I’ve been intrigued by synesthesia since I read The Man Who Tasted Shapes sometime in the second half of the 90s. It seems so bizarrely wonderful: numbers might have colors, musical notes might also have distinct hues - or perhaps shapes… It’s just freaky to imagine, and more significantly, it illustrates how seemingly arbitrary the brain’s powers can be.
Now Kottke points us to this post, which in turn quotes a Scientific American article about a wonderful phenomenon:
We also observed one case in which we believe cross activation enables a colorblind synesthete to see numbers tinged with hues he otherwise cannot perceive; charmingly, he refers to these as “Martian colors.� Although his retinal color receptors cannot process certain wavelengths, we suggest that his brain color area is working just fine and being cross-activated when he sees numbers…
Martian colors! That rules.
Is it wrong to be jealous of an “abnormality”?
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Track o’ the Post: Bright As Yellow from Glow by The Innocence Mission, because I’m a little girl sometimes.
Some tidbits that make me happy:
- Have you found He-Man? I’m not really sure why they’ve labeled this guy He-Man. He’s much more like a Chippendales dancer with his Swayze mullet, velvet choker, and perv ’stache.
- You know who makes me happier than He-Man? German Techno Viking, that’s who! He makes me giggle with the boundless joy of a little girl.
- Then there’s Tiffany Sutton (no known relation, thanks). Brozo pointed her out to me a while ago when her story first broke. Now she’s been to court and “attempted to show her remorse“. (I’m guessing she didn’t do so well, if that’s how they wrote it up in the paper…) I’ve bolded some awesomeness for you:
- In one incident, she and the victim, 46-year-old Robert McDaniel, were high on drugs and drunk when he agreed to be tied up during sex, a police report states.
McDaniel told police he became scared and asked Sutton to untie him when she attacked him with a knife. Instead, she sliced his leg, punctured his arm, shoulder and back, and cut his neck and stomach, court records show. When he escaped, she chased him with a pickax.
- So you’re telling me there were multiple incidents? Did the others involve excavation tools?
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Track o’ the Post: Moaner from Boucoup Fish by my favorite techno wizards, Underworld
(FYI: This is the first time Amazon didn’t have the MP3 download for the track I originally wanted to use: “I Bet You Look Good On The Dancefloor” by the Arctic Monkeys, which I still think is the more appropriate/amusing choice.)
Would any of Christian Bale’s film characters be a good lay? Probably not.
3:10 To Yuma: Unexpressive. Plays things close to the vest. Grim. Secretly defensive with too much to prove. Might open up in private and might consider decent cocksmanship another sign of his must-be-proven-constantly manliness, but also might consider foreplay a sign of weakness. Thumbs down.
Cocksmanship is the word of the day, kids.
This of course leads us to the proverbial “List” that we like to pretend we are all allowed to keep. The List specifies the celebrities that your partner is supposed to let you frolic freely with, should you ever get the chance. Of course, the only thing that even lets The List exist is the fact that you will never get that chance. In fact, I know someone who had a particular vixen removed forcibly from his List because he’d actually met her in person once. This brings the game too close to reality. No good.
I don’t actively maintain my list, but I like to keep a fuzzy idea of who might be on it for when the barroom conversation turn that direction. I have to say, though, that the glut of celebrity gossip sites (coupled with the fact that I know a couple people in the film industry who like to tell me “Oh, she’s a total bitch and she has some kind of weird skin fungus.” when I bring up someone I’d totally take a run at) is kind of ruining the whole notion of The List. None of these people are nearly as perfect as they used to seem and that’s just no fun.
Now that I’ve built it up so much, I’m balking on the idea of typing out my List. It’s a fluid, ever-changing thing… I’m reticent to nail it down.
How ’bout you go first?
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Track o’ the post: There’s No I In Threesome from Interpol’s latest, Our Love To Admire
(Note: Those links take you to Amazon’s MP3 download area, which I highly recommend. I might try to keep doing a track for each post. I might not.)
Just a couple quick hits worth noting:
- This morning I gave Radiohead two British pounds for the digital download of their new album, In Rainbows. They let you pick your own price. I put mine on the low side because I’m only a marginal Radiohead fan (and the album web site is a pain in the ass). It’s still more than five times the $0.74 per CD music artists supposedly get from the labels (if they’re lucky).
- Say what you will about the French, they sure have talented news anchors (careful, boobies!).
I like this Popcorn Sutton guy. (Thanks to Miracle Ed)
Once, when I was small and living in the winter home of the Ringling Bros. and Barnum & Bailey Circus, I thought I’d like to be a clown. Nowadays I mostly subscribe to the “clowns are creepy” philosophy, though.
But when I come across a story like this, it warms the cockles, to be sure:
Clowns KKKick KKK ass!
“White Power!� the Nazi’s shouted, “White Flour?� the clowns yelled back running in circles throwing flour in the air and raising separate letters which spelt “White Flour�.
“White Power!� the Nazi’s angrily shouted once more, “White flowers?� the clowns cheers and threw white flowers in the air and danced about merrily.
Awesome! And this happened in Knoxville, TN — my old neck of the woods.
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