Once when I was a teenager, I designed my own funeral. What might have been a medication red flag for some kids was only Saturday night with a new notebook for a saint-obsessed, Brian’s Song-Sunshine-Death Be Not Proud-movie-of-the-week-weepy addict, folk singing, beatnik wannabe. I listed the music first (very heavy on the Peter, Paul and Mary and Simon and Garfunkel), then the location (outside), the flowers (lilacs and carnations), the speakers (my dad, one of my teachers) and finally and most essential, the content of the eulogy. I included all my best attributes, a few brilliant passages from my journals as well as ideas and wisdom I felt were unique and might be lost to the world in the event of my untimely death. I feared that the image people had of me and the image they would have spoken of was inaccurate: too nice, too tame, certainly not tortured enough. I wanted them to pay tribute to the “real me,” a brave but edgy girl worth remembering. Basically, I wanted to control my own spin, even from beyond the grave.

This bizarre memory came back to me as I attended a work-sponsored dinner celebrating employee longevity. The annual party recognizes benchmarks at five-year intervals and various managers prepare speeches for associates who have been with the company for 5, 10, even 25 years. Sometimes the comments were more roast than toast, sharing quirks or relating funny stories, but most were straight up tributes, detailing contributions and strengths. What was interesting was the reaction of the individuals being honored. Some seemed to be having the time of their lives, grabbing the microphone to clarify anecdotes, wincing and grinning, glowing with pride in their new dress or tie. Others stood as still as a tree trunk, their faces forced into an upturned grimace, clearly mortified.

I am definitely one of the tree people, very squeamish with public praise. Yet I have a very visible job. I facilitate time and space for associates to discover insights they already knew, but which they tend to attribute to my influence. I am very deft at directing these conversations toward owning their experience and away from the woman behind the curtain. I make self-deprecating disclaimers, sharing credit with anyone who might be in the building at the time. I genially wave it all aside like gnats.

This is ironic considering I teach these same managers how to utilize praise as a technique for improving performance. In a recent class we discussed when positive feedback is effective and when it’s not. Like many topics in a classroom setting, we compared models and formulas and highlighted my favorite soapboxes: specific behavior, timeliness, relevance to key responsibilities, linkage to business priorities, developmental appropriateness, establishing relationships, tone of delivery, etc. As with many topics in the classroom setting, the reality of how people respond is much more complex than what can be scribbled on a flip chart.

For example, I get embarrassed when I am told that I am smart. First, I know that in any cross-section of humans, there will be some dazzlingly more intelligent and woefully less and every variation in between. Second, my smartness varies depending on what I had for breakfast and whether or not the issue at hand includes numbers or sports. Third, I can’t really impact my smartness one way or another except for the vain hope that crossword puzzles will maintain aging brain cells. Smart is like hair that curls or stylish shoes or a presentation I threw together at the last minute that worked because of luck and coffee; it is just small talk, the ebb and flow of casual conversation, a way of interpreting a person in lieu of actual data.

Blue moon occasionally, I will accept an offer of praise with true gratitude. I can’t speak for everyone; it was clear watching the awards ceremony that some people simply love the limelight and feel more self-confident about their accomplishments. I respect a healthy measure of entitlement. But for me, the difference between uncomfortable praise and swagger-inducing praise was apparent long ago in my funeral instructions. Meaningful praise has the buzz of real connection. It reflects the desire to be known and understood. It recognizes a feat or quality valued by both the recipient and the observer. It signifies rigorous and satisfying effort. The best praise feels like someone has inadvertently read your script.

Compliment an over-edited, fussed and re-fussed scrap of writing (“great post!”) and I will smile. Admire my flowers and I may puff up like a peacock. Mention that you have seen or read something by one of my sons and I will start singing like Mama Rose. These are closer to the core, what those who know me know I care about.

Someone came up to me at work and said that she had been looking forward to meeting me. She said, “I heard you were nice.” We chatted cordially, but inwardly I was horrified. Nice? She heard I was nice? If I were hit by a truck tomorrow, this was not a description I would want lingering in anyone’s memory. I determined to pull out and refresh my eulogy again. Just in case. I must make certain that the world would appreciate the loss of such a fierce and mighty aphid hunter.

1. Bidule en Ut — Schaeffer / Henry
2. Filmy Feedback — Toshiya Tsunoda
3. Lathe — Arcane Device
4. Live In Kaliningrad (Part 1) — Alexei Borisov
5. Manipulationology — Digital Drug
6. Rave, Part 1 — Ingram Marshall
7. Taw — Nobukazu Takemura
8. Track 04 — Axolotl
9. works for musique concrete Z — Toshiro Mayuzumi
10. 2 variations en étoile — Guy Reibel
11. Tocatta for Violincello — Ben Johnston

I compiled this playlist by going through my music library and picking tracks that made me say, “Huh, I didn’t know I had that on there.” Most of the music I have is recognizably music, with melody, harmony, rhythm, or some combination of the three. But I really enjoy the more out-there or experimental stuff, too. (Not sure what one category would cover all the stuff in this playlist. “Obnoxious,” maybe. “Grates on yr ears.”) It frees me of expectations and creates moments in which I can’t pretend to understand everything, despite my best efforts.

The tracks are here.

Remember the Cold War – those lazy, crazy days of mutually assured destruction? Funny to think that some in Whatsitland are too young to ever have contemplated the idea that the Soviets or that Ronald “nut-job” Reagan might one day just say, “The heck with it!” and lob a few thousand nukes eastwardly or westwardly, respectively. And believe me kids, you’re not only lucky in having avoided the neuroses that came along with the fear of nuclear annihilation, you also got to miss hearing Sting sing about it – those were dreadful times indeed.

Of the many lessons we might learn from this era, one that actually has it roots in the pre-Cold War ideological struggle between Marxism and capitalism seems significant to our recent discussions on global warming: the political credibility given to Lysenkoist agriculture by Joseph Stalin.

As I understand it, the story is relatively straightforward. (But be forewarned, I’m no biological-scientist, and much less of an authority on Soviet history than at least three GW contributors.) Anyway, the story goes that along with the creation of a Leninist/Marxist state, the Soviet Union needed to separate itself from many of the previous scientific discoveries and theories that it understood as either informed by or informing capitalism. The study of genetics stood as a prime example of such a science.

From a political standpoint, the reasoning behind this dubiousness makes perfect sense: the culmination of genetics and capitalism led directly to social Darwinism, which was (and still is for some) a scientific excuse for the perpetuation of wealth by the few and the lower economic station of the many. (It also led to the creation of the eugenics movement, which inspired the Nazis, and informed the forced sterilization of thousands of Americans, but that’s a story for another day.)

From a Marxist point of view, a scientific theory of inherited traits that justified capitalism should, clearly, be countered with an equally plausible scientific theory. (This war of science went both ways during the Cold War. For example, the US backed the social scientific theory of behaviorism as a way to combat Marxism.)

This is where Trofim Lysenko comes is. Lysenko developed a theory of non-genetic trait-inheritance called Michurinism, named after the Soviet biologist, Ivan Michurin. Actually, Lysenko’s work was far removed from Michurin’s, and was more in line with the theories of a 19th century Frenchman named Jean-Baptiste Lamarck.

Lamarck, who was a well-respected scientist in his day, argued that characteristics (that later came to be understood as genetically inherited) were actually acquired through external factors. For example, he famously argued that the length of a giraffe’s neck is explained by the animals’ continual stretching to reach the leaves on which they feed. Moreover, according to Lamarck, giraffes would pass on their oversized neck to their offspring. Another way to understand the theory is that a bodybuilder’s child will naturally have larger muscles than an accountant’s child, even if neither offspring ever lifts weights.

Lamarck’s theory may sound a little weak now, but many of us still have a Lamarckian understanding of inherited traits. For example, it’s a popular belief that one day our little toes or appendixes will disappear because we don’t use them anymore.

Anyway, inspired by Lamarck, Lysenko set forth the theory that wheat can be made heartier by freezing its seeds and packing them in snow before planting, or that one could extend the planting season by exposing seeds to moisture.

If one looks at the social structure of the USSR, Lysenko’s theory has greater implications. Not only does it counter the idea that capitalism is based on the human genetic makeup, it also creates a positive model to justify the huge social experiments undertaken by Stalin’s government, like the massive levels of new industrialization or the communization of agriculture. In other words, the Lysenko model dictates that if we force people to become welders, farmers, or scientists, they will naturally give birth to welders, farmers, or scientists, and everyone will be happy, healthy, and productive.

The problem, however, was that – regardless of how one feels about capitalism or Marxism – Gregor Meldel had it right when it came to the genetics of plants - which is also to say that Lysenko had it wrong. If we were just talking about lab experiments here, it might not seem like that big of a deal, but a real problem arose when Stalin bought whole-hog into Lysenko’s theories. This led to much lower crop yields for the Soviet Union in good years and crop failures in bad years.

At this point, one might rightfully ask why the USSR didn’t just change courses and go with other agricultural strategies? The reason is that Stalin was completely committed to Lysenko. The scientist’s critics were ousted from their posts, Lysenko was named head of the Academy of Agricultural Sciences, and his techniques were perpetuated into the early 1960s.

Where I see this story intersecting with the US’s current dilemma over global warming policy is through the creeping-in of political influence regarding science, which is too important to become politicized. For example, if the people who fall on the side of global warming as being human-induced are right, we are wasting incredibly valuable time arguing the validity of their data. If, on the other hand, global warming is a hoax perpetuated by eco-terrorists, we are looking at the scientific justification for implementing unnecessary policies that will potentially have a serious drag on the American economy.

To my mind, if one does a simple cost-benefit analysis, the answer is clearly to error on the side of the former rather than the latter group. The cost of doing nothing if the first group is right means serious peril, while the cost of acting as if they are wrong seems somewhat benign by comparison. Seriously, is a world filled with people bicycling to the market, canvas shopping bags in tow, that horrific? To oil companies, auto manufacturers, and a host of other industries, it sure is.

By taking macroeconomics into account, one can look at the problem another way: the US doesn’t have a comparative advantage in heavily polluting industries any longer. It would therefore be better served by switching to other types of industries, like the research and development of greener technologies. Of course, by committing to post-industrialism, many Americans would lose relatively well-paying manufacturing jobs, but through the globalization of production, that’s going to continue to happen anyway (you Hillary supporters have her lovely husband to thank for this one).

A somewhat simplistic way to look at the global warming debate, specifically Bush’s feet dragging regarding the issue, is that he’s looking out for his oilmen-buddies who got him elected. This may be true to a point, but the story of influence in politics is likely a little more complicated. That said, when one reads stories about attempts by the Administration to control scientific data on global warming collected by NASA scientists, one could see some of Joe Stalin in our own Joe Sixpack executive.

What did Ronald “nut-job” Reagan, the brashest of cold warriors, dub the Soviet Union? Oh yeah, it was the “evil empire.” I’m just thankful that we’re so different.

A couple of weeks ago, I received an email with this title in the subject line: How to Hire a Woman. Inside was a “1943 Guide to Hiring Women,” described as “an excerpt from the July 1943 issue of Transportation magazine. This was written for male supervisors of women in the work force during WWII.”

Here’s how American men were advised to manage women 65 years ago:

1. Pick young, married women. They usually have more of a sense of responsibility than their unmarried sisters, they’re less likely to be flirtatious, they need the work or they wouldn’t be doing it, they still have the pep and interest to deal with the public efficiently.

And, as Dr. Cedric might say, pick good-looking ones if you can. After all, if all other things are equal, wouldn’t you rather have nice people to look at in the office?

2. When you have to use older women, try to get ones who have worked outside the home at some time in their lives. Older women who have never contacted the public have a hard time adapting themselves and are inclined to be cantankerous and fussy.

Yeah, well, you might be cantankerous too if you were forced to draw your pantyhose on every morning due to the nylon shortage.

3. General experience indicates that “husky” girls - those who are just a little on the heavy side - are more even tempered and efficient than their underweight sisters.

To recap: Young and husky = good. (See also: Rosie the Riveter). Old = less good, but still workable. Old and skinny = run the other way.

6. Give the female employee a definite daylong schedule of duties so that they’ll keep busy without bothering the management for instructions every few minutes.

I’m sorry, how did you say that works again?

7. Whenever possible, let the inside employee change from one job to another at some time during the day. Women are inclined to be less nervous and happier with change.

Alternatively, you can give them Xanax. Whoops, that hadn’t been invented yet! Never mind!

8. Give every girl an adequate number of rest periods every day. You have to make some allowances for feminine psychology. A girl has more confidence and is more efficient if she can keep her hair tidied, apply fresh lipstick and wash her hands several times a day.

They’re even more efficient if you just tattoo the lipstick on them and make ‘em wear hair nets.

9. Be tactful when issuing instructions or making criticisms. Women are often sensitive; they can’t shrug off harsh words the way men do. Never ridicule a woman - it breaks her spirit and cuts off her efficiency.

Unless she’s a husky woman; then she’ll probably be okay.

10. Get enough size variety in operators’ uniforms so that each girl can have a proper fit. This point can’t be stressed too much in making women happy.

Please do not stuff your women into too-small overalls. Please do not make them wear gigantic pinafores. Please do not dress them in polyester. Thank you.

I wish I had time for this to be a proper and thorough-going appreciation for Dan Bejar (New Pornographers, Swan Lake, Hello Blue Roses) and his solo outfit, Destroyer, which E. Tan and I saw at Bowery Ballroom a couple weeks ago.

Alas, this being the end of the semester I’m afraid you’ll get little more out of me than a quick once-over of the new album, a few words about the show (during which the band appeared to demolish a bottle of Jameson between them during the latter half of a stunning set), and some links that might keep you busy for a while if you’re so inclined.

Which somehow seems appropriate, given that I generally spend a couple hours reading Canadian music blogs around the time of a new Destroyer release, while I’m working to get a handle on it.

I’ve said once before on this site that if I were 22 all over again, Dan Bejar would probably be to me what Stephen Malkmus was then — someone whose every frustrating line rang like prophecy or poetry or both and sent me to imagine little essays explicating songs, even though I’d be tempted to believe the songs were essentially absurdist. And, frankly, I’m tempted to write little Destroyer essays anyway, lo these many years beyond 22. One thing you’ve got to hand to Bejar is that he can propel grown men into arguments about his music.

To wit: the recent exchange between Toronto critic/bloggers Carl Wilson and Michael Barclay, on the question of whether it’s a good or bad thing that Bejar insists his lyrics have no real meaning outside the emotions generated by their sounds and patterns. Is there message or meaning? “There’s no code. There’s no hidden veil,” Bejar told one North Carolinian interviewer. “There’s nothing behind the curtain of these words. It’s just like notes, you know? I feel like the languages have to be cut some slack, just like the melody or a really awesome drum fill or a swell of strings, it kind of means the same things as those words mean.”

That the words on Trouble in Dreams, Bejar’s eighth album as Destroyer, serve as an extension (or a prelude) to such fills and swells is a decent enough insight itself. When you watch a group of a couple hundred folks ranging from 20 to 45 gazing appreciatively at this fellow who looks like a Muppet rendition of Drunken Dylan, trying simultaneously to connect with and keep himself at arm’s length from the crowd, you realize that some sort of emotion’s being communicated. Some swoon. Others mouth along the lyrics (no mean feat). A couple guys want to rock out when the chance arises.

Most seem to be looking for a prophet, and the lines that seem most full of personal instruction or revelation (”Beware of the company you reside in!” from “My Favorite Year,” for example, or “Common scars brought us together,” from “Introducing Angels,” to cite two examples from the new record) become, via repetition, singalong chants. “My dear, didn’t you hear, a chorus is a thing that bears repeating?” he asks in the middle of “Shooting Rockets (From the Desk of Night’s Ape).” The lines he chooses to repeat are vague enough that listeners will remember them, can assign them personal meaning, but it really is the sound of them that means something — the “wind” or “air” of them — the way they’re wrapped up with the melody, the way they drop out altogether from time to time (or are replaced by Bejar filling a measure by counting time: “and three and four and…”), letting the music push you forward on its own, almost as if to underline the point that the words are going to fail.

One of the clear standouts from the show was the gentle little song “Foam Hands,” a radio edit if Bejar’s ever produced one. There’s little doubt this will become part of the Destroyer canon, and along with a couple other songs (”My Favorite Year,” “Libby’s First Sunrise”) is as good as anything Bejar’s ever written. God only knows what the lyrics mean:

True love regrets to inform you there are certain things you must do to perceive his face in the stains on the wall… I didn’t know what time it was at all. I didn’t know what time it was at all… Foam Hands…

Since you been gone, since you been gone, me and the King have been steadily growing apart… He lives down the hall… I didn’t know what time it was at all, I didn’t know what time it was at all… Foam Hands… I’m not the kind to tell you what is true and what is totally out of control… I didn’t know what time it was at all… Foam Hands…

Maybe there’s something specific and profound to be gleaned here: Bejar casually mentions in the interview I already cited that the opening line refers to the face of Jesus appearing in foam-washed cliffs somewhere in Spain, and that this is a stab at spirituality of some sort, but people will make of the image of “Foam Hands” what they will. My take on the phrase is that it invokes distance, the difficulty of touch; the repeated line about not knowing what time it is suggests some degree of disorientation. Easy enough to identify with on both counts. But the more important point, I think, is that kids up against the stage were actually wearing foam hands, which they waved overhead during the song.

Whether or not he wants the mantle, Bejar will be seen by some as a prophet, and so he seems doomed to the curse of Dylan: simultaneously courting and disillusioning those fans. Those who want meaning will find meaning: it may be literal, it may be an emotional impression, it may be an appreciation of the idea that the words don’t mean anything more than the wind and the sound waves they’re transmitted by. And maybe that’s good enough.

Sonically, Trouble resides in the same neighborhood as This Night and Your Blues (which happen to be two of my favorite Destroyer albums and which were the ones from which most of the set we saw was drawn). If anything sounds new here it’s the way this incarnation of his band — which has been traveling with him for a while — has gathered precision, cohesion, as they’ve worked together over the last several years. Live they’re as good as anything I’ve seen in a long, long time. The album plays with sounds from the late 80s and early 90s — I’d mark its boundaries as 87-93 — an era when people my age (and I’m only a couple years older than Bejar) moved from listening to The Cure and The Smiths (whose sounds lurk in the background in places) to Pavement. That transition felt like a Revolution, from British Post-Punk/New Wave to American Indie Rock, though we should have heard a little of The Cure in Pavement’s guitar lines. Trouble teases such resonances and genealogies to the surface. 1993 may have been Bejar’s favorite year — if we’re to believe the lyric from “My Favorite Year” is personal — and if this is what it sounds like to remember the good and bad of it, count me in.

The cover to Trouble in Dreams is a watercolor by Bejar’s ladyfriend (and partner in Hello Blue Roses) Sydney Vermont. It’s a snarling pirate, surrounded by bottles, two of them half empty/half full. The pirate has the third in hand. He’s stuffing a message into it — or maybe he’s making a fire bomb? Either way he looks like he’s daring you to dare him to throw it. Don’t be scared off: my feeling is he’s only bluffing. And either way, you’ll probably feel something when the contents finally make contact.

Photos by Ryan Dombal, who didn’t like the show quite as much as E. Tan and I did.