Whatcha reading?

[Flex]

The Internet Is Not What You Think It Is.

I'm pretty sure I think it's just a relentless influx of spambots and scammer accounts.

[Dr. Medulla]

The Internet Is Not What You Think It Is.

I'm pretty sure I think it's just a relentless influx of spambots and scammer accounts.

Recency bias is certainly a thing.

[Silent Majority]

Finished listening to Carney's Value(s) this morning (damn thing is loooong). Stuff that persuaded, stuff that didn't. I appreciate and approve of his larger aim to restore the meaning of value from its reduced economic definition, something he seeks in order to introduce social purpose into business and economy beyond merely extracting as much profit as possible. He is, in short, a believer in ethical capitalism. Moreover, he's a sincere advocate of addressing climate change as an existential crisis (his admiration of Greta Thunberg throughout is quite obvious). Still, he never truly succeeds in persuading me as to the validity of an ethical capitalism. Maybe he's naive, maybe I'm scarred from coming of age under neoliberalism and the gospel of Milton Friedman. I dunno, but I remained wary throughout those discussions. More problematic for me is his approach is very macro, approaching issues from the perspective of the elite decision-makers and demanding they be more social minded. Nowhere in his analysis is the fate of the worker, their living and working conditions, their happiness and misery. Labour gets buried in the same abstraction as problems faced by decision-makers. He's writing from his experience as one of those major decision-makers, so fair enough, and there's always a risk in trying to do too much in a book. But the lack of attention or concern for human beings as human beings is off-putting. In the end, tho, he's a world-class economist and I can acknowledge that the disparity between our understandings of economics limit my ability to critique his perspective.

Up next:

Justin Smith, The Internet Is Not What You Think It Is. A philosophical critique of the internet, focusing on what it has become, so badly straying from the original hopes.

Carney, I suspect, is so big picture that the little person matters little to him on an individual or small group basis. Canadians are fortunate in still having a sensible social safety net that this won't matter too much in his premiership.

[Dr. Medulla]

Carney, I suspect, is so big picture that the little person matters little to him on an individual or small group basis. Canadians are fortunate in still having a sensible social safety net that this won't matter too much in his premiership.

Given the crisis at our southern door, I'm good with a big picture guy right now. That's my problem with people on the left right now (i.e., the NDP) who are criticizing Carney as a banker and a remote elite. During normal times, I'd be very sympathetic to that critique, but what is required now is a tough fucker advocating for a sovereign Canada and who'll act to reconfigure our economy away from the US. It's the difference between being historically minded and to appreciate the context versus being dogmatic and placing ideology above events.

[Silent Majority]

Carney, I suspect, is so big picture that the little person matters little to him on an individual or small group basis. Canadians are fortunate in still having a sensible social safety net that this won't matter too much in his premiership.

Given the crisis at our southern door, I'm good with a big picture guy right now. That's my problem with people on the left right now (i.e., the NDP) who are criticizing Carney as a banker and a remote elite. During normal times, I'd be very sympathetic to that critique, but what is required now is a tough fucker advocating for a sovereign Canada and who'll act to reconfigure our economy away from the US. It's the difference between being historically minded and to appreciate the context versus being dogmatic and placing ideology above events.

Sure, good point. Capable firemen aren't to be sniffed at in the middle of a blaze.

[Silent Majority]

29) Eric - Terry Pratchett. Paperback. 1990. A short novel with the word 'Faust' scribbled out on the cover and replaced with the name of the spotty teenage title character, a necrohacker, who tries to summon a demon to grant three wishes and gets Rincewind, the cowardly protagonist from previous Discworld novels unwittingly backed by a bureaucratic Duke of Hell. Good read.

30) Borstal Boy - Brendan Behan. Kindle. 1958. I bet Behan was great company with an occasional tendency to repeat himself. A thoroughly entertaining book and the origin story of the singer of the Pogues who held the writer in adulation and eventually managed to emulate him.

31) High and Rising: A Book About De la Soul - Marcus J. Moore. Audiobook. 2024. Easy dunk, but this is not a book about De La Soul. A memoir of the guy who wrote the book with little bits of opinion about the seminal rap group and a tiny bit of biographical work. Really irritating, one of the worst books I've read all year. I'm surprised I managed to finish it. The surviving band members also hated it.

32) It's Not Easy Being Me: A Lifetime of No Respect but Plenty of Sex and Drugs - Rodney Dangerfield. Kindle. 2004. Funny stuff. At one point I murmured to myself "Wow, this guy really didn't get any respect." An inessential diversion, the best parts were when he wrote briefly about his craft.

[Dr. Medulla]

32) It's Not Easy Being Me: A Lifetime of No Respect but Plenty of Sex and Drugs - Rodney Dangerfield. Kindle. 2004. Funny stuff. At one point I murmured to myself "Wow, this guy really didn't get any respect." An inessential diversion, the best parts were when he wrote briefly about his craft.

Coincidentally, I downloaded a copy a few months—a friend was putting together a Jewish humour course and needed a copy—but haven't yet read it.

From Norm's book, which, of course, works best reading this with his voice and cadence in your head:

After my Star Search debacle I stayed in Los Angeles and worked at the Improv, The World Famous Comedy Store, and the Laugh Factory. I had decided to take a break from the road to try to perfect my material at the L.A. clubs. Every night I went onstage and afterward I hung out and talked to the audience, answering their questions, which were always the same: “What is the Bushman like in real life?” “Do you think the Bushman will come here tonight?” “If the Bushman does come here tonight, would you mind taking a picture of him with me?”

I met some great comics in Los Angeles, and the best one, and the one who became my friend and hero, was Rodney Dangerfield. Many a night I sat at the back of the Improv, watching Rodney the way a dog watches a man, or a man a god. This guy was the complete package. He looked funny, he talked funny, he even moved funny—tugging at his tie and wiping sweat off his brow—and all the while his comically bulging eyes shifted nervously from side to side. He wrote the best jokes any comic has ever written. But that’s news to nobody.

I know another side of Rodney.

I’ve got the inside scoop on big-time celebrities, and one of them is Rodney Dangerfield. Soon after meeting Rodney, when he was at the peak of his career, I learned a very distressing truth. And that truth was that success and money mean nothing when it comes to achieving happiness.

From an outsider’s perspective, it seemed Rodney had everything: money, success, fame. But there was one thing Rodney Dangerfield was never able to attain, and it plagued him his entire life. The ugly little secret in Hollywood was that Rodney Dangerfield never got any respect.

Now, I know that’s hard to believe, but hear me out. Every story Mr. Dangerfield told me was more heartbreaking than the last. It had all started when he was a child and his father told him that his dying wish was to have little Rodney sit on his lap. I thought it was such an adorable thing for a father to tell his son. I really did. Until Rodney informed me his dad was sitting in the electric chair at the time.

Rodney’s mother now had to raise the boy alone and decided to get him a dog, but she didn’t think the dog would play with a tot such as Rodney unless she tied a pork chop around the boy’s neck.

Rodney finally grew up and became a man, but things didn’t improve. One time, he recalled, a hooker informed him, “Not tonight, I have a headache.” Imagine hearing that from a prostitute.

I told Rodney that when I felt the whole world was against me, I’d find a tavern, where a bartender would always lend an understanding ear. But Rodney said he tried that once and that when he asked the bartender for a double, the bartender brought out a guy who looked just like Rodney.

Rodney told me story after story and each had an identical theme: Rodney Dangerfield, famous, wealthy comedy superstar, just didn’t get any respect, no respect at all. Are you kidding me?

I suggested a therapist, and a sad look came into Rodney’s rheumy eyes. He had seen one, yes, and the therapist—and I use the term very loosely—said Rodney was crazy. Rodney demanded a second opinion, and the cruel psychiatrist told him that he was ugly as well. I felt so bad for my friend and hero. I wanted to tell him how deeply I respected him, both as a man and an entertainer, but I knew Rodney would only think I was mocking him. Then, one night, I got the most frightening phone call of my life.

Rodney had begun to feel that perhaps it was his fault that he never received any respect, and, disconsolate, he decided to end it all. He told me over the phone that in a fit of despair he had swallowed a bottle of sleeping pills.

“Rodney,” I screamed into the phone, “please, listen, you must get to a doctor!”

“I just left his office, Norm. He told me to have a few drinks, try to get some sleep.”

I didn’t want to tell Rodney, but I thought that was one of the most disrespectful things I’d ever heard a doctor suggest. But Rodney already knew all too well. When he was away from the spotlight and alone with me, he would tell me his secret truth, all summed up in one sad sentence: “I tell you, Norm, it’s the story of my life; I don’t get no respect.”

And so it went with Rodney Dangerfield. It reminded me of that line in the Scriptures: “What doth it profit a man if he gains the whole world but don’t get no respect, no respect at all? Are you kidding me?”

[Silent Majority]

32) It's Not Easy Being Me: A Lifetime of No Respect but Plenty of Sex and Drugs - Rodney Dangerfield. Kindle. 2004. Funny stuff. At one point I murmured to myself "Wow, this guy really didn't get any respect." An inessential diversion, the best parts were when he wrote briefly about his craft.

Coincidentally, I downloaded a copy a few months—a friend was putting together a Jewish humour course and needed a copy—but haven't yet read it.

From Norm's book, which, of course, works best reading this with his voice and cadence in your head:

After my Star Search debacle I stayed in Los Angeles and worked at the Improv, The World Famous Comedy Store, and the Laugh Factory. I had decided to take a break from the road to try to perfect my material at the L.A. clubs. Every night I went onstage and afterward I hung out and talked to the audience, answering their questions, which were always the same: “What is the Bushman like in real life?” “Do you think the Bushman will come here tonight?” “If the Bushman does come here tonight, would you mind taking a picture of him with me?”

I met some great comics in Los Angeles, and the best one, and the one who became my friend and hero, was Rodney Dangerfield. Many a night I sat at the back of the Improv, watching Rodney the way a dog watches a man, or a man a god. This guy was the complete package. He looked funny, he talked funny, he even moved funny—tugging at his tie and wiping sweat off his brow—and all the while his comically bulging eyes shifted nervously from side to side. He wrote the best jokes any comic has ever written. But that’s news to nobody.

I know another side of Rodney.

I’ve got the inside scoop on big-time celebrities, and one of them is Rodney Dangerfield. Soon after meeting Rodney, when he was at the peak of his career, I learned a very distressing truth. And that truth was that success and money mean nothing when it comes to achieving happiness.

From an outsider’s perspective, it seemed Rodney had everything: money, success, fame. But there was one thing Rodney Dangerfield was never able to attain, and it plagued him his entire life. The ugly little secret in Hollywood was that Rodney Dangerfield never got any respect.

Now, I know that’s hard to believe, but hear me out. Every story Mr. Dangerfield told me was more heartbreaking than the last. It had all started when he was a child and his father told him that his dying wish was to have little Rodney sit on his lap. I thought it was such an adorable thing for a father to tell his son. I really did. Until Rodney informed me his dad was sitting in the electric chair at the time.

Rodney’s mother now had to raise the boy alone and decided to get him a dog, but she didn’t think the dog would play with a tot such as Rodney unless she tied a pork chop around the boy’s neck.

Rodney finally grew up and became a man, but things didn’t improve. One time, he recalled, a hooker informed him, “Not tonight, I have a headache.” Imagine hearing that from a prostitute.

I told Rodney that when I felt the whole world was against me, I’d find a tavern, where a bartender would always lend an understanding ear. But Rodney said he tried that once and that when he asked the bartender for a double, the bartender brought out a guy who looked just like Rodney.

Rodney told me story after story and each had an identical theme: Rodney Dangerfield, famous, wealthy comedy superstar, just didn’t get any respect, no respect at all. Are you kidding me?

I suggested a therapist, and a sad look came into Rodney’s rheumy eyes. He had seen one, yes, and the therapist—and I use the term very loosely—said Rodney was crazy. Rodney demanded a second opinion, and the cruel psychiatrist told him that he was ugly as well. I felt so bad for my friend and hero. I wanted to tell him how deeply I respected him, both as a man and an entertainer, but I knew Rodney would only think I was mocking him. Then, one night, I got the most frightening phone call of my life.

Rodney had begun to feel that perhaps it was his fault that he never received any respect, and, disconsolate, he decided to end it all. He told me over the phone that in a fit of despair he had swallowed a bottle of sleeping pills.

“Rodney,” I screamed into the phone, “please, listen, you must get to a doctor!”

“I just left his office, Norm. He told me to have a few drinks, try to get some sleep.”

I didn’t want to tell Rodney, but I thought that was one of the most disrespectful things I’d ever heard a doctor suggest. But Rodney already knew all too well. When he was away from the spotlight and alone with me, he would tell me his secret truth, all summed up in one sad sentence: “I tell you, Norm, it’s the story of my life; I don’t get no respect.”

And so it went with Rodney Dangerfield. It reminded me of that line in the Scriptures: “What doth it profit a man if he gains the whole world but don’t get no respect, no respect at all? Are you kidding me?”

The Lord bless and keep Norm for showing how much he loved Rodney and still poking fun at him

[Dr. Medulla]

Finished reading Sam Adams' book. It's a bit rough because he died before completing it. Fascinating stuff for a number of reasons. Adams was a CIA analyst in the 60s who found that the military and White House were undercounting the number of enemy in Vietnam. Between body counts, defections, and desertions, the official numbers made it seem like victory was imminent. The enemy just couldn't replenish itself. Yet that wasn't the case. When intelligence revealed a massive enemy offensive impending—Tet—the assumption was that it was desperation, a suicide attack, because they lacked the numbers to succeed. Which, of course, was wrong. Adams and others in the CIA knew this, but political warfare kept the more accurate numbers from being used. Adams believed that the military and White House knew this, that two sets of books were being kept, but that it couldn't reveal the truth without losing public support. Things repeated themselves when Adams found that the number of Khmer Rouge was being deliberately underestimated—this time by the CIA—which again had disastrous consequences. One of the curious things about reading this is that I was drawn to Adams' side, even tho he was a full-on believer in the war effort. (He does, however, mention another analyst who predicted in 1965 that the US would lose, calling the day Hanoi would win down to the month a decade in advance and why: the public would not accept a slog and that's what the war would be.) So even loathing what the US was doing there, that this guy was arguing for a realistic assessment to properly fight them, it was an odd experience. But from the perspective of someone fighting for truth amidst the politics of lies, it was rather engrossing.

Next up:

Warren Zanes, Deliver Me From Nowhere. A few weeks back, SM suggested this as a Springsteen book I might like. So we shall. Yes, we certainly shall.

[Dr. Medulla]

Finished listening to Smith this morning. Don't have an opinion about it, largely because the subject matter/approach—a philosophical analysis of the nature of the internet—was a bit too involved for me to follow as an audiobook. I might return to it someday in text form.

Started this …

Harry MacLean, Starkweather. I did some reading about Charley Starkweather when I was researching my diss. His story—his and Caril Ann Fugate's, that is—has become the go-to for thrill-killer stories ever since. I'm convinced it's because of that name. I came across a number of thrill-kill stories from the same era, including one that had a lot of the same details. But it's Starkweather who is remembered. Anyway, I've had this in the queue for a bit, but reading that book abouts Hans Sprungfeld and Nebraska, which includes a chapter about Starkweather and Fugate, led me to go to MacLean.

[Flex]

Finished listening to Smith this morning. Don't have an opinion about it, largely because the subject matter/approach—a philosophical analysis of the nature of the internet—was a bit too involved for me to follow as an audiobook. I might return to it someday in text form.

Started this …

Harry MacLean, Starkweather. I did some reading about Charley Starkweather when I was researching my diss. His story—his and Caril Ann Fugate's, that is—has become the go-to for thrill-killer stories ever since. I'm convinced it's because of that name. I came across a number of thrill-kill stories from the same era, including one that had a lot of the same details. But it's Starkweather who is remembered. Anyway, I've had this in the queue for a bit, but reading that book abouts Hans Sprungfeld and Nebraska, which includes a chapter about Starkweather and Fugate, led me to go to MacLean.

That sounds like it might be a good audiobook for car rides with the missus or something. I actually did a Wikipedia dive on him and his girlfriend recently-ish, probably from reading up on the making of natural born killers or something.

[Dr. Medulla]

Finished listening to Smith this morning. Don't have an opinion about it, largely because the subject matter/approach—a philosophical analysis of the nature of the internet—was a bit too involved for me to follow as an audiobook. I might return to it someday in text form.

Started this …

Harry MacLean, Starkweather. I did some reading about Charley Starkweather when I was researching my diss. His story—his and Caril Ann Fugate's, that is—has become the go-to for thrill-killer stories ever since. I'm convinced it's because of that name. I came across a number of thrill-kill stories from the same era, including one that had a lot of the same details. But it's Starkweather who is remembered. Anyway, I've had this in the queue for a bit, but reading that book abouts Hans Sprungfeld and Nebraska, which includes a chapter about Starkweather and Fugate, led me to go to MacLean.

That sounds like it might be a good audiobook for car rides with the missus or something. I actually did a Wikipedia dive on him and his girlfriend recently-ish, probably from reading up on the making of natural born killers or something.

If you want a copy, let me know and I'll PM you a link.

[Dr. Medulla]

Finished the Nebraska book last night. I'm at a loss what the point was other than for the author to gush about the album and Springsteen. There isn't a whole lot of analysis of the record—not relative to the length of the book—but instead repeated claims of its earth-shattering, history-altering significance. Seemingly all of musiciandom stopped what they were doing when it came out and had their minds blown. And what is that significance? Releasing demos as a record? Recording alone in a bedroom? Insight into a major's artist's depression and the crossroads of superstardom? In the end, the book depends on a person already thinking Nebraska is a massively important record and wanting confirmation than proving the claim. It's a zine turned into a book.


Jim Cullen, Bridge and Tunnel Boys. Undaunted, I'll do some more Springsteen. A student wrote a review about this last fall and I'm curious whether it's something I can assign as a course book going forward, so I'm giving this a shot.

[Flex]

Finished the Nebraska book last night. I'm at a loss what the point was other than for the author to gush about the album and Springsteen.

Well, like all Bruce Springsteen books if you take the first word of every line in the book it becomes a set of instructions for how to rebuild your carburator.

[Dr. Medulla]

Finished the Nebraska book last night. I'm at a loss what the point was other than for the author to gush about the album and Springsteen.

Well, like all Bruce Springsteen books if you take the first word of every line in the book it becomes a set of instructions for how to rebuild your carburator.

That would explain a lot of the words I didn't understand!