't tried *it. It's pretty anno*ying to *read, I assume? Well it's annoy*ing to write too.* * * (*That was a moment where I was tr*ying to plan what *to say next. I'm trying to be as stre*am-of-con*sciousness as I can here*, to keep the flow*... flowin'.*) *I don't really like the hiccup*s, and I'll tell you why. I don't* like it when I'm *not the one who's controlling something in my body*. For example, I don'*t like being sick,* I don'*t like it when hunger or sleepynes*s impedes my ability to function, an*d I don't* like being really, REALLY drunk (*A little drunk or regul*ar drunk is okay)*.* Whoa! Those two were quick!*

*

*Damn y*ou, the hiccups. Damn your eyes.* Maybe I* should try* holding my breath.

(inhale)

I'm taking blogging to a whole new level today. This is what it's like to type while you're holding your breath! Awesome! I wonder if it comes through to the reader. I imagine not, since I'm not being very delicate about my writing here. You can tell someone is a good writer when they're like "This is what I'm doing, and this is how you should be feeling!" That makes it very clear to the reader, but perhaps not very engrossing.

Though speaking of involving the reader, I'm pretty sure I know what you're thinking. I'll admit it, people, I didn't hold my breath that whole time. A few times I gently let it out and inhaled again. That's how you do it when you want to relax your diaphragm, and that's what I wanted so that's what I did. Lo, and behold! The troublesome hiccups have dissappeared, and with them has gone the asterisk-gimmick!

END OF STORY. NO POINT, NO EDITING.

Intense Dreams

One of the things I look forward to every spring/summer is the day being longer. Now that we're well past the equinox, the sun comes up noticeably earlier and goes down quite a bit later. This combats the frustrating experience of going in to a meeting or rehearsal or something during the day (say, at 5pm) and coming out when it's dark (by like 6:30). On the other end of the day, it makes sunlight pour into my room in the morning, which is a great way to wake up. If my alarm goes off and it looks like it's morning, it's much easier for me to tell myself, "it's morning, time to get up!" and bound out of bed, fresh-faced and excited for a new day. Well, maybe not all that, but it sure beats leaving your house and thinking, "it's still nighttime and I should be asleep."

The second side effect of the morning sunlight happens when I don't have a specific reason to get up. The sunlight wakes some part of me up a bit and brings me into a very intense king of R.E.M. sleep. I'm fairly sure that's how it works. What I'm getting at is, the kinds of dreams I have on lazy summer mornings are unparalleled by almost any other experience of my life. Not only are all five senses fully engaged, but I get emotionally caught up in what's going on in the story. I often have the experience of waking up and not knowing where I am, or even WHO I am. For all intents and purposes what your brain experiences during such a dream is indistinguishable from reality. During most of the year I'd say I have one of these dreams about once a fortnight. During the spring and summer months, with their lazy mornings in sun-filled bedrooms, it happens frequently. Recently it's been every single morning; I'm not sure where I am and I feel as if I've been physically and emotionally ripped out of some situation. I kept a dream journal a few summers back and it was really fun. I'd start writing as soon as my eyes opened. I'd commonly get a page or two of really descriptive characters and settings, dialogue, plotlines, emotions and secret intents. Whole narratives would spit out of me every morning and I'd write them with as little non-dream thought as possible. When I'd look back there were bits of my waking life blended together with total fantasy, culling stories from every aspect of my imagination. The catch was that I could spend an hour every morning thinking and writing about my dreams. So the dream journal fell to morning productivity, but the dreams will probably never stop.

"Dreaming permits each and every one of us to be quietly and safely insane every night of our lives." - William Dement

This morning I woke up almost in tears because in my dream I'd been writing this beautiful song for a woman I was desperately in love with. The coolest part is I remembered a little of the song, and I went and figured it out with my trusty acoustic guitar. Now I wouldn't say it was as beautiful and life-changing as it felt in the dream, but the circumstances of it's composition are a bit different in this reality. I also found this written on the notepad next to my bed, "Now if there's one thing that a man hates, it's when something makes him stop." It's apparently from another reality-bending dream earlier in the morning, and I believe it was a joke told in a sort of Duke's of Hazard Narrator type of way. Good times!

So if you encounter me shortly after waking up in the morning, cut me some slack. I was just about to scream because I couldn't save the city, and now I'm in this bed and I can't remember my own name.