Bananas don’t grow around here no matter what the weather’s like, and there’s a lot of work involved in getting five or six of them to me every single week:
[I]n order to be a global commodity rather than a tropical treat, the banana has to be harvested and transported while completely unripe. Bananas are cut while green, hard, and immature, washed in cool water (both to begin removing field heat and to stop them from leaking their natural latex), and then held at 56 degrees — originally in a refrigerated steamship; today, in a refrigerated container — until they reach their country of consumption weeks later.
And then they’re ripened in a controlled environment until they reach whatever state is desired by vendors:
Since my usual routine is to polish off a single banana each day after work, I shop on Saturdays for bananas in the 3-4 range, expecting that Monday’s fruit will have made it nearly to 5. By the end of the week, I’m seeing solid 7s.
Of late, they’re ridiculously cheap: 50 cents a pound or thereabouts. I pay extra for the organics when they’re offered, since they seem to ripen a bit more slowly and carefully.
About half a century ago, Gerry Goffin and Carole King came up with “Go Away Little Girl,” a song perhaps as morally complicated as their earlier “Will You Love Me Tomorrow”: the guy is having to say no to jailbait, after all. Which makes Donny Osmond’s version from 1971, when he was all of thirteen, seem a bit off-center, though Donny was utterly unironic in his delivery and managed somehow to pull it off. You won’t see Justin Bieber trying a song like this. (And Donny, to his eternal credit, has never disowned the song.)
Women, Joan Jett aside, were not usually concerned with this issue, though there were a couple of instances where the younger guy coveted the older woman — see, for example, Paul Anka’s “Diana” (“I’m so young and you’re so old”), or, stretching it a bit, Van Halen’s “Hot for Teacher.”
Girls crushing on the older guy? Well, yeah, now and then. The most obvious case: the Poni-Tails with “Born Too Late” (“To you, I’m just a kid that you won’t date”). But the most heart-wrenching song of this sort, as least to the extent that my heart is subjected to torque, is right here:
“Wait For Me”, a smallish (#37 in Billboard) hit for the Playmates in 1960 — you may remember them for “Beep Beep,” the tale of a Cadillac driver’s scorn for a little Nash Rambler, a couple years earlier — is basically the logical extension of the Poni-Tails’ yearnfest “Born Too Late”, this time told from the guy’s point of view: he looks upon this young girl as mostly a pest, and by the time it dawns on him that maybe she was The One, she’s already spoken for. The song (by Lee Pockriss and Paul Vance, whose biggest hit that year was Brian Hyland’s straight-faced reading of “Itsy Bitsy Teenie Weenie Yellow Polka Dot Bikini”) isn’t exactly on par with the saga of Abelard and Heloise, but it left me with a case of the shivers. Not that anything like this has ever happened to me, of course.
What prompted all this: “Wait For Me” coming up in the shuffle, and the death of Lee Pockriss a couple weeks ago. And maybe some other things I’d just as soon not go into.
I mentioned yesterday that Google’s available tool for checking malware didn’t find anything here. However, there are tools, and then there are tools, if you know what I mean, and Google has a better one: it allows you to browse a page as though you were the Googlebot, and see what it sees. What it sees, frankly, is not pretty.
So I called for backup — specifically, these guys. While I was deleting several hundred files, most of them innocuous but you can’t be sure, they were attending to the stuff I couldn’t reach very well. (You do not want to see me working phpMyAdmin; it’s like Dane Cook lecturing on quantum mechanics.) They have pronounced the place thoroughly scoured, and will monitor for changes. When Google comes back, which eventually they will, they will be presented with something that doesn’t insult the integrity of their database, or whatever the current explanation is.
You may have already noticed the Yahoo! search box, a piece of pure 1990s code that’s now sitting on the sidebar. Hardly anyone uses a search function from here, except me, for quick and dirty cross-referencing of past posts. WordPress has its own search function, but there are upwards of 8,000 pages here that aren’t in any way connected to WordPress, which will never be seen. So I’ve been relying on Google to serve up my local stuff.
Then this weekend, Google informed me that they were de-indexing the entire site for a minimum of one year, as punishment for not blocking injections of malware quickly enough, or something. (One such event is described here.) Their own malware tool doesn’t find anything here, but the Master Control Program will not be denied.
I filed for reconsideration, which may or may not work. In the meantime, traffic here will drop by a third, which doesn’t bother me a great deal, and search traffic will drop by two thirds, which does, since it means I’ll probably have to suspend the search-query roundup on Monday mornings for lack of material.
Google Reader subscribers should not be affected. People who have ridiculous work filters and get here by typing the name of the domain into the Google search page will no longer be getting here.
Update: On the basis that I can’t assume I found everything myself, I have called in a white-hat guy to look over the site and make recommendations.
When I was very young, I learned how to read with my head tilted at odd angles, the better to comprehend rows and rows of shelved library books. One that caught my eye Saturday was Women Composers of Classical Music, hanging out in 780.922, and I started running down my own internal list: Hildegard of Bingen, Fanny Mendelssohn, Clara Schumann, Germaine Tailleferre, Amy (Mrs. H. H. A.) Beach — and then I drew a blank.
So I had to pick up the book, by Mary McVicker [Jefferson, NC: McFarland and Company, 2011], which has over 300 biographies, sorted by time frame and then by location. Better yet, there’s an LP discography, since many (most?) of these composers are not yet represented on CD. And yes, a few more names I’d known popped up, often of women I’d thought of more as performers than as composers: Wanda Landowska was perhaps the most prominent.
Inevitably, it is mentioned that men had an easier time of gaining acceptance, but as McVicker notes:
“[A]t various times in various countries between 1550 and 1900 good economic times and somewhat better acceptance for their music have coincided, and there have been brief windows of opportunity and sunshine for women composers.”
Whether the window is more open today will likely be judged by the author of a similar collection a hundred years from now.
I still don’t understand how, in the English language, “blast” became a euphemism for “damn,” a reference that struck me on my second reading. Moby-Dick, as do many others written before the 1960s, contains a wealth of “blasted” people, “blasted” ships, “blasted” storms, and “blasted” whales.
But, blast it all, while the people, the ships, the storms may be damned, the whales technically weren’t: they acquired their blastedness in a different manner altogether. Quoting Melville:
As we glided nearer, the stranger showed French colors from his peak; and by the eddying cloud of vulture sea-fowl that circled, and hovered, and swooped around him, it was plain that the whale alongside must be what the fishermen call a blasted whale, that is, a whale that has died unmolested on the sea, and so floated an unappropriated corpse. It may well be conceived, what an unsavory odor such a mass must exhale; worse than an Assyrian city in the plague, when the living are incompetent to bury the departed.
Then again, should you introduce some form of ignition to the gases rising from such an ex-whale, you’ll see all the damned blasts you could possibly want.
As to how “damned” and “blasted” became sort of synonyms, this is, I suspect, an artifact of shifting levels of word acceptability: one commenter cites “bloody,” a term once thought blasphemous in Britain, now almost innocuous, and wonders if the F-word will some day be similarly laundered.
[W]hat I learned from all this is that hiking for days in the desert with just a couple gallon jugs of Gatorade between you and a really convincing Amenhotep IV impression is incredibly stupid and dangerous. You would think that this would be blindingly obvious, but apparently it’s not.
Reminds me, vaguely, of my brief sojourn in California, which necessitated a few automotive trips across the Mojave. (One does not simply walk into that part of San Bernardino County.) Behind the back seat were several jugs of engine coolant, one for me should it be necessary, and others to bail out stranded motorists for a small fee. (Miles from nowhere, Prestone sells quite well at twice what you’d pay at AutoZone, another example of supply and demand at its finest.)
The author wanted her heroine to be a “good” person so people would admire her, but she (the author) is neither a good writer or a person with more than the shallowest insight into human relations. Thus, she thinks that the way to show the goodness of her character is to make Bella “humble” and “unpretentious” and that the way to do that is to show how much Bella hates shallow, ostentatious things like parties, expensive cars, and people being nice to her. Really. Of course, the author wants it both ways, so she has the heroine take these things anyway, but makes sure that the heroine is not happy to receive them.
This may be why I don’t connect with the series premise: I may be humble, but I’m not particularly unpretentious. Nor am I, um, crepuscular.
After watching the VH1 Video Countdown this week I noticed an alarming trend. Four of the female divas in the top ten are a little overweight and three of them are using special optic effects to make them look slimmer. Britney Spears has gone to the extreme in her new video “Criminal,” and at times I thought I was watching Taylor Swift! Katy Perry uses the same thinning effect in “The One That Got Away,” and Adele uses it on “Someone Like You.”
[YouTube links added by me.]
I watched “Someone Like You,” and I don’t think it’s post-production finagling. Artifact of the lens, maybe: you can see some distortion around the edges here and there. And maybe it’s the shadowing that makes her look a little more gaunt than she did in “Chasing Pavements,” three years ago.
As for Britney, she’s gained and lost so many pounds over the years that I don’t think she actually has a default size anymore.
Still, Artie Wayne pays way more attention to these things than I do, so I am not about to dismiss his concerns out of hand. As he says: “I’ve seen candid paparazzi photos of them all.”
Oh, and the fourth, unprocessed diva? Kelly Clarkson.
It all started back in 2006, when the Hollywood-funded anti-piracy group BREIN reportedly asked musician Melchior Rietveldt to compose music for an anti-piracy video. The video in question was to be shown at a local film festival, and under these strict conditions the composer accepted the job.
However, according to a report from Pownews the anti-piracy ad was recycled for various other purposes without the composer’s permission. When Rietveldt bought a Harry Potter DVD early 2007, he noticed that the campaign video with his music was on it. And this was no isolated incident.
The composer now claims that his work has been used on tens of millions of Dutch DVDs, without him receiving any compensation for it. According to Rietveldt’s financial advisor, the total sum in missed revenue amounts to at least a million euros ($1,300,000).
And that’s just from the Netherlands; this video clip has seemingly been shoehorned into DVDs from Kyrgyzstan to Kashmir. There’s nothing to connect BREIN itself to the, um, piracy, but somebody stuck it to Rietveldt.
Laws against that sort of thing? Of course. But look what happened when the composer sought help from his performing-rights agency:
Soon after he discovered the unauthorized distribution of his music Rietveldt alerted the local music royalty collecting agency Buma/Stemra. The composer demanded compensation, but to his frustration he heard very little from Buma/Stemra and he certainly didn’t receive any royalties.
Earlier this year, however, a breakthrough seemed to loom on the horizon when Buma/Stemra board member Jochem Gerrits contacted the composer with an interesting proposal … the composer had to assign the track in question to the music publishing catalogue of Gerrits, who owns High Fashion Music. In addition to this, the music boss demanded 33% of all the money set to be recouped as a result of his efforts.
Which, if nothing else, demonstrates that watchers pretty much always have to be watched.
Ah, compact fluorescents. The light bulb for when you want that MOODY effect when you flip a switch … slowly, the gloam spreads over the area as you stumble into your front hallway, relishing those achingly long seconds of darkness while the cat escapes, your elderly relative crashes, and you knock over a vase. Then there’s their ability to mysteriously destroy light fixtures — they’ve killed several of ours. And of course the long life span that justifies their average cost of $40 a bulb or something … why, we’ve had several that didn’t want us to get bored, and released themselves from this life after only weeks. But above all, there is … the glorious, bleached-bone, washed-out color of that eco-licious light. Even from outside, your rooms will have a nice, edgy, horror-movie vibe instead of that cliche’d, Thomas-Kinkaid welcoming glow of bad ol’ tungsten. BRING IT ON — I WANNA LOOK LIKE A ZOMBIE!
I think everyone who originally voted for it, regardless of party affiliation, should be awarded a single CFL — Colonic Fluorescent Lamp — curlicue type, to be administered rectally on C-Span with a twist of the wrist.