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More Amazon bashing at the New Yorker.

If you’re of the tl;dr crowd (~12K words!) let me summarize it for you: Amazon may be bad for books because of the tremendous success the company has had selling books, both traditional books on which Bezos founded the company and, since the introduction of the Kindle, e-versions as well. So successful has Amazon been in this area that the company is now moving into the business of book publishing, in addition to providing new authors an avenue for self-publishing, effectively removing the middlemen of traditional book publishing (e.g., agents, editors, designers, marketers, reviewers), people who, the author wants you to believe, are critical links in the chain of providing books because: “A shared sensibility for a certain kind of fiction or nonfiction writing unites everyone along the way.” In other words, we dare not leave such an important determination as to what fiction or nonfiction readers should read up to the readers themselves! Or worse, an algorithm at Amazon’s web site that suggests to readers what books they may be interested in based on books they’ve previously purchased and presumably enjoyed. Can you imagine! To say nothing of the casualties (“sickly gazelles”) left floating in the wake of Mr. Bezo’s carnivorous business plan (“The Cheetah”), for example your quaint corner store bookseller, but more importantly of course all the middlemen jobs at traditional publishing houses, people who, evidently, have historically viewed themselves as guardians of readers’ literary sensibilities.

Amusing then, isn’t it, that new would-be subscribers to the New Yorker, when clicking the “Subscribe” link at the web site, are cheerily offered to have the New Yorker delivered “Anytime, Anywhere!”, including your e-tablet. One of the supported versions of which is…. wait for it… The Kindle Fire.

No one has ever accused me of being a critic of culture. Certainly not a serious critic. Doesn’t mean I can’t spot a serious review of culture when I read it, or a pretentious one [1].

Claiming, as the “critic” did in the linked piece, that Dylan (Update: correction: s/b: Bing Crosby), Sinatra, Elton John and Neil Diamond are not important (his emphasis) in spite of possibly — just possibly! — being very good at their art, is like saying Hemingway, Faulkner, Steinbeck, and Marquez, although very good writers, have been unimportant to our literary tradition, not a one of them deserving of their iconic status owing to their respective contribution, influence, encomiums, etc..

In other words, a real non-starter for a cultural critique, especially one I think was pretty clearly intended to be serious-minded. Not.

Most boomers have an opinion about Bob Dylan. A commenter at Lileks was right, some get downright evangelical over him. I like Dylan. Blood On the Tracks has to be my favorite, Hwy 61 Revisited has some real good stuff on it, and when I hear Hurricane the volume goes up, way up. As for John, Happy Wife says she knows all the lyrics to every song on Yellow Brick Road, impressive given it’s a double album set. I appreciate Diamond and Sinatra, not enough to commit either to my iPODs, but simply for their level of achievement and influence in their art. Same goes for Pete Seeger, btw (R.I.P.). Diamond is also interesting for the fact that he dropped out of medical school where he was doing quite well to become a musician.

1. Hat tip: Lileks

Beach detritus.

BIGGER.

Bluesky day at the beach. One right after another lately. I hope we don’t use up our annual allotment. I have twenty cyclists coming to Alaska this summer who’ll be looking to me, qua tour leader, to provide “appropriate” weather. Reason being I have on my left ankle a tattoo of Kokopelli, the humpbacked flute player and deity of fertility who legend has it chases away winter and brings about spring. So they’ll be expecting me to perform.

No Kokopelli magic yet, though. It was twenty degrees today on our beach walk with an attention getting 20 mph north wind. Still, we love it here.

And we’re not alone:

BIGGER.

Physicist claims the origin of life may have been inevitable. See if you agree.

We certainly know the end of life is.

Take this Kathleeen…

… were the words I believe I heard just prior to being hooked ‘n pulled lipward.

I had balanced my phone on a Solo drinking cup placed upside down on a cushy bench seat after setting the timer to 10 seconds. Thus the poor quality. Well, at least of yours truly. Happy Wife, of course, would render well no matter what. A dime store Instamatic would do it.

We’d stopped here (Gasthaus @ The Inlet View) for two lemon drops on our way home after a thoroughly satisfying gustatory romp at Sullivan’s Steakhouse, where Kevin, the new manager, stopped by to personally thank us for our patronage, if not also to enjoy a closer gander at Happy Wife. I’m always on watch for this. One of the liabilities of husbanding a woman who is routinely mistaken for being around 40 yrs old (she turns 54 next month).

Up early this morning for a company meeting. 12:00 pm. EST. Love it!

We (the company) will be moving into an entirely new area of biology, for us anyway, with this new project. Adventurous for sure, but daunting too. Stepping into the scientific sandbox where others, experts by now, have been playing for years and announcing you’re here to lend your expertise with your novel point of view on the problem (multifaceted really), you can expect will be met with some mighty stoic stares of incredulity — “Take a number and get in line buddy.”

Nothing ventured nothing gained.

Happens every year on this day

I don’t know whether to be cynical or flattered by some of the birthday cards I get. For instance, one from the woman who processed our mortgage loan. Or the dentistry practice, or the State Farm office. You have to wonder when they include a business card rather than a check.

You’re special to us every day. Even more so today!

Yes yes, I’m sure any one of your days would be incomplete without at least one passing thought of my existence. The loan processor’s card had a painting on the front of a babbling brook flowing beneath an old wooden footbridge, sun glinting through Fall foilage on the banks, peaceful and serene being the intent I suppose. But for me it produced the same terrifying feeling Dorthy must’ve had watching the sand grains fall in the hour glass before her days were up and she’d have to surrender the red slippers. And your little dog too! Cue nefarious witch laugh…

At least the loan processor’s card contained a hand-written wish penned just for me: Have a wonderful day and best wishes for the new year! Translated: Currently offering 3.75% on qualified refi’s with no loan origination!

It was signed, Sincerely, Kathleen.

Not Love, Kathleen, no, Sincerely Kathleen. Sincerely is what you write when you’re sad or being stoically professional, not when your client, one who is “special every day!”, turns 54 and you’re wishing them the best for the new year.

Even Sincerely raised an eyebrow with Happy Wife. She picked up the card, read it, looked up at me and asked, “Who’s Kathleen,” with an unmistakeably derisive dwell on -een. I played it for a bit, “Oh, nobody really, just someone who evidently thinks I’m special every day.”

That was last night. Today, my day, Happy Wife’s card showed a picture of two puppies asleep, one puppy’s paw draped over the others neck. Inside: Next to you is my favorite place to be. Now that’s a birthday wish.

Okay, I agree, probably a bit too spicy for Kathleen, but just sayin’.

Hi everyone!

Begin on a high, cheery note. Helps the tension fade away.

Waiting…

No? Okay. Well, one must try to move forward with one’s day in any case.

Husbands, you’ve talked to yourself I’m sure, endured a restless night’s sleep and… Stop it. Be honest!

Okay, you’re right. More like fully awake most of the night suffering the mental anguish of rehearsing the morning conversation to come, what you’ll say, how she’ll respond, what you’ll come back with: “Yes, that’s true, but you don’t understand…” No, you think, remember what you learned from last time, don’t ever say “don’t understand”, it’s a non-starter. Say instead, “Let me explain dear what I think you’re missing.” Don’t say “missing”, too judgmental!

Crap, you’re right. You roll over in bed, again. For the twenty eighth time. The red light glows 2:39 am. Only four hours left to get it right. Right?

Well yes, right. Isn’t that the point of a discussion, to be right as possible, to get your point of view across? No. The point is to listen. Just listen and try to understand.

I see.

…

At the end of the day you sidle up to the bar stool, hop aboard and order your favorite.

You hear the bartender say: “Oliver Twist.”

You look up, “Excuse me?”

“Olive, or twist?”

“Oh, sorry, olives. Three please.”

And you laugh because she, your wife, once told you a funny story about her mother when she was asked the same question, “Oliver or twist.” But the bartender repeated it so fast she didn’t understand, couldn’t figure out what on earth Oliver Twist had to do with the drink she’d just ordered.

And it’s then that you remind yourself just how fortunate you are to be your wife’s husband. How you wouldn’t want it any other way, or with anybody else.

He twitched a bit; instincts fought the verdict, but only for a moment or two.

God speed, ol’ Jasper, God speed.

Let us consider the gross anatomy of the canine ear, shall we.

You have your external, middle, and inner ear; vertical and horizontal canals; the drum; the tympanic membrane; a network of finely articulated bones, the cochlear round (the snail looking feature), and so forth. The entire apparatus is connected through the cochlear of the inner ear via the auditory nerve to the brain. The nerve functions to carry sound waves (vibrations) to the brain, where the sounds are interpreted. Sounds like, for example, “Come Harry. Harry come!” In a normal dog whose name is Harry this would instantly trigger a cascade of activity in the brain eventually culminating in a vast network of signals sent through the nerve trunk to the muscles, instructing them to turn the dog and have it begin to run (I’d accept walking) back to its upright. Me or Happy Wife, for example.

That’s the theory anyway.

Now, if the dog named Harry happens to be an Airedale…well, evidently the normal path of sound transmission to the brain is, shall we say, altered. Evidently, instead of sounds being transmitted directly to the cerebral cortex for processing, in the Airedale brain (such as it is) they instead are diverted to a kind of “queue” shall we say, wherein the sound signals become held up or “delayed.” Consequently, owing to this delayed transmission of sound, and quite unlike the example of the normal dog, Airedales, when called, remain blissfully unaware they have been given a command. This “feature” of Airedales has been widely interpreted as selective hearing.

It’s the theory I prefer.

Now, some brave souls who have invested considerable time and effort trying to train Airedales (dubious I know) have a different interpretation. They think Airedales’ ears and brains are connected up just like normal dogs, there is no “queue” and the sounds pass directly to the cerebral cortex, but it’s there that they get hung up. They say that because Airedales philosophize over the sounds, which takes some time, that it only appears they have selective hearing. Under this interpretation, far from having a “compromised auditory faculty” (translated: they don’t listen!!), Airedales are in fact brainy.

Ahem.

Either way, one thing is unmistakeably certain about these beasts (I’ve had 5 now), they are peerless among canines for bringing out the love when seeking pardon for times of selective hearing.

A recent claim that dangerous levels of formaldehyde were detected in a West Virginia river where a chemical spill occurred recently, turns out to be bunk. Turns out the level of formaldehyde detected makes the water no more dangerous to drink than tomato juice.

Careful: (bio)chemistry ahead. You haven’t forgotten your basic organic chemistry have you?