Archives for category: life

So. Last night, playing Bananagrams with some friends, I laid down the word “jigger,” thinking of the bartending unit of measure. My competitors were aghast; they knew it only as a racial epithet, which was (unpleasant!) news to me. A dictionary confirmed the bartending term— as well as a traditional fishing hook, a parasitic flea and the aftmost mast on a four-masted sailing vessel— but not the slur. It took the Internet to confirm their definition but, yup, I’m sad to say that the story checks out.

Here’s the coda: less than five minutes after the whole Bananagrams bang-up, somebody started singing “Zip-a-Dee-Doo-Dah” to themselves, leading me to remark “Now there’s something unambiguously racist.” It resolved that, while some folks had vague memories of a Br’er Rabbit movie, nobody else knew Song of the South for the racially coded 1940s cesspool it is. Disney executives themselves have even referred to it as “antiquated” and “fairly offensive” in explaining why it’s never been— and probably never will be— released to the United States home video market.

James Baskett was awarded an Honorary Academy Award for playing Uncle Remus— the first Oscar for an African-American man. He wasn’t able to attend the festivities for the film’s premiere since it took place in then-segregated Atlanta.

I tried really hard to find a halfway decent compilation of supposed Disney subliminal messaging but they all have irritating overlong exposition or Panic at the Disco soundtracks added so, um, here’s this classic instead.

…or at least it’s starting to feel that way. I swear it crops up in at least half the products I’ve obnoxiously checked since being tipped off by Mom. I did a little research on how they manufacture it; in some versions, yeast cells are exposed to a sodium chloride (salt) bath, which causes the poor little things to start pushing out all their water in a sort of extreme reverse osmosis. They blow themselves out— it’s called plasmoysis and looks a little like this:

I really hoped there’d be a decent informational yeast extract piece I could link to, but I got really disheartened from searching when the top thing on YouTube was a toast speed-painter’s tribute to Vegemite.

I sure do hate the Internet sometimes.

While I was telling my father about my delicious refried-beans-and-fake-meat dinner, my mother cautioned in the background that fake-meat patties have MSG in them. Knowing full well such a bold claim requires rapid verification, I headed to the kitchen and checked the package. The scariest sounding thing I found was something named methylcellulose (a chemically inert emulsifier, it turns out). I noticed an “autolyzed yeast extract” but chose not to mention it. Sure enough, I soon heard Mom in the background mentioning yeast extracts. I rebuffed it after a quick Google, suggesting that the (to me, scarier sounding) “hydrolyzed” yeast extracts were probably the worser threat.

Mea culpa, Mom. All yeast extracts may contain free glutamic acid, the crystalline solid salt of which would be monosodium glutamate, MSG. Free glutamic acid is prevalent in parmesan cheese, soy sauce and grape juice— parmesan cheese, for example, has 1200 mg per 100 grams. It looks like (from this Wikipedia page) like hydrolyzed yeast extracts have 5000 to 20000 mg per 100 grams, so at least I got the point on the “hydrolyzed sounds worse.” But yes, autolyzed yeast extract appears to contain MSG. I’ll write more about it in the future (it is pretty strang esounding) but, really, the process and product itself don’t seem any worse than anything else in modern industrial food, though. For example— Vegemite is pretty much entirely yeast extract and flavor. Looks like the only way to get by is sticking to a pure Bovril diet.

They changed it to yeast extract for a while but, don’t worry— it’s back to beef.

Update: Just checked my email to see the note my Mom sent at 7:23 pm, blockquoting this Wisegeek article. It even mentions Vegemite. I feel like Principle Skinner.

We engaged in some good natured ribbing of Sam and my mother this evening when they were briefly psychologically unable to differentiate a holiday season depicted in a sitcom and our real world’s actual timetable. Driving home, Sam and I listened to “Some People Don’t Even Know If It’s Christmastime.” I wanted to link it as a punchline to that life vignette but somehow a cursory glance for “Daniel Johnston Christmas” yielded the Battle of Kruger:

.. something I think of as an early example of how omnipresent viral videos can get now. I remember seeing it at my cousin’s home in San Diego and my neighboring cubicle inside a week of eachother back when it was catching fire. Now if only it was the singer-songwriter I wanted. The Internet is a many-splendored thing but it’s also damned fickle.

A real and entirely non-comforting email I received this evening:

Dear CLEAR customer,
We may have sent you an email notification on 7/21/2010 or 7/22/2010 indicating that your account information had been updated. If you did not make any changes to your account, please disregard this notice. It was an error on our part, and we have since corrected the issue.
We have verified that the information on your account is correct. No action is required on your part.
We value you as a CLEAR customer and apologize for the error.
Sorry for the inconvenience.

Sincerely,
CLEAR

On a brighter note, since we moved across town, our connection is working better than ever. 5×5 with no leaning out the window!

One of the first things I ever put on the Internet was an America Online-hosted memorial marking the passing of Wee Willie Wolfman. I once saw Willie vivisect a pigeon in the time it took you to read the word “vivisect.” My Dad bought him specifically for his breed’s rodent murdering proficiency. He developed a gimp walk but stubbornly lived on as his rear third seemed to develop leprosy. He was awesome-
but not beyond compare. There are truly singular dogs out there and- on occasion- we talking monkeys are fortunate enough to share our lives with that of an exceptional canine. Here’s to Shillelagh and those of us lucky enough to have known the furriest Clint Eastwood warrior monk street urchin out there.

From CNN.com this evening:

According to an internal BP document released Sunday by Rep. Edward Markey, D-Massachusetts, BP believed that the worst-case scenario could be as high as 100,000 barrels, or 4.2 million gallons of oil per day.

The figure is the highest yet to surface regarding the leaking oil well.

Hmm. “Highest yet to surface” and “higher worst-case scenario than previously reported” in the paragraph above that. Yet— I could swear I’ve seen that number somewhere before

I’ve never been too worried about being a Cassandra— but getting Laocoön-ed sticks in my head as a threat. When I was in middle and high school, I had a recurring elaborate dream about surviving a nuclear apocalypse by convincing a cadre of followers to retreat into underground Seattle. In thanks for having convinced them to hunker down before the war, the CHUDs elect me mayor of Sewertown— a position I reluctantly accept on the condition they promise to stay deep enough in our new subterranean home to avoid the surface radiation.

Flash forward several years. Two young postbellum sewer tots wander into the hot zone and die horrible prolonged deaths. Enraged, Sewertown blames, turns on and ultimately lynches their previously Honorable Mayor, yours truly.

It was, uh, not a pleasant dream.