The intelligence of people using the elevator at work seems to drop on a daily basis. First, although work happens to be inside a hospital, I assure you these people are not sick, at least they don't appear so. And yet they are confounded by the workings of our elevators.

The first problem is pushing the button. The buttons are arranged in, I admit, a possibly confusing way. Each button has a circular metal piece next to it that has the floor number as a numeral and in braille, embossed in metal, and does look enough like a button that I would not immediately hate someone who pushed it first. But when one sees the other circle light up, because I have just pushed it on the other button panel, I think that should be enough of a clue. Nonetheless, people continue to stare and try to press the non-button. Apparently they sometimes try pretty hard, because some of the non-buttons have actually been pushed into the panel. On one occasion, after seeing that I had been successful in requesting a floor, a woman decided that perhaps the button panel she had been trying was not good enough, and came over to the one I had used instead.

Once one has gotten past pushing the button, there is the difficult task of getting off at the right floor. It's a common occurrence to try to get off prematurely, because every floor looks very similar, without clear labels in the elevator bank. But a few days ago one woman went way beyond this. We had gotten on in the basement, and I had pushed 3, she 1. The door opened at 1 and she made no movement. Then to 2 where someone else got off. On the way to 3 she looked back at me and said "Ahm..." I didn't want to get involved so I managed a good blank stare, and walked quickly off at 3. I think by that point she was beginning to get the picture.

Considering that 3 of the elevators in the building traverse a total of 3 floors, and the other 5 cover 4 including the basement, I think those not infirm but unable to handle the intricacies of elevator travel should simply take the stairs. I do sometimes, but I'm unable to go down stairs without going extremely fast and 2 at a time, and in the morning when I haven't reached full agility this seems dangerous.

The arrangement of the 1/9 trains in upper manhattan and the bronx is an odd one. Since there are only two tracks, there can't be a true local/express arrangement, in which one train would have to be able to pass another. Instead, during rush hours only, each train only stops at every other stop, with the 1 having one set of stations, and the 9 having the other set. This way all the trains are going faster, the idea being that, particularly during rush hours, there is much much more ridership in mid and lower manhattan than upper (several times I've been alone in a car for a few stops, which is a fun time to sing loudly), so it's better if there are more trains in that area while the ones in upper manhattan zip around without inconveniencing too many people. The problem (and it is more one of my own anger level than of the system functioning) is that for reasons unknown, the MTA seems unable to create trains that are clearly defined as 1 or 9. There are indicators of the train's designation on its front, back, and once or twice on the side of each car, and very often these contradict each other. Alright, I think, perhaps I should trust the one on the front, since that's where the conductor is and therefore it's conveniently updated if the train has to switch designations. Nope, turns out I can't trust that. Alright, the front can be overridden if all the ones on the side are the other number. Nah, that doesn't seem to hold either. In fact it seems to be almost random whether or not the train stops. Usually there is a fairly steady alternation of 1's and 9's, but sometimes this breaks down as well. This isn't 'Nam damn it, there are rules!

* * *

Coming home on the train today, I was joined by a mother and daughter. The mother was white and the daughter was about 10 years old and appeared to be Japanese. Then they started conversing, and the girl spoke perfect English in a British accent. I can't say exactly why, but I found this person utterly fascinating. The things she was saying weren't terribly sophisticated, mostly revolving around which streets the stops were on and such, and yet the way she talked made her seem so precocious and worldly. Every time I went back to my studies, I found my ears disagreeing with my mind, and had to look back to make sure someone that looked like this really sounded like this. A few times I entertained the notion that she was really American, and was performing a childishly extended impersonation. But I hope I don't mean purely her accent and her race, though it is a rare combination; I think truly there was something special about both her voice and her face, something mature, sincere and peaceful.

* * *

Progress report: I didn't exactly plan it, but the intensity of my Japanese studies has continued to increase. This has correlated with an increase in the regimented nature of my day, which feels unnatural but necessary. I now make a first pass of learning on 4-7 Kanji per day, read the textbook on the train at the rate of about a chapter per week to week and a half, do auxiliary reading before bed (currently the excellent "Using Japanese" by William McClure), and review Kanji flashcards of my own making at any other moment of the day when I cannot open a book and my attention is not otherwise fully occupied. I just discovered that the obscure WMBC shows an assortment of Japanese television shows from 10pm-11pm every day except Sunday, so I have added this to the routine, which for a while has included 1-3 hours of viewing on Sunday, on the international channel. At work I read the Mainichi Shimbun and the Japanese Slashdot site during breaks.

I've got 500 Kanji down fairly solidly, and have made the first pass on numbers 501-545. I've made it most of the way through my textbook. The more important part is what I can do with that. In reading, I feel I am getting closer and closer to the top of a slope, tumbling off of which represents true understanding without the use of reading aids to decode the Kanji words. Occasionally I experience the satisfaction of being able to read a whole (short) sentence of a newspaper article. The tv-watching experience is odd; I often find that I understand a lot more when I look away from the screen. Partly this is because they like to show subtitles, in Japanese, either for emphasis or to alleviate the problem of too many homophones and mumbled or fast speech. So of course I have the urge to try to read them, and of course I get through about one word before they're yanked off the screen. Meanwhile the syllables are whizzing by my ears. Yet the second I look down I understand lots of words, although I rarely get a long enough string of them to get any larger meaning. Speaking remains the larger question, though I am feeling out the more deserted sushi restaurants for one where I might be brave enough to sit at the bar and strike up a dialogue with the itamae-san.

* * *

A few days ago I got a check for $13.86 from the CD MAP Antritrust Litigation. Hooray! And no, RIAA, I'm afraid I don't forgive you.

Tonight as I was walking home, I heard a voice behind me say "say excuse me." At first thought someone giving an etiquette lecture, but then I realized it had been "say, excuse me." A guy was trying to get my attention, using a rather outdated phrasing. He was in his mid to late thirties, white, reasonably well dressed, with no discernable accent. I turned and he continued "I'm not trying to bother you.." and proceeded to explain that he had just been drinking at a bar and someone had walked off with his laptop bag, which contained his money, credit/bank cards and car keys as well as his laptop. He had already filled out a police report and everything. He pointed to his car right across the street, "the black one," saying he was from New Jersey and needed to get back there to get his spare set of car keys, to retrieve his car.

In the midst of this the man told me several biographical details, to make sure I understood what an upstanding fellow he was. An MBA from Wharton, works at Oppenheimer Fund. He said "I'm a really ethical guy" at one point. He asked me where I was from. I said "right around here" and he replied "right on." The skin of his hands was somewhat rough.

By this point it was pretty probable that I would try to give him whatever he needed, because I don't think too well in these situations, and I'd rather simply give it to him even if I get screwed than try to come up with some explanation for why I don't want to, and feel guilty afterward. So I said "what do you need?" meaning how much, but he interpreted it more generally and said "just some help..." I was so surprised to hear that as a euphemism for money from an (apparent) non-panhandler that for a moment I thought he actually wanted me to do something for him, but then he continued "about $8 for a train, a bus, to get back to Fort Lee..." I reached into my pocket and had a twenty and two singles. Damn, $8 I really wouldn't have cared much about but losing $20 kind of sucks. But I gave it to him, along with my name and phone number, and he assured me that he would call me in about 45 minutes when he got home so we could arrange a time and place to meet so he could return it to me. He used the word "usurious" to describe the amount he would be willing to give me back. Then he looked at my name and asked if I was Jewish and I said "well, sort of...not really practicing, you know." He said he was too, but also not practicing, he thanked me profusely, and with that we parted.

So, either he's honest, he's a panhandler or otherwise poor guy and pathological liar who uses this to get a quick buck and has polished his performance, or he's a more sophisticated con man who doesn't really need the money but doesn't mind getting it anyway. I'm inclined to discout the last possibility, because in the grand scheme of things it was such a small sum. I also doubt that any con man worth his salt would say something like "I'm a really ethical guy," or indeed use such a blunt game as this. The second possibility is...a possibility, and doesn't necessarily conflict with the intelligence that his speech pattern seemed to indicate.

After about four hours there had been no phone call, so out of curiosity I went to see if the car he pointed out was still there. If it was, of course, that didn't give me any real indication, as it could never have been his in the first place. But if it was gone, I could at least stop waiting for the phone to ring. The car was indeed still there. It had a New York license plate, which doesn't bother me too much: it's plausible, and unless he was really desperate and amateur, there was no good reason for him not to check that out beforehand. Then again, he might have decided that unless I was rude and checked it out before giving him anything, he could probably have gotten away by the time I could check it out.

Other than the absence of a phone call, honesty doesn't seem too out of the question. It's understandable that would have chosen me to ask, not because I look like a sucker necessarily, but because I look like a peer. His manner was fitting for someone who has just had a lot stolen, but is more frustrated than truly damaged by it, and is still thinking rationally. Also, the 'drinking at a bar' part of the story is one that a grifter trying to appear as virtuous as possible would probably not think to include. It's still plausible that it took a lot longer than planned to get home, and that he thought it would be too late for me to meet tonight. But I won't hold my breath. I probably will, however, check for the car tomorrow morning, because being on an avenue, if it isn't retrieved it's liable to be ticketed or towed.

In retrospect I probably should have at least asked for his phone number, although again it wouldn't have been too hard for him to make one up.

On tonight's syndicated episode of Futurama, Fry and Leela were walking down the street and a ragged man jumped out of an alley and said, "Please help me! Someone stole all my money and I need to get back to Jersey City where uh, my mother is dying...so I'm mugging you!"

On Saturday PG and I braved the frustrating logic of the weather, that if it isn't cold it must at least be raining and windy, to explore the upper reaches of this island in search of housing options. Walking from the 90's to the 160's we zigzagged from Riverside to St. Nicholas. I was at once struck by the differences from the neighborhoods I more commonly frequent, and by the relative sameness exhibited by most of the neighborhoods we passed through. Certainly there is nothing pretentious about these places, and there is a welcome drop in the price of daily necessities. But while there are the countless bodegas and spanish restaurants just like my neighborhood has, it's more that that is all there is. PG observed at one point that we hadn't actually seen a supermarket for about a mile and a half. Niceties such as bookstores and cafes are most certainly to be forgotten. We also picked up on an evidently universal unwillingness on the part of dog owners to clean up after their pets. But in the end, the presence of such rents as are seen here, on the island of Manhattan, compensates for all these little complaints.

At the end of our walk we dined at a Spanish restaurant that, for its looks, had a surprisingly ambitious and expensive menu. We were just looking for lunch but it was hard to find a dish for less than $10. There were also mostly unique sets of about 15 specials for every day of the week. About 10 minutes after making up our minds, during which several other parties arrived and seemed to receive their food almost instantly, a waitress finally acknowledged us. It turned out the menu was perhaps overambitious; they did not have the ingredients for "shredded beef," so we both got the classic, Pollo Al Carbon, with rice and beans and an order of fried plantains. After consulting with a cook who told her in Spanish that it would be 15 minutes for the Pollo, she advised us it would be 10. All this apparently shoddy treatment, combined with a strange pricing structure that gave ranges for each dish and seemed to charge less for more food, made me feel as though we had arrived in some foreign country. Certainly we were outsiders, but it turned out my impressions were happily wrong, for the Pollo arrived in 10 minutes or less, everything was delicious, and somehow the entire meal cost $12.

* * *

Near the end of the workday today, someone had a very convenient accident, by crashing their car right in front of the hospital's driveway. A fire department ambulance arrived and loaded in an injured passenger, then proceeded to sit there, directly in front of the driveway, for at least the 15 minutes until I went home.

In "Cracking Up" I have a thing that's rare these days: a new TV show that might actually be good. TV is so bad that even when there is a good show, I fail to appreciate it in its time, so reluctant am I to get drawn into a crapfest. But that's what syndication is for. This show is written by Mike White, who did the brilliant "Chuck and Buck" and the better-than-it-should-have-been "School of Rock," and it stars Jason Schwartzman, whom a Times article seemed to imply is just now discovering the music of Sebadoh (not that there's anything wrong with that).

The first thing I was struck by in the first episode last night was the surprise of being reminded of "Rushmore" by the music (the first song was a near-clone of Sloan's "Penpals," and later there were many shades of Mark Mothersbaugh's scores), the academic setting (quickly to evaporate), and the unmistakable deadpan dialogue. The last one of these I'm willing to accept was simply something that Schwartzman brought to Rushmore, and that happened to be a perfect fit for Wes Anderson, perhaps even that he took with him to Tenenbaums. But when the DVD arrives I will have to go back and watch "Bottle Rocket" to see if he had this going on pre-Rushmore.

The first episode had a very frenetic pace, which perhaps was due to a desire to get enough of the exposition done to draw the viewer in. This helped keep the humor afloat as it often does, and distracted a bit from the show's adherence to the usual sitcom cliches, such as Schwartzman's character threatening to eliminate the show's premise by leaving the family he's going to live with, then changing his mind after no more than 10 seconds of screen time. This method of hewing close enough to the mainstream to be seen by a wide audience, while not sucking, seems to be a developing trademark of Mike White.

It's slightly odd to see Schwartzman playing the straight man to the crazy family when he made such a delightful eccentric in Rushmore and certainly doesn't have the grown-up and dignified look that one expects for that kind of role. Meanwhile the family, while showing no signs at all of being a family other than living in the same house (until the last 5 seconds when we all learn a valuable lesson...), remains authentic. Most families with that much money really are fucking insane.

Well this was going to be called "First and second impressions..." because they showed the second episode tonight, but then I fell asleep at 8:30pm, thus missing it and probably ruining the healthy and regular sleep schedule that I have kept going for three weeks. Damnit.

I was considering several possible topics for the first entry in more than a week, but was having trouble thinking of any of them as truly worthy or inspiring. There was the movie "Haiku Tunnel" that I caught a few nights ago (It had very little to do with either. Discuss.), bizarre sets of Japanese verbs that sound the same and mean very similar things, but are written with different Kanji, more stupid elevator people stories. But then these were all made to seem quite boring and irrelevant while I was riding the elevator down to the basement at work today. It stopped at the second floor, and out there in the elevator bank was a woman, skipping across the floor, completely naked. There seemed to be something slightly wrong with her skin. She was saying repeatedly in a raspy voice, "they keep beating on me..." As the door closed I saw the hand of her pursuer reaching out. One of the nurses who was in the elevator said, "I have never seen that before."

Add a new sleep schedule to the catalogue of those I've tried: the every-other-night nap-from-evening-to-middle-of-night. This one has the dubious distinction that I followed it rather consistently this week, completely unintentionally. Every other night I fell asleep quite involuntarily, sometimes with my legs half hanging off the side of my bed, most recently with a guitar lying across my stomach, from 8 or 9pm until some time between 12:30 and 4:30am. Almost every time this happened I think I was working on music at the time. Tonight I had just come up with a great start to a song, with music and a couple of verses worth of lyrics. I was trying to fill out the second verse but started to feel myself fading away and thought that I should try to write down what I have so I don't forget it. But I couldn't bring myself to sit back up and do it, so I'll have to see if I can remember it now. I've long tried to exploit the heightened states of creativity that exist in times of extreme fatigue and even during sleep, the same way others have made use of what drugs do to them. But it is a delicate area that can lead to unplanned naps when proper caution is not taken. After falling asleep with the guitar on my stomach tonight, I rolled over in my sleep and woke up with it resting heavily on my back, and for a while thought I must have planned it that way to make it harder for myself to get up.

As I've been looking to get an apartment, I've started reading the Times' Real Estate section now and then. But I'm frequently frustrated by their focus on people who are clearly in the top 1% or less of wealth in this country, and on "trends" that only those people could possibly be part of. There was a recent article about one such "trend," toward making one's residence look like a hotel. This is already stupid enough. They talked about one guy who hired the architect of a Las Vegas hotel that he liked, to design his living room. Who the fuck can afford to do that? A while back there was another "trend" article about parents who, rather than housing their children in college dormitories, simply buy houses for them. What?! I have enough trouble comprehending how people are able to buy one house in a lifetime and actually pay for it. Is any of this really newsworthy? I would be far more impressed by an amateur being resourceful and using what they had to create an unconventional place to live. Another recent story raised my ire with its content, rather than with the presence of the article at all. It was about a planned building by Santiago Calatrava, the guy behind some pretty cool things such as the new PATH Terminal for the WTC site. His new project is a building with 12 stacked staggered cubes, each of which houses 1-2 families and has 10,000-12,000 square feet of space, on the lower east side. In other words, a huge building with ludicrously large apartments for a few very, very rich people. Is this really what we need? In general I've finally realized that in my current environs, most of the people around me are rich and perhaps that's why everything seems expensive. I think once I move I will really be in a place that is more suited to me.

(More soon--I'm trying to provide more frequent entries by not packing several ideas into each one)

I've long felt somewhat ashamed of this. But I find myself more inspired, or at least more healthily inspired, by very well-done writing about very good music than by the music itself. As I've said before, when I listen to very good music, I think I know what's good about it, and inevitably decide temporarily that I should be doing that. I rationalize it by thinking that really, I've been trying to do that all along, I've just drifted off course. But my assessment of what makes it so good is always too shallow, and I realize in the end that taking what others have done will never produce a good result--it has to be completely my idea.

Certain writing does a much better job of explaining what's really so good about this music. It's usually too general to even enable me to rip it off; instead I form my own ideas about how to create the same effects that are talked about. And I know some will scoff at this, but the main source of such writing for me thus far has been Pitchfork Media, linked at left. They may be snobs, and take full advantage of their position outside the mainstream to pan things mercilessly, but when they really like something the writers are able to express it in words a hundred times better than I ever could. My reviews of just about anything artistic are infamous among...well, me and a couple of other people.

It's hard to illustrate this with short quotes, so check out the first two paragraphs of the review of The Microphones' "The Glow, Pt. 2":

"It's an amazing thing when pop music expresses beauty through ambiguity. After being pummeled over the head for years and years with I Love Yous and You Are So Beautifuls, the most direct way of expressing images of love and beauty have pretty much lost all impact. Melodic tricks can wear thin just as easily. Hooks are all well and good, but when you've seen a hook enough times, you know not to bite.

"Perhaps the problem is that most pop music doesn't put enough faith in the listener. Everything must be laid out in the most obvious of terms, and eventually, that obviousness obscures whatever the music originally intended to convey. If you want to invoke the quiet beauty of the ocean, for example, you can write a pop song that says, "Hey, the ocean is really beautiful," or you can try to come up with a sonic approximation of that beauty."

This may seem pretty obvious, but it's an incredibly valuable thing to realize, and most songwriters out there are completely oblivious to it. When you feel strongly enough about something to write a song, you often have the urge to just come out and say it, and not risk obscuring things and keeping your message from the listener.

The first paragraph of the review of the re-release of Olivia Tremor Control's "Dusk At Cubist Castle" sort of captures the same idea from the other side (actually it is by the same reviewer, so perhaps it's really his style that I like):

"The world will never know just how many potentially great pop albums have been lost to misguided attempts at innovation. Though the implementation of unexpected song structures and ostensibly experimental sounds can make music quite a bit more interesting, it can also render it sterile, flat and emotionless. In many cases, the finest pop songs are those that transcend their form entirely-- songs so instinctually graceful that listening to them feels like a creative act in and of itself. Indeed, the best pop songs are often the most difficult to discuss rationally, those indispensable not for their formal inventiveness but for their ability to tap directly into the intangible realm of human memory and emotion."

This, I have to say, is a more difficult thing to really get a grasp on, but it's just as important. When I reread it I realized I hadn't totally gotten it yet, because when writing and recording recently I was still congratulating myself whenever I broke a formal rule of pop music, and criticizing whenever I wasn't breaking them. This is still a different matter from trying to break as many rules as possible at the same time, which can have even worse results, but it's still not the right way to make good music. The battle for me always seems to be convincing myself deeply enough that there is no scientific formula for good music.