how not to finish

Going in and out of so many conversations might make you sit back and wonder, for a second, if these individual fragments actually mean anything. Why, really, are you talking to anyone if the dynamics of this situation are such that no conversation lasts longer than a few minutes. Where are the deep, hours long explorations of personal philosophy? The deep examinations of motivations and passions? With time, I assure you, that will come, but you need to establish a reason for it. And, sometimes, something left unfinished is more beautiful and more intriguing than the most complete masterpiece.

Does this look like a man who couldn't finish a symphony if he really wanted to?

Take, for instance, Mozart’s Requiem Mass without any of the completions (personally, I’m partial to Levin’s). The ending is hauntingly abrupt considering the emotional torment and bizarre circumstances behind the creation of the piece. As unfinished works go, however, I’m quite enamored of Schubert’s Unfinished Symphony, generally referred to has his Eighth. Schubert only completed the orchestration for two full movements, though a full piano score for a scherzo remains as well. The odd thing about this particular unfinished piece is that it was not interrupted by Schubert’s death. Rather, he seems to have just moved on to other things for the rest of his life (six years). A number of theories suggest that Schubert did, in fact, sketch a full fourth movement, which then became part of the incidental music for Rosamunde. However, the evidence is slim, and largely based on the fact that both are in B minor.

Still, even though it’s never been finished, the piece has become, since it was first performed in 1865, one of Schubert’s most popular. So if you find yourself listening to a young woman’s lament over the emptiness of so many unfinished conversations, you can say something along these lines: “Honestly, I’m always fighting to not let those half finished conversations depress me. Rather, I think about how unique, challenging, and exciting the conversation that did happen actually was. It’s like Schubert’s Unfinished Symphony. I could dwell on how much I wish he had finished it, or I can revel in the beauty of what he did leave us, and know that we’re all richer for it.”

A bit highfalutin? Maybe a little overwrought? Well, sometimes you need to go to extremes in order to fend off the dangers of existential ennui.

the devil in the details

In any case, it’s about time for another drink and, slightly disenchanted as you are with the crowd’s reception of your Daniel Boone bit, you might as well move along. Standing at the bar, you hear a conversation starting just to your right wherein two gentlemen are discussing the stories behind the names of various sports teams. One of them hypothesizes that the New Jersey Devils are likely so named because New Jersey is something of a hellhole. Oh, so very funny, but a gentleman never allows false facts to be bandied about, and certainly never allows a fine state such as New Jersey to be disparaged.

Maybe not so scary here, but I wouldn't mess with it in a dark alley...which are common in Jersey

What these ruffians apparently do not know is that the Devils are named after New Jersey’s official state monster, though no such position actually exists. There is a legend, running back to at least the 1800s of a flying biped with cloven hooves that haunts the pine barrens of New Jersey. The creature is credited with all kinds of mischievous shenanigans from killing live stock, to giving Napoleon’s older brother Joseph a scare while he was out hunting one day (he had an estate in Jersey). Commodore Stephen Decatur even claimed to have hit it with a cannonball to no effect. Any way you cut it, it’s an odd story.

“Sorry, lads, but couldn’t help but notice you talking about the Devils, and where the name came from.” Don’t worry if they give you a snide look of “well, what’s it to you, bub?” Remember, you’re fighting the good fight. “Turns out, the team is named after an old legend about the pine barrens, and this mythical creature…or cryptid, that lives there. You know, bat wings, cloven hooves, maybe breathes fire, that sortof thing. I guess it’s Jersey’s twist on the Jackalope.”

Yes, that will do nicely. If they seem like good, but misguided fellows, have a drink with them. If not, well, you’ve done what you set out to do. Grab your drink, and get back out there.

out in the boonedocks

Now that everyone knows a bit more about 18th century British science, it’s time to switch gears. Let’s stick with the 18th century just to maintain a semblance of conversational order. However, we’re going to jump the pond in just a second. Remember, keep it composed:

“Now, Henry Cavendish, admittedly, accomplished a hell of a lot while sitting in his basement for most of his adult life, but I prefer my historical characters with a bit more…vim and vigor. Take Daniel Boone, for instance, the guy was Clint Eastwood plus John Wayne mixed with a little bit of Kevin Costner if he had just stopped after Dances with Wolves.”

Boone didn't actually use this musket, but he probably had one just like it.

There are, however, a few things you should know about Mr. Boone as you tread into some of the territory that he helped add to this United States. Now, we could just stick with an exploration of a man who became a legend in his own time. He was captured by the Shawnee during the Revolutionary War, and, instead of being killed or turned over to the British, he was eventually adopted by the tribe, though I’m not sure if he had the help of a sympathetic canine. We could also discuss the fact that you can still find his name carved into rocks and trees in Western Kentucky, parts of Tennessee, and who knows where else. In any case, there’s a lot you could say about the man, but, this situation calls for a bit of levity.

Turns out Davey Crockett wasn't the only American hero killing himself some bears.

Luckily for you, the nice young woman on your left just volunteered the fact that she wouldn’t much have liked being Boone’s wife on account of his moving his family farther and farther west throughout his life. Go with this “Oddly enough, Boone might have agreed with you there. As it turns out, there was a hidden motive behind a large portion of the man’s moves: the US government kept invalidating his land claims. That’s right, the great frontiersman and homesteader kept frontiering because he needed to find a home the government would let him keep.”

Probably would have been better with a pun, but you can’t have everything.

world on his shoulders

As sometimes happens, the chat you were having about poems and poets led to a dispersal of the crowd. Some folks just don’t know what to do with themselves when literary criticism raises it’s head. No matter, a new circle has coalesced and the conversation has wound its way through to The Biggest Loser. Naturally enough, that has partygoers hypothesizing on the weight of various people and objects, from Kirstie Alley to the Washington Monument. There have been quite a few witty comparisons dropped here and there, and one fellow has decided that the weight of the host’s ego may well rival that of the Earth. Well well, you might, in this comment, see a point at which to drop a bit of proverbial knowledge.

Don't mess with this guy. He's a scientist.

It just so happens that the Earth was weighed for the first time in the 1700s by a recluse called Henry Cavendish. The Cavendishes were a rather impressive bunch. Not only was Henry’s grandfather the Duke of Devonshire, but his family is responsible for three centuries worth of patronage for British science, and for a not insignificant number of scientific achievements. Henry discovered hydrogen, though he called it “inflammable air,” and a member of his family would later establish the world renown Cavendish Labs.

But enough about that, I mentioned him weighing the world. The story actually starts with Cavendish realizing that Mason and Dixon’s measurements for their line (yes, that one) were slightly off, and he hypothesized that their plumb lines were being pulled out of whack by the Allegheny mountains. So, under his direction, a couple of fellows from the Royal Society went up to a mountain in Scotland called Schiehallion and measured how much the mountain distorted the drop of their plumb line from various sides. With that information in hand, they made an estimate as to the density of the mountain, and through it, that of the Earth, along with it’s weight. However, Cavendish didn’t think their work was up to snuff. He continued to play with the idea, and, at the age 67, he started a set of experiments that wound up providing the measure of the gravitational constant, G. Not bad for a man that spent all day in his basement playing with bunson burners, ey? So, let’s see…

Careful, now, don't shrug.

“Good luck finding a scale large enough to measure that. Though, I guess we could play Henry Cavendish and measure the weight of his ego based on its effect on others in the room? Might take a bit of watching, but we could probably get pretty close, especially if he keeps talking to Jean-Claude over there. The two of them together could probably tip an elephant.”

Ok, so you didn’t really get through all the intricacies of Cavendish’s achievement, but you did a very nice job.

the mightiest penn

Beware of people in turtlenecks, as they like to talk at length about narrow subjects.

My advice to you, at this point, is to shift away from Eliot, Pound, and The Wasteland as quickly as you can. While everyone enjoys a good yarn about poetry, broaching the topic leaves you open to two equally serious threats 1) everyone gets quite depressed thinking about how sad the poem is or 2) one of your co-conversationalists stands a decent chance of being an expert on it, or some related piece, and will take this as an excuse to discourse for the next hour. Either situation would be quite the buzzkill.

So how to pivot to something more salubrious for the general path of your conversational endeavors? Well, in order that you not create too distracting a schism between the conversation that was and that upon which you are about to embark, why don’t we stick within the realm of poetry, but shift forward a few years to the work of one Robert Penn Warren. Warren’s legacy is a bit different that of Eliot.

To start with, Warren was the US Poet Laureate from 1944-1945. Then, he won the Pulitzer Prize for Poetry in 1958. He waited a couple of years and then won it again in 1979. If that was all there was to say about the man, it would be quite a lot – and I didn’t even mention the fact that he was a Rhodes Scholar and a Guggenheim Fellow. For all of his accomplishments in the world of poetry, Warren isn’t regularly remembered primarily as a poet. Rather than seeing that as a knock against his work (which some critics might say does not hold up in against the lens of history), it is likely a function of the unbelievable success of his masterpiece, a novel called All the King’s Men.

Different story about the King's men.

But how to bridge from one to the next? Let’s have a go: “TS Eliot may be one of my favorite poets, but I’ve got to give some serious respect to Robert Penn Warren. He’s the only person to ever win Pulitzer Prizes for both poetry and fiction. The crazy thing is, almost no one I know has even read his poetry. Maybe that means it doesn’t stand up against time, or just that All the King’s Men was so important as to eventually overshadow everything else he did. Still, that’s a strange legacy.”

That should about do it for now. Still talking literature, but a bit less of a downer.

a pound of effort

With the space conversation at something of a natural conclusion, the circle of which you were a part loses cohesion and fragments. Never fear, you’ve encountered similar situations before, and can adapt quite readily to being momentarily adrift. Have a sip of your drink and use the pause offered to take a look at your nearby surroundings. The search criteria we employed back at the bar would suffice here, though you don’t actually need a drink at this point.

Also quite a lot of fun, though not typically found at cocktail parties

As you listen to the conversations in your immediate vicinity, try to pick up on a topic to which you have something to add. No sense in forcing yourself into a bad conversation, as that would be silly, and not much fun at all. You’re at a party, and parties are largely about entertainment, so try to remember that. As luck would have it the trio next to you are talking about The Waste Land, a topic with which we are not unfamiliar.

There’s a lot that could be said about what is likely TS Eliot’s most famous work. Simply understanding this poem of loss, destruction, and possible redemption that grew out of the tragedy of WWI is a challenge that requires a hugely wide and deep range of knowledge, from German to Greek to Shakespeare and the history of London. It is considered by many to be the pinnacle of high modernist poetry. To whit, the final section: “What the Thunder Said,” includes a story out of the Bṛhadāraṇyaka Upanishad, a Hindu scripture from somewhere around 600 BC. That Eliot marshaled such diverse elements in the service of his art is impressive, to realize that he did, in fact, have mastery of this broad an array of educational disciplines is intimidating in the utmost.

In any case, the Waste Land that we know today might never have come to be if it had not been for the intervention of the other luminary of modernist poetry: Ezra Pound. Along with his own prodigious output and checkered political and social history (which we will address another time), Pound acted as mentor and editor to a number of younger poets, including good old TS. So, try something like this:

Why did he have a British accent? Unclear, but it makes his reading of his own poetry sound quite good

“Sorry, but I couldn’t help overhearing you discussing The Waste Land, which I love.” Temporary annoyance at your intrusion should thus have been soothed to acceptance into a rather small club of people who profess to enjoy modernist poetry. “The thing that really gets me, though, is wondering about what we would think of the poem had Pound not stepped in and edited like mad. Have you seen the original drafts? What a difference. Eliot truly meant it when he essentially dedicated the poem to Pound, declaring him ‘Il miglior fabbro,’ – the finer craftsmen. I suppose you could say it’s a shame that Pound didn’t direct the same editorial eye towards parts of his own later writing.”

Don’t expect anything remotely resembling physical applause. In their heads, though, they loved it. Feel free to wink.

streaking your way through

The whole topic of space exploration is a fun one, and there’s no reason to leave it alone just yet. We could spend all night on it, really, but that might get to be a bit of a bore for those who don’t understand the romantic appeal of the stars. Still, for now, let’s lob another bit of information into the conversation, and see where it takes us.

“I daresay that the astronauts up in Skylab had plenty of time to play ‘is that the Great wall of China or a canal?’ But I’ve always been a bit surprised about the how they got the station down.”

A space station is a space station is a space station

There is a lot of junk floating around our planet: old satellites, dust, micro-meteors, etc. However, there are no derelict space stations looping their ways around the planet in geosynchronous orbit. Truth be known, Skylab wasn’t the first space station (that honor goes to Salyut 1, from our old friends in the USSR), but it was the first one launched by the US and the only one which NASA ever launched on its own. Skylab stayed in orbit for six years and hosted three separate crew visits between 1973 and 1974. Interestingly enough, the earliest plans for Skylab were actually developed by Wernher von Braun. We can discuss him another time.

So why isn’t the station still up there? Did NASA send a bunch of astronauts up with blowtorches and screwdrivers to take the station apart, put it in boxes, and ship it back down? Actually, no. With Skylab’s orbit decaying faster than anticipated, due to sunspot activity, NASA did what it could to orient the station for re-entry. They slightly missed the target zone, and scattered pieces from around 800 miles south of Capetown all the way to Western Australia.

See? Just like a meteor

So, continue: “See, when it turned out the friction caused by the Earth’s atmosphere was causing Skylab’s orbit to degrade faster than expected, NASA had to do what it could to make sure that it re-entered with some semblance of order. Apparently, the most convenient way to do that was to slightly alter Skylab’s orientation and to let the station grind itself to pieces against the atmosphere during re-entry. They figured that the chances of it hitting a person were around 152 to 1…which are reasonably decent odds. Either way, I’ll bet it looked like a big beautiful meteor as it streaked across the sky.”

That should be enough about space for now. Think hard about what you want to discuss next. You’ve got a lot of options, so make it count.

how big was it?

While involved in a conversation about the finer points of fox hunting with your old friend, you failed to notice the conversation at large shift rather drastically in scope and content. As you tune back in, you find your fellow conversationalists engrossed in a conversation about what one can, and cannot see from outer space. Slightly confused over how things wound up where they are, but willing to go with it, you hear one fellow wonder whether anything manmade can actually be seen from, say, the space shuttle as it orbits the earth. Before you can interject, a petite blond on your left declares, quite forcefully: “Of course! You can see the Great Wall of China from outer space. Everybody knows that.”

The first emperor was a fan of both walls and hats

Well, you have a bit of a delicate situation here, but let’s lay some groundwork. The first thing you should know is that the Great Wall itself is something of a misnomer. In reality, the “Wall” is a series of walls stretching along the southern edge of Mongolia, and comprises walls built over nearly 1900 years of Chinese history, trenches, rivers, hills, and other natural barriers. The series of fortifications extends for roughly 5,500 miles, though there are long stretches that are largely eroded and in advanced states of disrepair. While there were a large number of smaller walls built to protect the northern frontier by various states between the 8th and 3rd centuries BC, it’s the First Emperor of China, the King of Qin, who connected a larger number of walls into the first Great Wall of China. His use of conscripted labor in the process led to quite a bit of discontent among his subjects, but let’s not get too involved in the particulars of Chinese imperial history, as it is quite the topic.

In any case, the emperor’s wall has survived in one form or another through to the present day. The most familiar pieces of the wall, however, the ones that regularly show up in pictures, videos, and the popular imagination, were largely built by the Ming dynasty during the 15th century. They built the sections running up and down the sides of mountains, with the large towers and broad brick paths. Of course, like the Maginot Line, the wall fell victim to it’s fixed position, and was breached when a single general betrayed the Mings to the Manchu in the 17th century. In any case, about that “visible from outer space” claim: it’s just not true, at least, not to the naked eye. Remember, though, you should treat this delicately. Your goal is not to be snooty and offensive, your goal is to be intelligent and charming.

The moon, much as it was in 1745

“I always used to think so, but I recently learned a shocking secret.” At this point, lean in conspiratorially, to let everyone know that you, too, were duped, but wish to save them future embarrassment at the hands of a potentially ungracious astrobuff. “Apparently, it’s something of an urban legend. Back in 1745, some guy claimed that it was visible from the moon…which doesn’t make a lot of sense considering it was 1745. In any case, NASA’s official position is that, under perfect conditions, if you know exactly where to look, you can see it, but it is no more distinct than a number of other man-made objects. So can you see it? Kind of, but I don’t think it deserves the status we’re used to giving it, which is kindof sad.”

And…wistful chuckle. That was way better than shouting at her about being wrong and gesticulating wildly, don’t you think?

your name is?

Another day, another party, huh? Well, good for you for not letting the ending of the last one get you down. Remember, this is a numbers game, and a charm game, also, a game of conversation and tolerance for alcohol. Really, it’s quite complex, so practice is in your best interest.

Emmentaler, not swiss

This looks promising, well lit, the well stocked bar, and a waiter just walked past with a selection of cheeses not limited to cheddar and emmentaler (though nothing wrong with those cheeses, in fact, they are quite delicious). In any case, you walk up to the bar, order a gin and tonic, and then spot a friend of yours loosely associated with a circle of attractive young women. Feel free to approach.

As you do so, see if you can pick up on the particulars of the conversation before you actually join in. Remember to look for an opening.

“Ignatious Riley is easily my favorite fictional name.” Says someone whose name you think might be Jeanne based on an introduction several months ago. This is as good a place as any. Pat your friend on the back and interject: “Agreed, great name. I recently came across a better one, though, and it’s real: Theophilus Shepstone.”

Theophilus’s parents clearly knew he was destined for some minor greatness when they named him. Did they know he would spend thirty years as the director of native policy in Natal (a British colony in South Africa), where he would allow the colonized to maintain their local customs, thereby avoiding all but one rebellion throughout his entire tenure? Or that he would be the one who was entrusted to annex Transvaal with the help of twenty five mounted policemen? Or, that his close relations with the Zulu nation, and the shifts in his policies towards them and the betrayal they felt therein helped precipitate the Anglo-Zulu War of 1879? Probably not, but, still and all, there you have it.

The man in question was quit e a natty dresser, it seems

Of course, all that is something of a mouthful, so you might just limit yourself to: “Though I suppose the British had lots of high-falutin’ names back in the 1800s. Still, Theophilus is a good one, and he accomplished quite a bit in British South Africa.”

As a first foray of the night, not too bad.

checkered evening

Don’t worry, sometimes even the most successful conversational gambits fail to result in anything more than the exchange of a few essentially meaningless pleasantries. You can be your most charming, and cruel fate may still dictate that you don’t make any new lasting friendships. Take your joy for the evening from spending a few hours in good company, with a few good drinks.

As you leave the party and hail a cab, pause for just a moment to consider the evolution of New York’s taxi cab system. Those yellow automobiles are certainly one of the city’s most iconic symbols, though the Crown Vics so familiar in the last thirty years are beginning to lose ground to hybrids of various kinds. Have a chat with your cabbie, find out where he’s from. If your subject turns to the history of cabs themselves, well, you might as well spice things up with a bit of taxi cab arcana:

Yep, they drove taxis, and had madcap adventures

“I’ve recently gotten quite interested in the history of new york cabs,” you might begin. “I hadn’t realized, until recently, that Ford and GM actually used to build and operate their own fleets of cabs. And those old Checkered cabs that always pop up in movies and old pictures? Those were actually made by the Checkered Cab Manufacturing Company. It’s a shame you don’t see more of those these days, they just feel more right than the hybrids that are taking over, whatever the environmental benefit.”

As it turns out, from 1907, when the New York Taxi Company imported the first 600 red and green taxis until 1968, there was no official color for taxis. That’s when the city government mandated that all medallioned taxis be painted yellow to cut down on unofficial cabs, and to make the legitimate ones more easily recognizable. And so we have our now iconic color, even if the car models themselves are constantly shifting.

Even flying cabs are yellow

After that, sit back and relax. With any luck, you’ll hear some interesting stories  about a complete stranger’s life. Maybe you’ll learn about the Copts or pick up a bit of philosophy from an associate professor. The truth is, you never know where the next tidbit for a party is going to pop up.