No Snow, Pop, Poe

Sunday, 27 November 2011

Today we brought home our holiday conifer. The atmosphere certainly didn’t feel holiday-ish; there was absolutely no snow on the ground. In fact, Owen wanted to ride on the sled out to where our tree was waiting, but I told him that without a snow cover, the sled would just get ripped up on the path.

We bought our tree from Kruger Christmas Trees. The maintain a sustainable tree farm, and they donate a chunk of their money to good causes, like Amnesty International, the Heifer Foundation, the Humane Society, and Doctors without Borders. The kids sat on a Santa impersonator, too, and this caused Isla to immediately break out crying. Later, we partook of the complimentary hot cider. We then visited their resident Indian expert. This requires bending down, and entering a teepee. We’ve gone in there before, but this year Jennifer was hesitant. I don’t blame her; the man does not stop talking, so in theory we would still be there if we didn’t have the rudeness to just stand up and walk out midsentence.

Installing the tree at home is a frustrating ordeal. It’s tough to get the tree aligned correctly and securely in the stand, and it’s hard to get the lights strung up evenly. Jennifer strung up the lights the first time, then we plugged them in and realized they weren’t working. She ran out to the store and purchased a new supply. once we finally got the tree in ready-order, we were too tired to hang the ornaments. We’ll do that tomorrow.

Oh – and why would a non-Christian celebrate Christmas? Good question. HERE’S THE ANSWER.

Monday, 28 November 2011

When I was a kid, my parents drank soda. Not pop. Soda. When first they moved to the Land of 10,000 Lakes, they were unfamiliar with the word ‘pop.’ At a restaurant, when the waitress asked my dad if he wanted pop, he thought she was asking if he wanted to be punched. He could determine from the context, however, that she was actually referring to some sort of beverage, so he just said, “No, but I’ll have a soda, please.”

HERE’S A MAP THAT BREAKS DOWN THE POPULARITY OF POP vs SODA vs COKE by county. As I expected, my parents grew up in a heavily soda-leaning state (at least the eastern half of New York – from whence they beckoned – is soda-leaning). Minnesotans, meanwhile, strongly prefer pop. I think it’s funny that ‘Coke’ is used as a generic name for soft drink in some states. That seems weird to me. I know many brand names do lose their identity over time (Frisbee, Jacuzzi, Kleenex), but to me, Coke still strongly suggests one particular brand. The map also has me wondering about Virginia and North Carolina – can’t those folks make up their minds?

Me? I get tongue-tied on the spur of the moment when people ask what I want to drink (am I supposed to say pop or soda?). So I just stick with tea.

Tuesday, 29 November 2011

I’m reading Will Durant’s book The Greatest Minds and Ideas of All Time. As you may know, I love books that list things like this – and books that try to rank intangible, difficult to quantify aspects of the human condition are a particular favorite.

However, I’m gonna go ahead and say to skip this one. Though published recently (2002), the book is very dated. Durant died over two decades ago and the editor doesn’t bother to update the lists.

Worse, though, is Durant’s flowery language. He tries to make his description of everything poetic. Sorry, Willy, but if want to convince me that Walt Whitman is one of the 10 greatest poets of all time, I’m gonna need more to go on than:

Almost for the first timea poet was to find themes worthy of noble verse in the lives of common men, he would be a Declaration of Independence and the Rights of Man in poetry, he would incarnate not some dead ideal of Arthur or some forgotten myth of forgotten gods, but his own rough country, his own dubious democracy, his own turbulent and growing time.

As beautiful as that run-on sentence is, it does nothing to support the claim that Whitman is one of the ten greatest poets to ever grace the planet (or, more correctly, the Western Hemisphere, as Durant spends most of his book largely ignoring the other half – and more populous part – of the globe).

Worse than the flamboyant prose, however, is Durant’s complete misfire regarding Poe. In his soporific, protracted introduction to his chapter on the best books, he makes this claim:

We call Poe a great artist when we only mean that his biography is interesting and his sufferings attractive to us.

Wow. What’s with kicking Edgar Allan Poe? That fucked up statement pretty much nullifies the entire book. I mean, how can I trust a historian to accurately assess human achievements when he misses the mark so badly?

Call me insane, but I call Poe a great artist because he is deft at using language and spins enthralling tales. I didn’t even know what century Poe lived in when, in 8th grade, my English teacher had us read “The Pit and the Pendulum.” I loved it. Then we read “The Cask of Amontillado” and watched a short film that brought the tale to life. I had no idea who Poe – the man – was until I purchased a book of his writings when I was 16 years old and read the introduction. It was one of the first books of fiction I purchased and, 20 years later, is still on my shelf.

Poe IS a great artist. Like Hitchcock, his biography is fascinating, but irrelevant to loving the art.