Encyclopedias, Cult Flicks, Spider-Man

From the Stuff That Only Librarians Care About Dept:

Wikipedia Founder Discourages Academic Use of His Creation

At a recent conference, Jimmy Wales, founder of the popular online encyclopedia project Wikipedia, said he felt that his creation shouldn't be used for serious research.

Mr. Wales says he gets about 10 emails a week from distraught students. “They say, ‘Please help me. I got an F on my paper because I cited Wikipedia’....For God sake, you’re in college; don’t cite [Wikipedia].” Mr. Wales even said that the site is considering creating a fact sheet for professors to distribute to students to help them understand why Wikipedia is widely considered not a scholarly or authoritative source of information.

This is a significant development--to librarians and teachers, anyway. It affirms that while Wikipedia is exhaustive, though by volume alone, it suffers because of its essential nature; encyclopedia entries that can be written and edited by anyone, anytime, can hardly be considered as authoritative as an established reference source, like an encyclopedia, which is subjected to rigorous standards of research, peer review, and editorial control.

The admission also puts an interesting spin on the simmering debate comparing the authority of Encyclopedia Britannica to Wikipedia, considering that Mr. Wales has essentially conceded the race.

I will say that there is at least one subject in which Wikipedia may be considered an authority: Science Fiction continuity. Nowhere else can you get as authoritative an explanation of the vast universes of Doctor Who, Star Wars, and Quantum Leap.

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From the Stuff Only Me and a Few of My Friends Care About Dept:

One of my new favorite websites is Not Coming to a Theater Near You, which specializes in reviewing films that, well, are likely not ever going to come to a theater near you. Enterprising subscibers to Netflix will find the information it contains invaluable, while cineastes everywhere will delight in insightful considerations of art films and filmmakers both revered and expected(see Fitzcarraldo, Secret Honor, Morvern Callar, Eraserhead, Caché), and those that are, shall we say, not typically subjected to the hyper-critical treatment (see The Geneaology of James Bond, Joe Versus the Volcano, RoboCop, Die Hard, Back to the Future Part II).

One stand-out feature is their Guide to Twin Peaks, which succeeds in placing the cult series in its proper cultural and artistic context. I ate up each episode's synopsis, especially considering that I only saw many episodes, especially those in the second season, only once, when they originally aired.

The real gem of the Guide to Twin Peaks is their authoritative essay on the series' much-maligned coda, Twin Peaks: Fire Walk With Me. I have never read a more thorough, insightful essay on this film, which the reviewer, Tom Huddleston, calls "the most misunderstood of Lynch’s films, the bleakest and most unrelenting, but in many ways also the most human and understanding."

While we're on the subject, do yourself and everyone else a favor, and get familiar with the movement to release the director's cut of TP:FWWM. Apparently an hour of deleted scenes exist, and the French company that owns the footage is seriously considering giving David Lynch the funds he needs to remaster the sound and edit the stock. Sign the petition to help them make their decision, and then maybe we'll get our GARMONBOZIA!!!

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From the Obligatory Quiz Dept:


Hell yes I'm Spider-Man.

Your results:
You are Spider-Man


Spider-Man 80%
Green Lantern 80%
Superman 65%
Iron Man 60%
Hulk 55%
Batman 50%
Supergirl 47%
Catwoman 45%
Robin 44%
Wonder Woman 37%
The Flash 35%

Click here to take the Superhero Personality Quiz


Though I guess I'm about as much Green Lantern as anything.

Question Mark of the Beastmaster

PREPARE YOURSELVES....

For a completely random blog post.

Today is a significant day, if you're a lazy numerologist. It's 6/6/2006, which people will tell you is the "Mark of the Beast." No wait, the Mark is 6/6/06. REPENT! No, no; the Mark of the Beast is 666. Well, zero is nothing, so it's like the zero isn't there. Zero is like oxygen; numbers just pass through it. Only that oxygen is a substance, and therefore has mass. And it's like a whole number or something. And if you place zero next to another number, they would multiply, and the number next to zero would DISAPPEAR! It would turn into NOTHING, yet STILL HAVE MASS! That's pretty darn evil, turning a whole number into another whole number that is odorless but still has mass. So the equation is 6/6/06, which is like 6 divided by 6 divided by 0 times 6, and 6 divided by 6 is 1, and 0 times 6 is zero, and you can't divide a number by zero. Why? Because IT WOULD CAUSE THE WORLD TO IMPLODE! And that is why today is International Satan Day. So by all means, don't give birth, especially not if your birthing room is number 23.

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I've become somewhat of a regular reader of Neil Steinberg, columnist for the Sun-Times, who is back at his job after doing a bit of time for assaulting his wife. I had never heard of him or his previous troubles, but I think that's to my advantage, because I've been able to take him purely at the level of a columnist writing a column, making a point. As such, I've found him fair, sensible, and often astute.

This recent comment about radical Islam, made in the wake of the recent terror arrests in Canada, struck me as spot-on:

[D]espite its nice-guy international persona, Canada is in the cross hairs of Islamic extremism. Just like us. A reminder that the current spasm of bloody Muslim rage -- about 30 years old with another 300 years left to go -- is not about the United States or what we may have done in the past. Rather, it is all about radical Islam, and the rapidly shrinking, interconnected, global society waking them up and dragging them, blinking and cranky, onto the world stage where, sadly, their first impulse is to kill.

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I went to Paris. This is what it looked like:

If you really want to see all 300+ pictures, let me know.

Paris was charming from start to finish. It never failed to amaze and delight. One thing that America can learn from France: how to make a hot dog. One day we were wandering down the Champs-Elysees, which is just like Michigan Avenue, and we stopped at a Crepes stand. I ordered a hot dog, because I saw someone else order it and it looked good. They take a baguette cut in half and sliced down the middle, put a foot-long hot dog in it, sprinkle shredded cheese on top, and put it face down on the crepes skillet. Man was it a tasty hot dog. I washed down my half with a can of Heineken while we sat in one of the many random gardens that dot the city.

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One thing I especially enjoyed about Paris was going to see Marie Antoinette; the new Sophia Coppola film Marie Antoinette, that is. Paris is notorious for its love of film, and it's no boast. The theater showing Antoinette complimented the showing with a mini-Coppola fest they called "La Saga Coppola." They were showing all three of Sophia's films, and an odd selection of Francis Ford's: Godfather III, Apocalypse Now Redux, The Conversation, Peggy Sue Got Married, The Outsiders, and one whose title I didn't understand, yet I believe was Rumble Fish. Ah, those quirky French.

We were glad we decided to squeeze in the movie, because we both really enjoyed it, and it won't play in America until October, and due to the mixed reviews it has received thus far, is likely to appear in an altered form when it arrives on our shores. No matter how it is adapted, Marie Antoinette is unlikely to meet a sympathetic response in this Frenchophobic country of ours, and needless to say will likely not garner as much popular success as did Lost in Translation.

While I can't speak to the alleged controversy and/or derision this film may or may not have inspired at Cannes, I can say that I was thoroughly charmed by Marie Antoinette. Strange as it sounds, it reminded me of another overlooked period piece that I'm a big fan of: Stanley Kubrick's Barry Lyndon. Like Kubrick in Barry Lyndon, Coppola doesn't really mind if the audience is unfamiliar with the vagaries of the historical period her film examines, because she is more concerned with capturing moods and emotions, however fleeting, mounting and filming those gossamer moments beautifully, and letting it expand at her own leisurely pace. As for the soundtrack that includes Gang of Four and The Cure among others, I attest that it absolutely works; it fits the mood of the times that Coppola captures, and above all, it firmly establishes Coppola as the auteur at work behind the lens. The songs' inclusion implies risk, but also choice. This is a Sophia Coppola film, and above all, choices like these serve to coalesce Ms. Coppola as a confident filmmaker with a distinctive, maverick, unmistakable vision.

Not everyone is going to like Marie Antoinette. One aspect of the film that is sure to invite criticism is Jason Schwartzman's hyper-minimalist portrayal of Marie's clueless husband, Louis XVI. I thought it was funny, and I thought that it fit. Kirsten Dunst is asked to do little more than be winsome and, well, Kirsten Dunst, but really, where's the harm in that? This film won't be to everyone's taste, but neither was The Virgin Suicides or Lost in Translation. Simply put, this film will either work for you or it won't. Some will be charmed, some will be angered, and some will simply be bored. Count me among the charmed.

I hope above all that Coppola resists any pressure to alter this film in any major way. One could certainly make it shorter by removing a shot or two of Dunst lolling around in bed or cutting one of the many supporting characters. For example, Marie Antoinette's hairdresser makes an impressive entrance in the film and proceeds to do little more than, well, do Antoinette's hair, but he reappears in a debauched party scene and helps the tipsy queen avoid singeing her hair on candles, to humorous effect. The introduction of his character is stylish, but unnesessary, and could easily be cut, leaving the latter humorous scene essentially intact. The move would save time, and the funny part would still be funny. But we would lose the key fact that reminds us why this character is so interested in the health of the queen's hairdo. Cutting the hairdresser will not make Marie Antoinette a better film, only a shorter film. I think it's great the way it is, and can't wait to see it again.

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I just saw David Lee Roth perform "(Might as Well) Jump" with a bluegrass band on Jay Leno. He had a haircut. He looks like somebody's cool dentist or uncle. How the mightily awesome have fallen. Though I must admit, I was always a sucker for Van Haggar. What can I say? That was the version I heard when I started to "get" Van Halen. For Unlawful Carnal Knowledge was the shit when I was a freshman in high school. I mean, "Dreams"?

So baby dry your eyes
Save all the tears you've cried
Oh, that's what dreams are made of
Oh baby, we belong in a world that must be strong
Oh, that's what dreams are made of

And in the end on dreams we will depend
'Cause that's what love is made of

Gives me chills.

Deride me if you must.

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Nacho Libre looks awesome.

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I've been mulling abandoning the Myspace Branch. The only thing keeping it open is the ability to give those readers who don't mind visiting My-stalkerville-highschool-hijinx-pushing-the-teen-porn-envelope-Space the chance to get their almost semi-monthly fill of Bedheaded blogistry. If you are a reader who prefers to read this High Quality Stuff at MyStalkerSpace and can't bear to see it exist solely in the genteel avenues of Bloggerland, do me a favor and let me know. I'm here for you.

You call that writing?

Not too long ago, I was talking to a friend of mine. She is a poet, in the literal sense. She has a Master of Fine Arts degree in poetry, which means that she has undergone rigorous study and practice in pursuit of her art. Though I must admit I have never read any of her work, I can safely assume that she does, in fact, work her craft. She has been working for a literacy program in the city where she visits school classrooms and tries to encourage students to engage in the creation and appreciation of poetry in particular and the creative arts in general. She was telling me that I would be a good person for the job, and her reasoning was simple: "because you're a writer."

That statement triggered some heavy contemplation on my part. Am I a writer? If I had been a writer at one point, could I still consider myself a writer? I discussed my concerns with my friend, and she told me that until I convinced her otherwise, she would continue to consider me a writer. Her conviction is heartening, but does little to satisfy my doubts.

The mantle of "Writer" is one of the many creative vocations I have attempted to master, with less than satisfying results. Throughout my life, I have entertained fantasies of becoming a cartoonist, a film director, a TV news cameraman, a photographer, a high school band director, a rock/pop guitarist and vocalist, a professional bass clarinetist, and a novelist. More often than not these ambitions have failed before they could start. The one profession I did eventually acquire, librarian, seemed to happen as a result of pure circumstance.

My wildest ambitions have gone the way of most youthful fantasies, but the allure of the Writer lingers. The closest I have gotten to living the writer's life was my Bachelor's degree in English, where I sat through an impressive amount of your typical undergrad writing workshops, the results of which are a handful of short stories I'm inclined to forget and about five unfinished (read: barely started) novels. In a way, writing is like heroin, or maybe murder: once you get the taste, you can't get rid of it. I got the taste, but I don't have the cure.

Slow dissolve, and cut to a misty montage of a freefall through library school, resume scene, and you find me here. The only thing I do that could be considered writerly is this: blogging. It's here that I indulge all of my writerly impulses. And the conditions are perfect. No intolerable workshop mates to savagely castigate my exquisitely overwrought prose. No agony wondering if I'll get published. No second drafts.

Allow me to be to first to question the quality of the prose product being offered here. I've turned in a profanity-laden tirade against harebrained Christian bigots; a hearty defense of Katie Couric; a missive concerning my troubles with wine; numerous insults lobbed in the general direction of radical Islam; and perhaps most memorably, a passioned appreciation of one utterly forgetable second baseman from Canada. Oh, I almost forgot my critical investigation of the Dean Martin Mystique. All of which fails to paint a portrait of consistency.

Immaterial, you might argue; such is the nature of blogging. The typical blog chronicles little more than what crosses the mind of the blogger at times when they likely have much better things to do than to chronicle their whims for the world. The best blogs are consise, maintain a consitent theme or set of themes, and establish a distinct, memorable voice for the blogger. The best blogs are the ones you check on a regular basis, to see what's new, and to hear something you likely wouldn't hear anywhere else.

So can blogging be considered writing? I don't know, and regardless, I'm the last person to ask. While my experience in the "legit" writing world tells me otherwise, my gut tells me that this feels like writing. And really, that's good enough for me.

Barring the unlikely chance that I pick up any of those unfinished novels, my writing is exactly where it belongs, for now and the forseeable future. Until I regain my nerve and attempt to play the writing game again, I'm comfortable here.

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This post was inspired in part by Paul, who recently told me to "Write something new, goddamn it. But not about fucking baseball; I'm getting enough of that shit from DeLillo."

Funny you should mention baseball! I've been plotting a big post about Barry Bonds, and about Hank Aaron's original eclipsing of Babe Ruth's fabled home run record, but I just haven't had the energy to start it.

However, during my research, I ran across this neat app: the Oracle of Baseball, which links any two baseball players by a shortest possible list of teammates. It's a sort of Six Degrees of Kevin Bacon for baseball players.



For example, here's a list connecting Joe Tinker, who played shortstop for the last Cubs team to win a World Series and was a third of the famed "Tinker to Evers to Chance" double play combination, and Ronny Cedeno, the current Cubs shortstop:

• Joe Tinker played with Bob O'Farrell for the 1916 Chicago Cubs
• Bob O'Farrell played with Phil Cavarretta for the 1934 Chicago Cubs
• Phil Cavarretta played with Minnie Minoso for the 1954 Chicago White Sox
• Minnie Minoso played with Steve Trout for the 1980 Chicago White Sox
• Steve Trout played with Greg Maddux for the 1986 Chicago Cubs
• Greg Maddux played with Ronny Cedeno for the 2005 Chicago Cubs

Fascinating, isn't it?

Useless info dept.

Count this as one of the posts in which I have absolutely nothing notable to say--but that's never stopped me or any self-respecting blogger before, so it won't now.

I'll grant you one tidbit of nearly-revealing quasi-factualness to start out; a truly personal insight to try and counteract the disappointment that's sure to come to those who happen to get to the end of this thing. Ready? Here it goes....

The one dream I ever had for a career, for a vocation in life, and that I continue to have, even though the chances of it happening now are slimmer than they ever were, was to be a rhythm guitarist in a recording and touring rock/pop act. That's the guitar I'd play, my dream guitar: an antique white Les Paul Custom. The closest I ever came, aside from American Legion shows in Peoria, was cutting a seven inch and piling in a van with my friends and our ska band to play a whopping two shows in Michigan. Pathetic as it sounds, it was one of the best, most enjoyable experiences I've had in my life, and it remains that way. While I've updated my gear, there are few opportunities for me to start to again realize some small part of the enjoyment this dream once gave me, and regardless, I do little by way of practicing. But as long as I still enjoy music, and my voracious appetite for music seems unlikely to taper off anytime soon, I'll still cling to the ever-dimming but undying dream of contributing to the art form that has brought me the most enjoyment.

So there's your maudlin confessional blogistry for you. Now for the pointless ranting and random shout-outs.

There's been a notable event that's been all over the news the last few days. It's inspired some impassioned debate, and I simply had to add my two cents. That's right; I'm talking about Katie Couric taking over Dan Rather's old anchor chair on the CBS Evening News.

You can say that this is hardly newsworthy, and you'd be right. But for my part, I am glad that Ms. Couric is taking this job. I haven't been a fan of the Today show for quite some time, and I agree with all the wags that have belabored the ridiculousness and vacuity of the format during the waning years of her tenure there. Yet I've always liked Ms. Couric, and part of me has wished that she would jump ship and resurrect her career in a more worthy setting. The recent trifecta of departing anchors presented a sort of perfect storm to make this particular event possible.

Let me make it clear: any claim that Katie Couric lacks the credentials or gravitas to helm an evening newscast is utterly ridiculous. Dan Rather was a doddering fool when he left, but his sterling, anchorly image persists nevertheless. The reason for that lies behind the word "image". The evening newsanchor is little more than a face that speaks. For nearly as long as there has been television, there has been haircuts with voices reading the news. Television, especially television news, has always been guilty of inflating their own importance, and nowhere is this more evident than in the tired, decaying image of the anchor. Anyone who has worked in television will tell you, Will Ferrell's Anchorman got it exactly right.

As for her credentials, as much as they are needed in a job that requires you to read about seven minutes of text five days a week, Ms. Couric's journalistic experience is well-established, diffused as it may seem in the fog of Today. For what it's worth, the same concerns were raised by the same worthless pundits when Brian Williams took over Tom Brokaw's job, and Mr. Williams just won a Peabody award for his coverage of Hurricane Katrina. So much for credentials. Much was made of Peter Jenning's disastrous first foray as the anchor of ABC Nightly News, and the fact that when he returned to the seat, his image had been burnished by the interim he had spent covering war in Beirut and terrorism at the Munich Olympics. What's forgotten about Jenning's initial flop is the fact that in his first go round, he was even more of a smug bastard than he was anyway. Beirut and Munich didn't make him less of a smug bastard, but it made it clear he'd been in the shit.

Belaboring this admittedly over-hyped event (and consider that it's just getting started!) runs the risk of embarrassing myself, but I can't help it. My first, or actually more like first-and-a-half attempt at attaining an actual livelihood had me angling toward a career as a TV cameraman. Television people are strange ducks, and that part of me has never left. Much as I can try to spout wise about the ridiculousness of the anchor image, my devotion to that image is made apparent by my obsession with it, and it is impossible and pointless to try to conceal it.

Shout-out time; as a result of my birthday, I have a brand new stack of books that I really should get around to reading:

• Carter Beats the Devil by Glen David Gold
• The Fortress of Solitude by Jonathan Lethem
• In Cold Blood by Truman Capote
• Kornwolf by Tristan Egolf
• Where Have You Gone, Vince DiMaggio? by Edward Kiersh

I recently saw The Libertine; Johnny Depp's performance is one of the best of his recent jag of excellent performances, and he carries the show, which was unexpectedly moving at points, but would you believe I wished it contained more debauchery? It's better than anything else out there, except perhaps Thank You for Smoking and Brick.

Destroyer's new record, Destroyer's Rubies, is characteristically dense, yet strangely more accessible than anything he's done. The same could be said for Neko Case's Fox Confessor Brings the Flood, which may actually be her best album yet, but I'm not entirely sure.

I'd hand out an asshole notice or two, but it's getting late.

The world may or may not be watching

Various news reports claim that Myspace is being increasingly monitored by police and employers. Police are now able to find evidence of wrongdoing simply by entering their jurisdiction's zipcode and surfing profiles, and employers are consulting the site to check out the after-hours predilections of current and potential employers. This Orewellian gambit is ironic considering that potentially incriminating information is willingly posted by Myspace users.

This scenario can only be painted in shades of grey. Police can hardly be faulted for busting people who willfully post evidence of crimes; law enforcement have committed full-time resources to tracking down potential pedophiles through chat rooms, so trolling MySpace for evidence of grafitti and drug use can be seen as an extension of the same method of police work, though the crimes may not be comparable. Background checks, even credit checks, are now regular features of being considered for a new job.

Using willingly offered information on MySpace as evidence of crime seems par for the course, even though the seriousness of the crimes can be debated. What is more discomforting, and more difficult to prevent, is the potential for people will pass negative judgement about you, especially people who may become directly responsible for your financial well-being.

There seems to be no easy answer to this issue. It would seem obvious that if one were to post a picture of themselves toking on a forearm-sized blunt, one might resonably expect that such a picture would produce a less favorable impression on the law firm one is attempting to join than it would one's forearm-sized blunt-toking buddies. It's not as easy to determine whether gathering such information in a pre-employment screening is ethical, or even if doing so provides a good barometer to that person's employability.

Even more disconcerting is the potential for simple speech to cast a negative impression on employers. The world of blogging and personal promotion seem built on the foundation of free expression, but the straight world remains less than impressed. If you make a nuissance of yourself by endlessly promoting your personal misconception of the universe while you're in the workplace, you can expect to find yourself less than welcome there, but take it home, and you can fly your freak flag in peace. But when you fly it on MySpace, you're increasingly doing so in the public square, and less so in the darkened den of your own personal hidey-hole.

As a librarian, I value the freedom of expression highly. We have a saying: "information wants to be free." If information wasn't free, libraries would have none to collect or distribute. The internet has flown wildly out of our keep, try as we might to tame it. What appeals to me most about internet self-promotion is the democracy it seems to embody; online, you can represent yourself as the person you see yourself and wish to be. Seeing such information getting turned back on its consentual distributors seems a troubling subversion of one's basic right to speak and think freely.

Again, there is no easy answer. One could easily withdraw completely; remove themselves from the grid and avoid Big Brother's pernicious gaze. However, the maverick side of me wishes more people would go the other direction. If you go, go all-in. Publish yourself completely. Put as much of yourself out there that you can bear to produce. That way, no one may need to feel ashamed of who they really think they are. Nobody's perfect, after all.

Until such a utopian, or perhaps distopian, scenario comes to pass, it seems the best advice is some that I got from my mother when I thought that Kool Aid was a food group and all pants were manufactured with built-in booties:

"If you don't have anything nice to say, don't say anything at all."