Silver Lining

Slate is exactly the sort of site I'd post a link to at right if I didn't figure it doesn't need any help from me. It is almost always interesting, and usually varied enough that even the single most boring class/meeting/etc in the world is somewhat improved by its distracting presence. I know this because I performed rigorous, scientifically unimpeachable tests of this theory this afternooon until my laptop's batter ran out.

This week, Slate is running a series of columns all entitled "How Did I Get Iraq wrong?" giving their contributors the enviable opportunity of dealing with questions that even the responsible parties have a tough time doing. And they face something almost as vindictive as the American electorate; commenters on the interwebs.

But really, who needs that? This post is about what we got right in Iraq. Stamps.

American stamps backed in adhesive instead of lickable glue originated in the first Gulf War, so that soldiers could still send letters home, even inspite of the humidity. And this was actually such an innovative thing that the rest of the world still hasn't caught up.

The French may be opposed to American interventions overseas basically unequivocally, but they're the ones still getting tongue paper cuts, suckers! Well . . . and me, for the moment.

Jumper

Third Eye Blind was one of my favorite guilty pleasures. Then I went to Paris.

Nick and I went up for a weekend in February just before Linda moved from a program in the center of the city to snooty HEC on the Paris fringes. Nick and I bought weekend tourist passes. They came with discounts on the bateaux mouches and to a slightly unappealing Italian chain in the city. Not very impressive. Linda had just bought a week pass as she wasn't serving out the month.

Our tiny paper tickets worked for the very first metro ride on the 1 and for our second which took us to the Jardins de Luxembourg. After that, they simply refused to read at the next station. Paris is switching over to a system more like the Oyster card in London or the MetroCard in DC, but in truly French fashion, this means they have given up hope on the magnetic paper ticket readers far too early. They make no repairs. The manned ticket window is a real rarity.

So. We jumped every metro gate save three or four that weekend. In the older metro station, this really meant vaulting over the bars. In the newer ones with full length doors, it took hopping through the exits. All of this became all the more interesting after I sprained my ankle Friday night and spent the rest of the weekend making Keri Strug-type efforts.

After this moved from the frustrating to the farcical, it was actually mostly fun. Parisians would egg us on, or try to sneak us thru on their working cards. And we got all the benefit of participating in a time-honored tradition, without any of the illegality. After all, the only thing you need to be on the Metro is a valid ticket. And a knack for sticking your landings.

NOT his man

I just read on Perez Hilton that Leonard Cohen is being inducted in to the Rock and Roll Hall of Fame, along with Madonna and several others. Odd as it was to be getting my Leonard Cohen fix from Perez, and not, say, anywhere with even a slight scrap of dignity, I was fairly excited.

In a morbid conversation - or maybe just a realistic and useful one, depending on how Daria you feel - late this summer, Jess, Lauren and I narrowed down the songs we thought we would have played at our funerals. I think this was mostly an exercise in using the ultimate end-all-be-all criteria for narrowing down our favorite songs.

Jess went with These Days by Jackson Browne
Lauren went with Like a Prayer by Madonna
I went with Chelsea Hotel No. 2 by Leonard Cohen

Leonard Cohen is a fantastic songwriter, but save a very very few instances, I have tended to like covers of his songs better. He occasionally has too dolorous a voice, to great a faith in the power of synth. Chelsea Hotel No. 2 is the greatest exception to the rule. Cohen's rough voice is just exactly right, and it hardly seems right for anyone else to sing about a one night stand with Janis Joplin other than the man himself.

Here's the only catch in his Hall of Fame induction: with so many amazing covers with so many amazing artists, couldn't they have found someone slightly better than Damien Rice to perform in tribute to him?

Mind's Eye

Oh. Hey there, "In like a lion, out like a lamb" March.

For some reason, I always picture this time of year as greenish, and not at all Leonine. Not because of the coming of spring or anything so reasonable. Just because the leapyearability of February makes me think of frogs.

LIT (redux)

In an unprecedented move of blogosphere follow up, I just ran across a bilingual book of Hemmingway short stories with facing pages of the same text in English and French. I'll get back to you on whether or not he is translateable...