New guitar

These are my electric guitars. Left to right:
*EVH (Fender) Wolfgang (2009)
*Peavey Wolfgang (1997)
*Ibanez S470 Custom (1993)

And my cello sneaked into the picture too. Ignore him. Click the picture for more detail.

I just purchased the EVH Wolfgang about a week ago. It looks almost identical to its Peavey counterpart, but the similarities are only superficial. The two guitars have very different tones (EVH is bright, Peavey is dark) and fairly different feels, most notably in the neck. The EVH has faster, thinner neck with vintage size stainless steel frets, whereas the Peavey has jumbo frets constructed of some other metal, tantalum or rhodium probably.

Not much new

Semester is nearly over. I have to give one exam on Tuesday, presumably grade it, finish grading exams and a couple papers from another class, and then I am done. Kind of a whirlwind of a semester. I've found many ways to overextend myself including directing a reading group, diving head-first into this fitness and martial arts thing, and maintaining a reasonably active social life. Next term I need to free up more time for research, not that this semester was completely unproductive in that regard, but I need to get more stuff out to journals.

I ordered a new guitar. It will look like this
I've been lusting over this guitar for nearly a year. Bad news is that it is on backorder until February. Two more months of staring at the Musician's Friend Catalog longingly.

Big times for Sebastian as we have just switched his food from California Natural Lamb and Rice (low cal) to Orijen. The gassiness was killing me, and since nothing is too good for Basty, I thought I'd get him the finest bag of food on the market ($60 a bag).

I learned Lady Gaga's "Poker Face" on guitar today.

Sunday Night/Monday Morning

No television. I spend most nights like this: surf ebay looking for stuff to buy; drool over the guitar it seems I'll never buy since as soon as I think I have enough cash, something expensive happens; catching up on friends' blogs.

Tonight I bought a cool old Soviet era Russian book on ebay about Tbilisi. Call me nostalgic.

Tyson plans to move in sometime later this winter, either in January or February. This will probably be the best thing to happen to me since going to Georgia with him in 2007. Yeah, yeah, I know I got a Ph.D., a sweet ride, lived in Amsterdam, and enjoyed a great job at in central PA between 2007 and now, and those are all great things, but still...

I can now use nunchucks in a non-self-destructive way. I haven't clobbered myself in over a week.

Soon I shall finish Tolstoy's Hadji Murad.

Contemplating my next research project, moving away from psychometrics back into general philosophy of science.

Back on the job market.

Last week I gave a paper in Gainesville, the place where from 2000-2002 I spent the most miserable years of my life to date. While some aspects of the visit were pleasant (e.g., my 2 visits to Burrito Bros. and 1 visit to El Indio in two days), most of the visit was tainted by recollections of how much I hated my life there. Admittedly, over time my perceptions have probably become distorted in light of the fact that my life got so much better upon leaving the swampy, muggy dead end. Nevertheless, it was good to catch up with old professors and the paper I presented was pretty well received. I even heard through the grapevine that at least one person thought it was the best paper at the conference. Too bad only 10-15 people attended.

Semester 1 is about to end at UWF and I've enjoyed my time here so far. It is nice to teach students who actually care about philosophy and don't study it just to do well on the LSAT or for other utilitarian reasons. The colleagues of mine whom I've actually met are extremely cool, and though the University administration treats its visiting professors like second class citizens, my department is very supportive. It makes it hard to hate Florida when things are going so well.

And the news...

I'm finally settled in almost. There's a room full of yet unopened boxes containing mostly inessential items. I spend most of my days thinking about how I'm going to afford this or this. I've also started taking "kung fu." I decided that I had enough of my slothful ways. It was time to take charge of getting in shape. Since I have no discipline for going to the gym, I needed a physical activity with built in accountability, and the more academic, the better. I found this in a small dojo down the street. The place lacks air conditioning, padded floors, and just about any level of comfort you can imagine. For those really interested in what I subject myself to 4 days per week at 5:30 am, just go here and watch the videos. Those who know me best will no doubt find endless humor thinking of me tossing logs around and getting my ass kicked.

Today is was over 87 degrees. Tomorrow fall begins. My strategy for coping: pretend it is high summer in PA. It has to cool down sooner or later. I hope.

Teaching two days a week has its pluses, but it also takes its toll on me when after 5 hours (practically in a row) of teaching, having gotten up at 5 to get to my martial arts class, my feet begin to ache terribly, my voice is going, and my back is killing me. 4 day weekends are nice, but I have yet to do much productively with it. I have a couple articles I really should be working on, but it is just too damn hot to do philosophy.

I realize that given the infrequency of posts, probably no one reads this anymore, but just in case...

b

Identity

Today I faced a trial I've been dreading for at least the past week: getting my UWF parking pass and ID card. Mind you, at Bucknell this was an extremely painless process. One might even say it was pleasant. However, I suspected that at a school three times the size of Bucknell, there would be lines and issues. My suspicion was vindicated when on Friday of last week I inquired about the process and was subsequently redirected to the appropriate office where there was quite the line of students. I opted to wait until Monday (today).

For various reasons, none of which really worth mentioning, I did not sleep last night, or I slept very little. My alarm went off at six a.m. signaling me to shower, drink coffee, and face UWF bureaucracy. I wanted to be there prior to the offices opening at eight a.m. so as to avoid a line. Of course I did not manage to avoid the line to get my parking pass, but it was minimal. I had no problems getting the pass. The next stop is the ID center. I walk in and the lady expects a receipt showing that I paid the $10 ID fee to the parking pass lady. I show her the receipt from the parking pass lady and she says it will not do. I respond by informing her that I'm faculty and, therefore, do not need to pay for my ID. Here is where the story gets interesting. She asks me how she's supposed to know I'm faculty and if she's expected to simply take my word for it. After all, she points out, I'm wearing a backpack. She tells me to get a note from my supervisor attesting to my status. I tell her that I will not do that and that she can take as proof that I'm faculty the fact that I'm holding the faculty parking pass I just purchased without incident. Again she is incredulous. I instruct her to run my ID number (printed on my parking pass receipt). This request is met with a deep sigh (mind you, no one else was in this office, so it wasn't like she was dealing with a horde of ID-hungry students). Coldly, she tells me to look at the camera, 1-2-3, and my picture is taken for the ID. Transaction over. On one hand, I was irritated with this woman who doubted that I was faculty, in the face of credible evidence, simply because I was wearing a backpack, and I was shocked by her cold demeanor; on the other hand, however, I was happy to have a business transaction with someone who treated me like shit, didn't call me 'hon', and didn't inquire about my life story ("what brangs ya' down here?, etc."). It was like a little taste of the northeast way down here in the deep south.

I'm looking forward to my appointment at the DMV a week from today.

Martyrs

If you are looking for a good horror flick, replete with gore, psychological torment (for both the viewer and the characters), and an uncompromising assault on your senses, see Martyrs. Even the final credits are haunting. I won't say much about this film as doing so could possibly ruin the ample payoff of viewing it. Despite the fact that the film is at times nearly unwatchable for its brutality, this is not a piece of torture porn. Or if it is, it is much smarter than its torture porn kin such as l' interieur, Hostel, Saw, and The Passion of the Christ. Because the violence is essential to the story and is presented in a way that is thereto serviceable, I am reluctant to classify Martyrs as "torture porn," a genre marked by its egregious depictions of violence for their own sake. Martyrs, unlike most modern horror, is hardly "easy watching." For example, unlike movies such as Hostel, you don't sit down with a beer and expect to be entertained by gratuitous gore and cheap frights. Viewing Martyrs is a different kind of experience; it is a personal experience. You will not watch it with the detachment with which you watch 28 Days Later or Cloverfield (though both of those are great films). You will not laugh, and at times you may forget to breathe or be afraid to do so. At the risk of inadvertently dissuading potential viewers, I will liken the experience of watching Martyrs to that of watching Requiem for a Dream (or may be The Descent) in terms of the film's ability to draw you into the story. It will leave you shaken, disturbed, and wondering what you did to make the director punish you so mercilessly.

Martyrs is splendidly acted and written. The soundtrack provides the perfect sonic canvass against which this heartbreaking story of abuse and obsession takes place. The color palette is subdued and sterile, which helps bring this feature to life.
Again, I leave this review brief so that you may discover the richness of this story for yourself. Do not read the Wikipedia entry on this movie as it is full of spoilers. However you may safely watch any of the official trailers, which are available on Youtube.

I hate being wrong

Typically, I don't mind revising my beliefs when confronted with recalcitrant data. This is what any intellectually respectable robot would do. However, some revisions are more fundamental than others, and today I had a fairly earth-shattering revelation. Upon the suggestion of a colleague, I gave the new Metallica album, "Death Magnetic," a listen. I wrote off Metallica in 1992 when the "Black Album" came out and they lost their edge, going pop under the tutelage of producer Bob Rock. Bob made them superstars, making their music accessible to the redneck masses. A series of shitty albums followed. Some contended that "St. Anger," the album before "Death Magnetic," was a return to their roots. No. It was heavier than the pop crap on Load or Reload, but it was unfocused and stupid. "Death Magnetic" is not a return to the greatness of Master of "Puppets" or "...And Justice for All," but it is a return to greatness. This is an album to be proud of. It is not overproduced like the "Black Album" (and its immediate successors), and the song writing has improved immensely. What is similar to "Justice" and "Puppets" is the intelligent orchestration and speed. Best of all, Hetfield has stopped trying to sing, at least on some (the better of the) tracks. He has gone back to doing what he does best: minimally tonal growling. There are still losers on this album. "All Nightmare Long" sucks. "Cyanide" sucks. But that's ok, so did "Escape" (Ride the Lightning) and "The Thing that Should not Be" (Master of Puppets) and "Eye of the Beholder" (...And Justice for All). But at least these two shitty songs on DM suck only because of their lyrics; the music is solid. I'm not going to go on and on as I do about t.A.T.u since Metallica is no t.A.T.u., but if you've lost hope that Metallica will ever be anything more than an embarrassment to their past, check out "Death Magnetic." In the words of Rolling Stone reviewer Brian Hiatt:

"Death Magnetic is the musical equivalent of Russia's invasion of Georgia — a sudden act of aggression from a sleeping giant."

Metallica, you proved me wrong.