Where is He Now....Looking for Sonny (Sik Phuk) Yung

I'd completely lost touch with my first drum teacher, a little know but brilliant performer named "Sonny" (Sik Phuk) Yung. A Korean by birth, he came to Canada as a 20 year old to seek fame and fortune and left half a year later with Chlamydia. In those few months of lessons with him I learnt more about the art of musical performance than in all my years of study that were to follow.
Sonny used to say; "You got to putting good show...every time!!" or "Why you no having fun, music make you happy...every time!!" He wasn't a great technician but he swung like nobody's business and thanks to regular contributor Dixxx and YouTube I've found him once again.He taught me that technique was a means to an end and not the end itself. As such I came to loathe Drum corps even though I was studying to be a percussionist. Watch this next clip http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=KFtc_rpg-Wg&feature=related and see if you agree that it is an awesome technical display, precise beyond words, and yet at the end of the day remains a lot of sound and fury, signifying nothing. Sure they're hot but could they move an audience to tears like Sik Phuk??
I'd always thought that drum corps was to music as body building was to sports/athletics, both concentrating on only a couple of parameters and raising them to super human levels. After the initial "awe" factor wore off I was left cold....until I saw the following clip of drummer girls http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=PNgPIx45Lk0 (again Korean...they say you are never really cured of yellow fever once you get it) in this drum corps style performance. Drums played by sexy Oriental chicks in suggestive poses, what's not to like??? So what if they're probably all gay and doing each other...a guy can dream can't he??!! (in fact gimme a minute....Ok, I'm back)
Flashy, sexy, precise, whatever....I'm sticking with Sonny Yung, a drummer who had more Seoul in his little finger than the whole lot of them (cue rimshot).

A True Story or: a Urinary Tract

"Carlos Castaneda takes us through that moment of twilight, through that crack in the universe between daylight and dark into a world not merely other than our own, but of an entirely different order of reality."

So writes Walter Goldschmidt in his foreward to "The Teachings of Don Juan" by Carlos Castaneda. I've never heard of Goldschmidt although he is remarkable for the 9:2 consonant to vowel ratio in his last name and I'm mostly aware of Castaneda's works because of the Chili Cook-off episode on The Simpsons (season 8 - "The Mysterious Voyage of Homer").

Nevertheless, the tales of the Yaqui Indian shaman and his use of psychotropic drugs (peyote, datura, etc.) to induce a heightened state of consciousness, provided a pseudo-intellectual rationale for millions of people, from teenage slackers to pompous academics, to get totally wasted.

I've never needed drugs to experience the other worlds that sorround us. Why just yesterday I had one of those perceptual time warps that Castaneda refers to as moments of power.

warning: the following story deals with male urination. If you are in any way uncomfortable with the subject please leave the room now.

We have a small powder room off the kitchen where I was now urinating, standing as is my wont, prior to the preparation of a delicious lasagna. (don't worry, I always wash my hands).

This was no different than any of the thousands of other such experiences I've had only I started to detect a quiet fizzing noise that, as I listened, grew louder with each passing second. It was a noticeable crescendo, as though someone were gradually moving a glass of alka-seltzer to my ear and I started to become alarmed. I stood motionless, looked down and sure enough there were bubbles but not the roiling, boisterous display one would expect to go hand in hand with such a noise. In mere seconds I had entered the twilight zone where my own urine was apparently effervescing enough to scare the hell out of me. And then, just as quickly, the mystery was solved and the universe returned to its rightful order....I had set some ground beef to brown for the Bolognese sauce before I went to pee, hence that sizzling sound as the stove element grew hotter under the meat filled pot...phewphhh!!!

Fears that I'd contracted CUS (carbonated urine syndrome) were quickly dispelled and I went on with my day.

Coincidentally, May is "CUS Awareness Month" in Canada. If you have any of the warning signs i.e.

• A not altogether unpleasant urethral tingliness



• A pervasive odor of fermenting cabbage



• foamy bedding

please contact your urologist immediately.

Another New Sponsor

Long a staple of Argentinian family dining, Himmler's has finally made it's way north. Famous for its quality food at low prices most Americans and Canadians are willing to let bygones be bargains and have flocked to the 1st US franchise, just outside of Detroit.

Of course the founder, SS man Heinrich Himmler, is the source of much controversy even long after his death, cryogenic storage, and several failed attempts at cloning. The restaurant's opening last January caused quite a furor (or should we say führer) but things have calmed down since then.

Himmler's famous stylized S-shaped "geschnitteneKartoffelnbrietenimÖl" or french fries (pictured below) have become an instant sensation as have many of the other Germano-American dishes. Next time you're in the Detroit/Windsor corridor stop by Himmler's....that's an order!!!

Spring Cleaning: The Forbidden Dance

There's a comfort level and intimacy shared by old friends. You know each others secrets, you've been there during good times and bad, and you accept each other, warts and all.

One such platonic friend (I'll call her Lise because it's easier to type than say...Genevieve) recently had a great idea.

We were discussing the sorry state of our dirty domiciles when she suggested that we could alternately visit each other and do a thorough day long cleaning followed by a home cooked meal.

I eagerly and innocently accepted, not realizing the dangerous ground that I was now treading upon until a later conversation with my GF Phyllis. I told her the idea and here is her reply: "At this point I don't care who you fuck but if I find out that you cleaned stuff for her that you wouldn't for me then it's over!!!"

I could imagine her rage...."You wet mopped her vestibule!!???!! and what about your front door, that knob didn't just polish itself.......(crying) you didn't dust her ficus did you??!!!"

Realtionships, even long distance ones, are replete with minefields and I'd gone ahead and unwittingly discovered yet another one. It occurred to me that for centuries men have been trading housework for sex. The image of wifely favors, yet to be doled out, motivating a strenuous bout of vacuuming, toilet cleaning or a myriad of other drudgeries we'd sooner avoid. I freely admit to doing this and come on guys...you know we've all been there. We're all chore whores and we know that a little elbow grease is better than any sex lube on the market!!.

Even though Lise and I will be jointly cleaning each others houses it will be Phyllis who reaps the benefits. Spring cleaning with its pushing and pulling, rubbing and buffing, delving into nooks and crannies (all this followed by a nice meal) is a great way for platonic friends to have physical, quasi-sexual fun without crossing any forbidden boundaries. If Phyllis trusts me to follow through with this plan she will show up in May to a spotless house and an eager boyfriend.....all because she let me sweep with another woman.

A Passover Story

Last year I posted a Passover primer (apr. 8, 2007) to bring my gentile readership up to speed on this beloved holiday. This year we can add a layer of meaning, (especially for Canadians and hockey fans everywhere), for Passover, as a rule, occurs during the NHL playoffs and this bond is forged so deeply in our psyches as to render the two virtually inseperable. As a youth I still remember my Grandpa Boris intoning the age-old prayers from the haggadah (story of exodus) or was it Canadien's play by play man, Danny Gallivan??

This year the tradition continued as the first Seder (or Passover ceremony of gastronomical overindulgence) coincided with a crucial game 6 (Bruins vs. Canadiens, round 1). As we made our way through the retelling of the story of the great exodus from Egypt the parallels were unmistakeable. I felt a kinship with my ancient ancestors as never before. Just as the Israelites acted with great haste as they prepared to flee from the murderous Pharaoh so did we, thousands of years later, as we zipped through prayers and wolfed down umpteen courses in order to free ourselves for a trip to the promised land....the den (or as we call it The Land of TV and Sofas).

My beloved father had to entertain the few guests who weren't interested in hockey and as such never did make it upstairs. Much like Moses he never got to cross the river Jordan (in this case a tastefully carpeted flight of stairs) and had to content himself with the knowledge that his offspring had.

And what of our beloved Canadiens??? As did the land of Israel, their playoff venture started out with vigour and optimism only to fall on hard times at the hands of a long time foe(see: Boston Bruins- The Arabs of the NHL. wikipedia). And yet....there is still reason for hope.

Tonight is game 7....next week in Philadelphia????

There's Gold in Them There Hills

....and it's black gold too but not the Texas Tea variety spoken of in the Beverly Hillbillies title song. I'm talkin' Montreal Silt and if you hear me out you'll be smacking your forehead and asking yourself "why didn't I think of that??" any minute now.

After a near record breaking winter, Montreal is still riddled with massive piles of snow and ice that cling tenaciously to our lawns and parking areas despite the recent spate of good weather. These are not the pristine, fluffy, alabaster heaps of January but rather the gray and dingy afterbirth, the quasi-corpse of a once healthy season waiting to be put out of its misery by the April sun. As the hills melt and shrink the gray turns to black as the crust of sediment condenses and this is where I come in!!

Listen up: Salt is used to reduce inflammation and leech out toxins from the body, carbon has well known curative properties, and any good exfoliant will have it's fair share of silicates. Throw in a few trace elements (and animal byproducts), add a bit of spring water, package it all handsomely et voila......a facial mud treatment for the home that can rival any available at even the finest spa!! Road salt, sand, and sludge that endure weeks of the freeze thaw cycle and a healthy dose of solar radiation are magically transformed into a top of the line health and beauty product!!

(warning: may cause tuberculosis....will probably cause typhus. Women whose breasts start to enlarge should immediately call a doctor, or me. Not for use on badgers or other members of the mustelidae family. May contain car and/or truck. If a persistent, burning rash appears on the area of application don't be alarmed...the product is working! Should not come in contact with the mucous membranes...ironically though, it may contain mucous......probably hobo mucous)

Tomorrow is set aside for harvesting the precious silt. I'll set out early with various spatulas and skimming tools and a van stocked with empty pails waiting to be filled to the brim. Once home I'll start loading the miracle mud into designer containers and while this product should market itself I'll still be looking for a spokesmodel just to be on the safe side. To date I've only had one application......if any of you out there are interested don't be shy...give me a shout.

While I may be the very 1st to market the stuff, a few locals have known about it for years....ever wonder why the women of St. Hyacinthe look so good???? And rumor has it that Celine Dion had a fresh vat of it flown to Vegas every week to share with her staff and give facials to the homeless (bless her heart).

Use Neige Noir der Montreal because let's face it...you could use a little help.

And Then There's Mauderation

What was I thinking?? It was late, I'm overworked and stressed and things here at The Blob got a little out of hand yesterday with a picture that would have brought an embarrassed rosiness to the cheeks of even a seasoned gynecologist.

I realized today that I can't be trusted and would need to hire an arbiter of good taste (it's a given that none of my readership can be trusted in that capacity either). In that light it was obvious that my first call would go out to Bea Arthur. Long revered as the 5th lady of American TV comedy (with apologies to Linda Lavin) for her pioneering work in the feminist sitcom Maude and later in Golden Girls, http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=NglGyn8yE20

Ms. Arthur has been busy of late on the college lecture circuit where her discussions of ethics or the lack of same in American popular culture play to SRO audiences nationwide.

A bit of arm twisting, a free crate of Blob Gear and it was a done deal. From here on in Ms. Arthur will parse and vet all posts before they go to print and has an iron clad agreement that her editorial veto will go uncontested.

I did get one concession however and any post can be re-enstated to it's original form if 3 or more people write in with an official request.

Case in point is my photo-shopped image of the faux Jewish Porn film; Butt Mitzvah vol.12 which has garnered so much attention from the Arab world. Arthur was appalled but withdrew her veto when I told her about the post's popularity. As luck would have it the image has even showed up on a major Russian news site!! http://newsru.co.il/pict/big/182322.html (Editor's note: Our knowledge of Cyrillic is not what it used to be...this could merely be neo-nazi propaganda)

And so, with a new sheriff in town, in the name of good taste and per Bea Arthur's recommendation, the vag pic has been downsized but the product depicted is still available from my catalogue. (she ordered two!!)

Too Much Information

I'm a curious fellow by nature and try to study and understand people who practice alternative lifestyles. There is however a show on CBC called Steven and Chris...sort of like Martha Stewart meets Queer Eye, that never fails to raise my ire if my random channel hopping leads to their show. See if you can tough out this clip http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=XBkEeyQe8yA and then see if you agree with me...I'm not a violent man but there's something about these two that makes me want to shoot them in the face.

One lifestyle choice I'm not a big fan of is body modification. Of course anything is OK in moderation (the distilled and diluted essence of human feces is used in some perfumes for instance

see: skatole)

but the indignities people inflict upon themselves is beyond the pale. Research led me to some sites too revolting to name where a myriad of attention starved losers pierce and cut parts and indulge in procedures I didn't even know existed...have you ever heard of a urethral reroute??? I hadn't until a few minutes ago and now I've seen pics of it!!

The internet truly is the wellspring of information that it promised to be. A generation or so ago people that knew lots of facts about many things were called "trivia buffs". The topics were more or less limited to entertainment, sports and a few others but today anything goes...it's all out there only a click a way. Yesterday's trivia buff is today's infomaniac. I myself am an infomaniac but this urethral reroute idea (along with a host of other bizarre things guys do to their dicks) has me rethinking the whole quest for knowledge.

What is clear though is that there's a large sub-culture out there attracted to this subversive form of supposed beautification and where there's a sub-culture there's also a fortune to made.

Genital adornment is the next big thing and with this in mind have I got a product for you ladies out there. Many of you have opted for labiaplasties, sizing down the labia majora for that porn star look after the girls in the shower commented on your meat curtains once too often. (BTW women with large ones are more than twice as likely to survive falls from high places because of the increased wind resistance ...see: flying squirrel)

I got to thinkin' "meat curtains...hmmmm" and so was born the concept of the labial drawstring and sconce ensemble. Not only is it decorative but it helps control that unwanted flapping noise. It's still in the prototype phase as I wait for my assistant to heal but it should be available at Home Depot by July.

Spring has Sprung

As my driveway glacier slowly recedes and Mt. Christolopoulous (as we call the majestic snowpile at my neighbour's house) turns to Lake Christolopoulous, it's safe to say that we have survived the winter of '08!! Spring, with it's bold promise of hope and renewal is at hand and it couldn't have come a moment too soon. The birds are back waking me at 5 a.m. with their delightful cacophony of joy (note to self: stop at Canadian Tire, buy Acme Bird Zapper) and the melting snow reveals tons of rotting animal feces that will be subsumed by our gardens later to become the tomatoes of August (that's also the name of my next novel).

Listen here to Nina Simone's take on the Beatles classic "Here Comes the Sun". Still an optimistic song, Simone, with a slower tempo and her moaning emphasis on key words adds a layer of meaning, the sense of relief after having survived an ordeal. We Nor'Easterners can relate: : http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=LSSIlx9hiu8&feature=related

Spring too has it's moments of dread as any flood victim will attest but for me the fear lurks underground and, as I write this, is most likely stirring from his hivernal torpor, rubbing his beady little eyes, priming his trowel like claws, and feeling a might peckish after a 4 month fast.

I have a groundhog problem and nothing I do can stop the plundering beast. Budding flowers are routinely devoured, garbage bags violated, garden and lawn booby trapped with tunnel entrances and this brazen creature has the nerve to sun himself on my deck every morning as I watch helplessly!!

Also known as the whistlepig or land beaver this voracious and crafty earth moving machine taunts me at every turn. This is no ridiculous hand puppet as was Bill Murray's nemesis in Caddy Shack. This is the real deal; nature red in tooth and claw and armed with eons of well evolved survival skills. I almost brained it with a large rock from 30 paces once but that was as close as I'd get and now I find out that they have an uncommonly thick cranium and could easily survive a blow to the head that would jellify the brains of most other rodents.

And so another inevitable rite of spring awaits me, another round of stop gap landfill projects and pointless cayenne pepper dusting of flower beds.

This kind of brings to mind a different Bill Murray film and if any Hollywood type execs are listening OY have I got a sequel for you!! Groundhog Day II. Just think of it.....the exact same movie, don't change a thing (except the title a little bit) and in this, the irony age, people will flock to theatres or at very least revisit the movie on DVD. Small cash outlay, huge returns, what could be better??!!?? Call my people, we'll book a meeting....off to Spice Depot to pick up my bulk order of cayenne.

Thematic Analysis - Rating the TV Classics*

A great TV theme song does more than set the tone for the show to follow. At best it can become part of our personal history and may even serve to define and cement a generation.

Today The Blob will deal only with originally composed works and avoid complicating the issue with great public domain openings like The Lone Ranger (Rossini's bravura William Tell Overture) or The Sandy Duncan Show (Lutoslawski's perky Di Sonori FractalisVII).

Because TV theme songs are such a matter of taste I'm loathe to rank them save for my #1 selection. What follows then is merely a list of the best in no particular order. A good theme song should always be a well wrought musical composition and must properly set the mood for it's parent show. Mere melodic fragments like The X Files theme are not eligible and neither are songs borrowed from movies later turned into a TV series. Here then, off the top of my head and starting with kid's programming, is the list:

THE LIST

KIDS

Sesame Street: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=G16kE5N4Rv4

Mister Rogers: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=8FTac2fuaMs&feature=related

Friendly Giant:http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=tLUwzFS1Vg4&feature=related (at 1:30)

The Flintsones: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=xm7lTkxSuRk&feature=related

Bugs Bunny: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=liHQ217pVVU&feature=related

Johhny Quest: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=xV_-u9sxYZM (someone should arrange this for brass band!)

Spiderman: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=_3YSMG5vlwY&feature=related

SITCOMS

I Love Lucy: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=cGm3XV1WWlQ&feature=related

I Dream of Jeannie: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=bNg-xClEnqM

Sanford and Son: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=1WqazleR3FE

Mary Tyler Moore: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=oBTWF1bDPn0

Room 222: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=pcaUluahdwM (in 7/4!!)

Batman: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=IQBobrCBTNI&feature=related

Beverly Hillbillies: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=zZp2JcmUU6o

DRAMA

Perry Mason: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=ViP2UGjdND0&feature=related

Hawaii 5-0: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=AepyGm9Me6w (kam fong as chin ho!!)

Star Trek: http://http://www.youtube.com/watch?

Buffy the Vampire Slayer: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=84uqTKt2roo

Mannix: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=D_1Ax4vliO8

Mission Impossible:http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=JSsnLUSag7g&feature=related

Secret Agent Man:http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=JiSRX7ghxiU

MISCELLANEOUS

Wide World of Sports:http://www.youtube.com/watchv=DN7i5a5U1oQ&feature=related ( at 13")

AND THE WINNER IS:

Hockey Night in Canada....a great tune that captures the spirit of the game, spans generations, and binds an oft divided land.

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=dEHiiVQ-XpQ

*Historical footnote: Given the vast number of choices available to today's viewer the pressure to capture his/her attention within the first few seconds has become of primary importance. In prime time, ads between shows have all but been eliminated and theme music has been shortened way down (Curb Your Enthusiasm) or virtually eliminated (Lost). This more than any other reason explains the preponderance of old titles in The Blob list (along with perhaps a dash of nostalgia. )

Taking a Stab at Music Criticism

....and so The Blobster, having conquered the world of socio-political commentary now takes his 1st fledgling flaps in the rarefied air of music criticism......



MUD BATH AT CHRIST CHURCH CATHEDRAL



It's been said that attending a trombone choir concert is akin to having a luxurious hour long mud bath at a spa (said by me...just then). Saturday afternoon was no exception as the McGill University Trombone Choir under the expert and bear-like direction of David Martin provided 60 or so low brass fans with more than an hour of solid entertainment.

Proudly sporting their red MTC T-shirts the group got off to a slow start in Bach's Passacaglia and Fugue in C Minor but hit their stride after a minute or so. A high level of musicianship was in evidence throughout the concert but never moreso than in an exciting and daredevilishly difficult arrangement of Rossini's William Tell Overture for trombone quartet. This was jaw dropping, professional level virtuosity that made me forget that there was no orchestra in the room.

Somewhat less successful was student composer Asher Vijay Tiwari Yampolsky's foray into Renaissance brass polyphony simply entitled Sonata. It was 10 minutes too long and said little other than that the composer had a good command of the style. For this piece the choir was augmented to 20 players with invited pro and student trombonists clad entirely in black. One can only wonder why Mr. Martin didn't spring for MTC T-shirts for the extra musicians or was it his intention to let us know that they were outsiders? What next??.... yellow arm bands???

Redemption was at hand in the Wagner finale with Prof. Winston Purdy (as Wotan) proving a worthy adversary to the group of 10 trombonists. Intonation was excellent, climaxes were well measured and profound and at the close maestro Martin looked suitably proud of his young charges.







P.S. speaking of the William Tell overture here's a performance (again from the Chinese...see world's greatest orchestra in archives) that defies explanation. http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=pzRWHuFD4Ik&feature=related Intuition tells me that there's more here than meets the eye. Perhaps music therapy for a group of psychotic rage-aholics...sublimating their murderous urges by playing symphonic barn burners in a placid, soporific style. (great idea actually!!) Those Chinese are so far ahead of us it's not even funny any more!!

Attention, Attention: Load up on Your Ritalin

I hate to do this to my sex, midget wrestling, funny picture obsessed audience but here is a rather long and provocative article reprinted from the NY Times at significant risk.

Whether book reader or mouth breather it'll be worth your while to leave your societal ADD under your pillow and plow your way through.

After an entire week of T, A, and E, I need to elevate the tone a bit and re-achieve a semblance of editorial balance. This will take around 5 minutes which I realize is an eternity for people who have A) short attention spans or B) lives.

See you on the other side:

What Shamu Taught Me About a Happy Marriage


By AMY SUTHERLAND
Published: June 25, 2006

AS I wash dishes at the kitchen sink, my husband paces behind me, irritated. "Have you seen my keys?" he snarls, then huffs out a loud sigh and stomps from the room with our dog, Dixie, at his heels, anxious over her favorite human's upset.
In the past I would have been right behind Dixie. I would have turned off the faucet and joined the hunt while trying to soothe my husband with bromides like, "Don't worry, they'll turn up." But that only made him angrier, and a simple case of missing keys soon would become a full-blown angst-ridden drama starring the two of us and our poor nervous dog.
Now, I focus on the wet dish in my hands. I don't turn around. I don't say a word. I'm using a technique I learned from a dolphin trainer.
I love my husband. He's well read, adventurous and does a hysterical rendition of a northern Vermont accent that still cracks me up after 12 years of marriage.
But he also tends to be forgetful, and is often tardy and mercurial. He hovers around me in the kitchen asking if I read this or that piece in The New Yorker when I'm trying to concentrate on the simmering pans. He leaves wadded tissues in his wake. He suffers from serious bouts of spousal deafness but never fails to hear me when I mutter to myself on the other side of the house. "What did you say?" he'll shout.
These minor annoyances are not the stuff of separation and divorce, but in sum they began to dull my love for Scott. I wanted — needed — to nudge him a little closer to perfect, to make him into a mate who might annoy me a little less, who wouldn't keep me waiting at restaurants, a mate who would be easier to love.
So, like many wives before me, I ignored a library of advice books and set about improving him. By nagging, of course, which only made his behavior worse: he'd drive faster instead of slower; shave less frequently, not more; and leave his reeking bike garb on the bedroom floor longer than ever.
We went to a counselor to smooth the edges off our marriage. She didn't understand what we were doing there and complimented us repeatedly on how well we communicated. I gave up. I guessed she was right — our union was better than most — and resigned myself to stretches of slow-boil resentment and occasional sarcasm.
Then something magical happened. For a book I was writing about a school for exotic animal trainers, I started commuting from Maine to California, where I spent my days watching students do the seemingly impossible: teaching hyenas to pirouette on command, cougars to offer their paws for a nail clipping, and baboons to skateboard.
I listened, rapt, as professional trainers explained how they taught dolphins to flip and elephants to paint. Eventually it hit me that the same techniques might work on that stubborn but lovable species, the American husband.
The central lesson I learned from exotic animal trainers is that I should reward behavior I like and ignore behavior I don't. After all, you don't get a sea lion to balance a ball on the end of its nose by nagging. The same goes for the American husband.
Back in Maine, I began thanking Scott if he threw one dirty shirt into the hamper. If he threw in two, I'd kiss him. Meanwhile, I would step over any soiled clothes on the floor without one sharp word, though I did sometimes kick them under the bed. But as he basked in my appreciation, the piles became smaller.
I was using what trainers call "approximations," rewarding the small steps toward learning a whole new behavior. You can't expect a baboon to learn to flip on command in one session, just as you can't expect an American husband to begin regularly picking up his dirty socks by praising him once for picking up a single sock. With the baboon you first reward a hop, then a bigger hop, then an even bigger hop. With Scott the husband, I began to praise every small act every time: if he drove just a mile an hour slower, tossed one pair of shorts into the hamper, or was on time for anything.
I also began to analyze my husband the way a trainer considers an exotic animal. Enlightened trainers learn all they can about a species, from anatomy to social structure, to understand how it thinks, what it likes and dislikes, what comes easily to it and what doesn't. For example, an elephant is a herd animal, so it responds to hierarchy. It cannot jump, but can stand on its head. It is a vegetarian.
The exotic animal known as Scott is a loner, but an alpha male. So hierarchy matters, but being in a group doesn't so much. He has the balance of a gymnast, but moves slowly, especially when getting dressed. Skiing comes naturally, but being on time does not. He's an omnivore, and what a trainer would call food-driven.
Once I started thinking this way, I couldn't stop. At the school in California, I'd be scribbling notes on how to walk an emu or have a wolf accept you as a pack member, but I'd be thinking, "I can't wait to try this on Scott."
On a field trip with the students, I listened to a professional trainer describe how he had taught African crested cranes to stop landing on his head and shoulders. He did this by training the leggy birds to land on mats on the ground. This, he explained, is what is called an "incompatible behavior," a simple but brilliant concept.
Rather than teach the cranes to stop landing on him, the trainer taught the birds something else, a behavior that would make the undesirable behavior impossible. The birds couldn't alight on the mats and his head simultaneously.
At home, I came up with incompatible behaviors for Scott to keep him from crowding me while I cooked. To lure him away from the stove, I piled up parsley for him to chop or cheese for him to grate at the other end of the kitchen island. Or I'd set out a bowl of chips and salsa across the room. Soon I'd done it: no more Scott hovering around me while I cooked.
I followed the students to SeaWorld San Diego, where a dolphin trainer introduced me to least reinforcing syndrome (L. R. S.). When a dolphin does something wrong, the trainer doesn't respond in any way. He stands still for a few beats, careful not to look at the dolphin, and then returns to work. The idea is that any response, positive or negative, fuels a behavior. If a behavior provokes no response, it typically dies away.
In the margins of my notes I wrote, "Try on Scott!"
It was only a matter of time before he was again tearing around the house searching for his keys, at which point I said nothing and kept at what I was doing. It took a lot of discipline to maintain my calm, but results were immediate and stunning. His temper fell far shy of its usual pitch and then waned like a fast-moving storm. I felt as if I should throw him a mackerel.
Now he's at it again; I hear him banging a closet door shut, rustling through papers on a chest in the front hall and thumping upstairs. At the sink, I hold steady. Then, sure enough, all goes quiet. A moment later, he walks into the kitchen, keys in hand, and says calmly, "Found them."
Without turning, I call out, "Great, see you later."
Off he goes with our much-calmed pup.
After two years of exotic animal training, my marriage is far smoother, my husband much easier to love. I used to take his faults personally; his dirty clothes on the floor were an affront, a symbol of how he didn't care enough about me. But thinking of my husband as an exotic species gave me the distance I needed to consider our differences more objectively.
I adopted the trainers' motto: "It's never the animal's fault." When my training attempts failed, I didn't blame Scott. Rather, I brainstormed new strategies, thought up more incompatible behaviors and used smaller approximations. I dissected my own behavior, considered how my actions might inadvertently fuel his. I also accepted that some behaviors were too entrenched, too instinctive to train away. You can't stop a badger from digging, and you can't stop my husband from losing his wallet and keys.
PROFESSIONALS talk of animals that understand training so well they eventually use it back on the trainer. My animal did the same. When the training techniques worked so beautifully, I couldn't resist telling my husband what I was up to. He wasn't offended, just amused. As I explained the techniques and terminology, he soaked it up. Far more than I realized.
Last fall, firmly in middle age, I learned that I needed braces. They were not only humiliating, but also excruciating. For weeks my gums, teeth, jaw and sinuses throbbed. I complained frequently and loudly. Scott assured me that I would become used to all the metal in my mouth. I did not.
One morning, as I launched into yet another tirade about how uncomfortable I was, Scott just looked at me blankly. He didn't say a word or acknowledge my rant in any way, not even with a nod.
I quickly ran out of steam and started to walk away. Then I realized what was happening, and I turned and asked, "Are you giving me an L. R. S.?" Silence. "You are, aren't you?"
He finally smiled, but his L. R. S. has already done the trick. He'd begun to train me, the American wife.

There that wasn't so bad was it and girls this may just save your relationship!! Accept men as they are and if you're rushing to prepare a meal (let's say) taking a few minutes to set out a snack or dream up some busy work will save many hours and hundreds of dollars in marital counselling. We'll do the same as soon as the game is over or we get back from poker.

2 Days ago: "T" Yesterday: "A" Today: "E"

I'll admit the T & A material was a tad vile but in the interest of satisfying my customers I'm obligated to add the last piece to that most unholy of trinities by devoting yet another post to the euphonium.

When I began The Blob 2 years ago I'd never have guessed that tits, ass, and euphonium would become the rallying cry of a generation (a rallying cry of degeneration maybe).

At any rate Dixxx wrote in recently to proudly trumpet his purchase of a smallish baritone which is exactly the same as a euphonium save for a couple of minor details. (note to angry, loser, low brass players everywhere: I'm right!!)

If I may digress for a second, isn't it funny how one can proudly trumpet something but not proudly euphonium anything?? But anyways....

He also made mention of midget wrestling and I didn't get the connection save for the obvious fact that even though you're instrument is small you can still make nice music and even though someone is small he can still have a heart as big as all outdoors even while he's being exploited and humiliated like some circus freak.

I'll eschew the facile penis size/euphonium size jokes (you can make up your own at this juncture) but will instead direct you to this clip. If you're like me then it will change your opinion of this peripheral instrument forever.

Forget the cello, forget the violin...the euphonium is clearly the closest thing to the human voice we've come up with, especially if that voice has been in close contact with a tub of yogourt.

Radiant and beautiful are words that I thought I'd never use to describe the sound of a euph but I'm a big enough man to admit I was dead wrong. Here, have a listen: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=VNQcPZFbnwE&feature=related

Coincidentally that's the exact same piece Dr. Evil and Mini Me are seen rehearsing in the ad.

In closing here's little something for Dixxx. If this isn't quite your cup of tea blame him...I gotta go practice. http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=qE9PyuyVTEI

Andrea Dworkin Weighs In

Andrea Dworkin (that's really her at left) was a key player in the feminist struggle for equality of the 70's. Her take no prisoners, deadly serious polemics on sex, sexuality, and violence against women influenced a generation and while many post-feminists now dismiss her strident approach and reject many of her arguments she remains to this day a pivotal and controversial figure in the women's movement.


A couple of quotations should give you a fair idea of her views:



ROMANCE "In seduction, the rapist often bothers to buy a bottle of wine.''

SEXUAL INTERCOURSE "Intercourse remains a means, or the means, of physiologically mak ing a woman: communicating to her, cell by cell, her own inferior status . . . pushing and thrusting till she gives in.''

and so on......

Though dead now for almost 3 years she's somehow been keeping abreast of goings on here at The Blob and....how should I say this......m'lady is not amused in the least!! Here's a bit of what she had to say:

Blob,

It's with great consternation and no small amount of indignation that I look upon recent events on your site. You are now little more than a smut peddlar catering to the salacious longings of a handful of perverted readers. Today's post adds insult and injury to yesterday's and so it goes...in your own way you perpetrate and perpetuate violence against womyn and as I look down from on high I can only hope that you'll find a more balanced approach when dealing with womyn and womyn's issues.

BTW can you tell Ariel Sharon (archives July 10, 2006) to get up here in a hurry. I have a bone to pick with him and he's been totally unresponsive.

Andrea

Yesterday "T".....Today "A" (happy now??!!??)

NOT SO FAST!!! Don't click the play button just yet!!

Much has been written on this site about the merits (or lack thereof) of television programming.
I'll be the first to plead guilty to charges of ethnocentrism on this subject having only thought of or dealt with TV in an anglo, North American pop cultural context.
What this clip makes unmistakeably clear though is that there's a whole wide, wonderful, world of incredibly bad TV out there just waiting to be discovered or ignored.
I don't know if this clip of the show Dinamitados was shot in Buenos Aires or Miami but it's clear that Latinos aren't burdened by the same lofty pretenses that we are here in El Norté. Executives up here try every imagineable way to use sex in their product without being too offensive. They'll hide it, contextualize it, allude to it but they never just go for it (albeit in an immature, leering, Benny Hill-like way) like our brothers to the south.
Believe it or not I think this clip is tasteless and horrible...TV created using the reptilian brain....cartoonish women treated as lovely pieces of meat...entertainment used to pacify the masses as corrupt governments get richer etc.
Something compels me though to go back for a 5th viewing just to make sure it's as awful as I initially thought.......yeah....I was right. MAN that's some bad TV!!

oh yeah....you can press the play button now.