Received a Friendster message from the lovely Rina, entitled “Regarding a very strong statement”, reading:

Everyone knows that Whitesnake’s “here I go again on my own” always beats Queen’s “Bohemian Rhapsody” in a best of karaoke match. [ed. note: post that triggered her wrath]

I apologize. I just dont appreciate lies within the blogging world.
– Rin

To which I responded:

Actually, I’m pretty sure the song is named just “Here I Go Again”, but nice try on adding some extra lyrics to the title to make it sound more impressive.

None the less, Whitesnake’s Whitesnake is clearly a rockin’ and entirely karaoke-worthy album, “Here I Go Again” being particularly perfect for wailing away on if the singer (like most) has no discernable sense of pitch.

On the other hand, the backup vocals only appear during part of the chorus (and only involve one additional voice), whereas Bohemian Rhapsody gives you license to bring an entire drunken hoard up to the mic. Plus, Queen has both pansy falsetto *and* that weird back-and-forth between falsetto and bass, which, while vastly exceeding at both ends the vocal range of anyone drunk enough to think the song is a good choice, makes for considerable entertainment.

I rest my case.

j

Several months back, I determined that, were I to get a dog, it would be a beagle.

At the time, I promised to give the issue of prospective names some serious consideration, and I’m pleased to say I’ve now come to a definitive conclusion: when/if I get a beagle, I’m naming him Darwin.

For years, parallel to this blog, I’ve maintained an offline journal. In part, it’s filled with trains of thought too personal for mass consumption. The remainder, however, consists of observations of the world, discourse on physics, economics, biochemistry, art and literature – any number of topics on which I’m completely unqualified to pontificate.

This morning, for example, I woke up suddenly and inexplicably fascinated by the apparent similarity between adjacent underwater and above-water ecosystems. Pen in hand, I scrawled down a solid page and a half on “wet/dry biomatching” (to coin a phrase), contemplating the Monterey Bay (its tall kelp forests mirrored by the evergreens of the surrounding hills), or the islands of the Hawaiian Archipelago (whose thriving coral reefs match well the dense low scrub that covers the majority of the islands themselves).

This is the sort of stuff my brain pops out if left to its own devices, and I’m never sure what to do with it. Were I a biology grad student, I could construct a PhD thesis around the observation, fleshing out the strength of the correlation, honing in on causative factors (available sunlight or nutrients, weather patterns). Instead, I simply jot my thoughts down amidst any number of others, hoping that one day my thinking will become useful – either to me, in a future endeavor, or to whomever discovers the journal, once I’m gone and pushing up daisies.

Growing up, I always wondered why Da Vinci (a personal hero), who (obviously) journalled far more insightfully than I, followed through on so few of his fantastic inventions and groundbreaking observations. Over time, I’ve come to believe the answer lay in Da Vinci’s reliance on apprentice painters – once he had sketched out a work, fleshed out the tough spots and carefully lit segments, the rest was handed off to his assistants, to people whose talent and passion was directed more towards coloring between the lines than to drawing lines to begin with. Not, I don’t think, because Da Vinci believed himself to be too important to do such work himself, but because he realized he would only be happy when doing something new, rather than expanding and improving something pre-existing.

Watching friends and colleagues at work and play, I’m convinced that distinction holds just as much today as it did in Renaissance Italy. People break down into two groups – pioneers and settlers – and very few people are as unhappy as those inadvertently trapped in the wrong camp.

Evite archaeology: digging through the invite list on a electronic invitation in an attempt to figure out how you know the sender.

[Or, lessons learned from ’70’s porn.]

Though I’ve never really been one to use pet names (attempts – honey, dear, baby – rolling off my tongue awkward and insincere), I’ve recently realized that regular use of the name ‘kitten’ could only improve a relationship.

Despite my otherwise rather rational, skeptical nature, I must admit to harboring a slew of small but long-standing superstitions. My conscious mind’s best efforts to the contrary, at gut level I’ve always strongly believed in the power of lucky underwear, for example, or the importance of holding my breath while driving through tunnels.

Similarly, while my rational brain rejects the notion of a higher power predestining the flow of the universe, some pre-rational part of me has always been fascinated by signs, by portents and premonitions – especially numeric ones. Hit my pillow just as the clock clicks to 12:34, and I’m certain the following day will be a good one.

Which is why I’ve been secretly pleased and perplexed by the number of times in the past week (four, at current count) at which my purchase total or change received rang out to exactly $14.92.

1492. Columbus and the proverbial blue ocean. But what does it mean? Am I bound for a long journey? Headed out on some more metaphoric form of exploration? About to discover something? To pioneer something? Or simply to bring death, disease and enslavement to an unsuspecting native people?

Another change in this iteration of self-aggrandizement: I’m eschewing my solitude in the blog universe to cross-link and riff off of other bloggers’ posts I enjoy.

The first victim: Ms. Aubrey Sabala, who today dissects a past relationship and its tie to a specific place – Atlanta’s Ritz-Carlton hotel.

Her post struck a chord particularly because I had just finished reading Gabriel Garcia Marquez’s One Hundred Years of Solitude, which touches a bit on ghosts, on how a place can be haunted by its past inhabitants.

That seems to me so frequently the case with relationships – a place, a song, even a smell can bring back a memory of a person, of times shared with that person, so very powerfully. I like Aubrey’s post a lot – especially the last paragraph – because I’m not sure we can ever fully banish those ghosts, completely exorcise them. The best we can do, I think, is acknowledge them, learn to live with them in the background, while focusing on the living, the here and now.

And, of course, if you happen to have an Atlanta Ritz-Carlton ghost that isn’t quite far enough gone yet to coexist with peacefully, I happen to know that particular hotel serves one hell of a dirty martini. A little liquor goes a long way in putting such hauntings in their place.