I used to joke that I wanted to put a classified ad in the newspaper saying,
Lost: One summer. Finder please return to.... Until one day when someone said,
if I found it I wouldn't return it.
That's how I feel about September 2021. I lost it somewhere, and whoever found it isn't going to return it.
Also even though I don't remember who said
If I found it, I wouldn't return it, I still hate him because he took a funny line and seriously topped it. Hate, hate, hate. I'm nobody's straight man. As you know if you've ever looked inside my head. Nothing straight there!
West Side Story
You're on the Yellow Brick Road heading to the Emerald City. Which character are you?
There's an oldies channel that does reruns of The Tonight Show with Johnny Carson. It's on just as I'm drifting off at night, so I am not a totally reliable narrator. But one night, in I think a show from the mid 80s, Johnny was talking about the world's first harmonic convergence. I wish I could have heard more.
The backstory: in mid-August, 1987, people all over the world held a giant pray-in to mark the end of a metaphysical cycle, and to start the lead-in to 2012, the ending of the Mayan calendar and the ushering in of the Age of Aquarius, a time of universal peace and love, and prophesied by the soothsayers Fifth Dimension in 1969. (and please follow that link and check out the 5D's shamanic attire. No wonder some of us remember the 60s, but pretend we don't).
Well, we all know how that peace & love thing turned out.
But I wonder–maybe something did happen back in 2012. One world ended and another began. Unfortunately, we got it 180° wrong. Instead of love and harmony, we got chaos, hatred and dissension, and more of the Four Horsemen.
Of course, there are always
So it goes.
While researching this piece, I came upon this statement. I'm sure there was a reason I copied it, something other than its reinforcing my confusion comment above. I leave it in because why not?
Lee Carroll, who has channeled Kryon three times for the United Nations, reminds us: 'Always being in the now when you reach a fork in the road is what is important. You can’t do anything about it until you are standing at the fork. –You are in the ascension now. When you give intent to start vibrating at a higher level and start taking these attributes on, you are on that path.
Conclusion: You can always draw a straight line between any two points. Or to quote an old friend,
'When I use a word,' Humpty Dumpty said in rather a scornful tone, 'it means just what I choose it to mean - neither more nor less.'
There was a time when Al Davis owned the then-Oakland Raiders that this headline from Bleacher Report would have caused much rubbing of eyeballs because people would have thought the typesetter got it exactly backwards:
Raiders Reportedly File Complaint with NFL Alleging Dirty Hits on Hunter Renfrow.
A typesetter, in case you've forgotten or never knew, is someone who put pieces of metal with backwards letters on them in order in a frame so someone else could put ink on them, and then press the whole thing onto paper, to make newspapers and books. It was messy, dirty, complicated, and not much fun.
But just think how much cr*p we'd be spared in the blogsphere if that's how we still distributed news and ideas. Ah, the good old days.
Buzzfeed is very fond of chronicling contemporary life by creating lists of things–informative, entertaining, funny–mindcandy. They just did one that was something like 'x things that used to exist but don't now,' like playing telephone tag when trying to meet friends before the days of cellphones (related non-sequential thought: how many classic comedies would be ruined by cell phones? Three's Company and Seinfeld come to mind). Anyway, I just thought of one the Trip-Tik:
When members were going on a road trip, they would call the AAA and order a Trip-Tik. The AAA would put together a long skinny map book that would show your route, and each page would open up to tell you about places of interest, AAA starred hotels, detours, and so on. Trip-tiks still exist, but now you access them on your phone. Just not the same.
Sometimes Dad would give th Trip-Tik to a kid, a sign of honor and great responsibility, and potential danger as the kid was likely to call out directions by the quarter inch (in road miles, not the Trip-Tik). All told, a fun time on the road.
I often wondered how they put those books together, how many map pieces they had, and how often they updated the individual pieces.
It was also a lot of fun to watch the pages get turned over. As more of the book shifted to the back, we knew we were that much closer to our destination, adding excitement to the trip, not just the destination.
From our reliable friends at The Guardian:
‘You bloody fool’: Australian talking duck proves birds can imitate speech.
I'm sorry, did I miss something biological where parrots and mynahs and parakeets were victims of species shift?
But seriously (yes, really). This sort of
thing has been a staple of ghost follower/paranormal shows for years. The investigators will record themselves asking questions like,
can you give us a sign that you're here?
Can you sing a Puccini aria? When they play back the recording, they hear a scratching noise that they interpret as something like
Grant was rude to General Lee at Appomattox. The duck sounds like that. No big whoop. Or quack. Or fool.
If you know anything about American government, you know the 'wdq' is in this Reuters headline:
Explainer-Can Trump use executive privilege to block Jan. 6 attack probe?
I didn't look, but I bet they used a lot more words than the two-letter word they needed. Personally, I think it's Trump bait. a) There hasn't been much about Trump lately. b) Trump draws eyeballs. Therefore, let's make something up.
Shame, Reuters. Shame.
When I read the headline,
I saw How Queen Was Hit by Charles Honors Scandal and Death Plans Leak Within Days.
My first thought was
who is Charles and how can he affect a rock band that broke up in the early '90s? and then I readjusted my frame of reference.
Second thought: punctuation, people. Punctuation.
Newsweek also lets us know
Higher Education Is Indispensable and Deeply Meaningful if Done Properly (there's always a catch) and
California is Not Going Anywhere (I believe the San Andreas Fault might have something to say about that).
And Forbes had to get in the act with
Google And Cisco Partner To Drive Collaboration Forward. As opposed to partnering to blow things up, or back things up, I guess.
By way of Huffpost, a sign posted somewhere:
Notice: The patio is currently not open because it is closed.
So you couldn't just afford one of those signs that says 'open' on one side and 'closed' on the other?>
I wonder what Schrödinger's cat thinks about all of this.
The odds are nobody will live forever, even though a lot of people think they're going to beat the house on this.
In a couple of days, fall will happen. Ah, fall–a time of brightly colored leaves on the trees, the smell of pumpkin spice lattes in the air, the crisp tang of frost tickling noses, and the retrieval of sweaters and scarves from the attic. All this right on September 22! A glorious fall season!
The truth patrol would like to apologize for this egregious fantastical tale spinning. With any luck, some of these things may happen by Christmas, except for the pumpkin spice lattes, which appeared in August. All we can think is that the author is still annoyed he didn't get to play any April Fool's Day pranks and is trying to slip some in now, unaware that the Pranking Window of Opportunity closed on April 3.
I'm trying to decide if the word is self-contradictory. If it is, it's all because of the
in. It clanks on the ear.
One of the benefits of not having grandkids is not having to deal with commercially-inspired indignities like Grandparent's Day. Fortunately, it's already in the rear-view mirror for this year.
Symbolically, it's nice that it was placed in late summer. Much better than late fall or winter. Of course, the cynical me points out that in mid-September, there aren't a lot of gift-giving events.
The Met Gala came and went (since it's part of fashion week, we may have missed 2.5 events): this past week. The Red Carpet event had the usual fashion excess-ories, but generally looks fell into three categories:
enforcing social distancinglook as practiced by Whoopi, Rhianna, Kim Kardashian and Lil' Nas X
Reportedly, Simone Biles' outfit weighed 88 pounds. I didn't know Simone weighed 88 pounds.
On 9-11 Twentieth Anniversary weekend, none of the U.S. Open finalists were American.
I'm in a state of paradox (state bird: toucan). I love books (that's not the paradox). Holding them, turning pages, reading, and yes, sniffing them (but not in that creepy way so often depicted when someone who doesn't like books or booklovers wants to make some kind of meaningless, derogatory point). But recently, with the pandemic, the library closed, and with less venturing out and fewer bookstores nearby, I've been turning to e-books. Mostly, I get reference books that I would never buy (Enchidiron, The Harvard Classics), computer reference books that change a lot, mind candy (Terry Pratchett, Christopher Moore), and poetry. Most of the books are also priced at what was called
un prix jolie when I was in Canada.
Anyway, the benefits of e-books are availability and small storage requirements. With e-books, I don't have to worry about that stack of
books to read tumbling over and crushing the cat (or me, now that I see how much the stack has grown). And I have to admit that it's a lot easier to capture quotations for use electronically later. And don't forget the ability to make the text bigger. Of course, on the down side there are glare issues, device waterphobia, and the distraction factor, but overall acceptable.
But there is another feature that I discovered only yesterday: updates. Now, this makes perfect sense for manuals that require changes to explain new features in devices and apps. It makes less sense for a book of poems whose author died in 1994.
Unless (cue Conspiracy Theorist theme music) the poet is speaking to us from the beyond! (yeah, some poets are like that) or he's not really dead!
From Vanity Fair:
IN LAST ACT AS GOVERNOR, ANDREW CUOMO APPEARS TO ABANDON DOG AT ALBANY MANSION.
1) Why are you yelling at me, Vanity Fair?
2) How does this make any difference to anything or anyone, as in, who gives a rodent's behind (except maybe the dog), and I'm sorry I can't do anything, and the dog doesn't read Vanity Fair anyway?
3) The key word in the above headline is
appears, as in,
what is the favorite word of gotcha journalists? The lawyers make them say that, 'cuz otherwise they might have to do some work.
So I was sitting out on the deck writing poetry. I finished my poem about Bob Ross (class assignment–don't ask), and decided it might be a good time to actually look at a cloud. So I did, and one inspired this poem,
Man Riding A Seahorse.
Well, I decided to tell my wife about it, and she asked,
Was it a large seahorse or a tiny man? She may have been kidding around, but I didn't think so at the time.
And apologies for the number of poems that have been appearing on the left side of the page. Some of them just don't know their place.
According to ArsTechnica,
A bad solar storm could cause an 'Internet apocalypse.' Undersea cables would be hit especially hard by a coronal mass ejection.
You know, it might almost be worth it to see, like, you know, the internet blowing up and then, like, you know, people actually, like, talking to each other without use of like, emoji or emoticons.
Humans Could Develop a Sixth Sense, Scientists Say.
Unless it's a heavy duty social media B.S. detector, I'm not interested.
And a note to the editors of Popular Mechanics: Remember back in the 50s and 60s and you kept promising that we would all have personal flying cars? Well, I'm still waiting.
The first sentence of the Wikipedia entry on prehistoric religion reads
Prehistoric religion is the religious practice of prehistoric cultures.
Do you think? (which is both a sarcastic and sincere question at the same time.)
And sort of related, between prehistory and history you have
protohistory, which is where literate cultures report on non-literate cultures, or where writing has developed but historians aren't writing. Apparently oral tradition gets in the way of history collection, at least according to the historians. Even though they're lifting oral tradition stories fourteen ways from Tuesday.
According to this definition, the life of Jesus was protohistory, even if you accept the Evangelists as historians.
Missing from the whole discussion are runes and stone carvings (like the Newgrange Entry Stone. Is it art? Is it a form of writing we can't translate? Or is it simply a sign saying something like
Entry Fee 4 pence (2 pence for seniors and children)?
Politico had trouble with breakage–
Headline on the article:
CDC formally recommends third vaccine dose for immunocompromise–d people, and
CDC formally recommends third vaccine dose for immunocompromi–sed people.
I'm tempted to make immunocompromi the word of the week sometime.
In the early 1800s, cattle drives in Ohio often included large numbers of swine (pigs). Their ultimate destination was Philadelphia, the meat processing center of the day.
Somehow, it's hard to picture Rowdy and Wishbone pushing a thousand head of Tamworths and Red Wattles up a trail toward a railhead or wharf, or getting them up the 'Rocky' steps, past the statue, and into the museum.
5 Breastfeeding Injuries & How To Avoid Them (courtesy of romper).
We may have to reshape our notions of how the world works. The Sept. 12 2021 New York Times reports
Greenland braces for up to four feet of snow as tropical storm approaches.
Columbia University researchers say gray hair is caused by stress–and it can be reversed.
I've always said gray hair is hereditary–you get it from your kids. I think it's pretty easy to draw a fat straight line from kids to stress. And the
regrow dark hair makes sense, too. At some point, kids grow up and leave the house.
On September 18, we celebrate Software Freedom Day (or, more accurately, somebody somewhere is celebrating it). I wonder if software has more freedom than most people.
The 20th anniversary of 9-11 has come and gone. Many sad stories, tales of heroism. One unique thing was the number of interviews with people who were children at the time–either of those killed or who were in proximity to the towers. If I was being cynical, I would say that newscasters and stations were trying to grab younger viewers who were not around and might be less engaged than people who were
present for the event, but they wouldn't be that callous themselves, would they?
Well, it's been a heck of a year. So many things going wrong. I'd be the first to offer a Year in Review, but no, I'm just not. interested. That's not an honor I'm interested in.
Instead, I'd like to offer up what is quickly becoming my favorite poem. I'm especially heartened by 'mere' in the fourth line.
The Houston Chronicle:
Embattled Texas AG Ken Paxton releases anonymous internal investigation clearing himself.
Texas politicians: the gift that keeps on giving.
Venomous sea snakes may attack divers during mating season, study suggests.
Divers need better signage to let the snakes know what's going on. Maybe a different color wet suit so the snakes don't confuse divers with other snakes. Or divers finding out when mating season is, and staying away.
Dwight the morning DJ was playing something that reminded me of Holst's The Planets (but wasn't). My semi-attached thought was
Well, at least Pluto wasn't kicked out of the Suite like it was the Solar System. Rebellion is alive! Musicians fighting back against the Man!
I thought I'd better check. Alas, Pluto was never included in The Planets. But then, neither was Earth, so there is that (which is one of those phrases that I have no idea what it means).
Semi-interesting factoid: most people are familiar with the Mars and maybe Venus sections and are awake of the War and Love part,, each planet presented in the Suite has a subtitle:. Mars, the Bringer of War; Venus, the Bringer of Love; Mercury, the Winged Messenger; Jupiter, the Bringer of Jollity; Saturn, the Bringer of Old Age; Uranus, the Magician; and Neptune, the Mystic.
While the first three correspond to their roles in the Roman pantheon of gods, the final four are flights of fancy or minor characteristics. Wine festivals were held to honor Zeus, so that may be the source of jollity. The others seem to owe as much to astrology as to mythology.
Still pretty good music, all told.
The best known, loved and most enthusiastic part of The Planets is Mars, the Bringer of War, the first section. Everything else, while quality material, is anti-climactic.
Which is the question: who starts at the top and goes downhill? Maybe John Williams with the opening credits sequence in Stars Wars: the Original Movie, but then he's got George Lucas and some visuals to fall back on to keep the audience engaged.
All artistic types have and rely upon muses. But it wasn't until I mentioned something about musicians above that I realized musicians have unfair access to the muse, what with mus being built in to both names.
The average American enjoys 18.1 years of retirement. What are you going to do with that time? Some choices:
youngsters,particularly your own
Fox News reports:
Cow attacks prompt beach closures at popular tourist destination.
The only dangers on the beaches in this area are rip tides. No glamour in that.
Reportedly, the cows are in negotiations with Pamplona to headline the next Running festival
Let's keep pushing for sexual equality!
Caught in the dark mists of time (when I was a kid) there was a time when things had one name, like 'guitar' and 'automobile.' Then electricity was added, and suddenly we had 'electric guitar' and 'electric automobile.' Not content with simplicity, the first guitars began to be called 'acoustic guitars' (personally, I would have preferred 'original guitar' or 'o.g.' for short, but nobody ever asks me about these things. I would have preferred almost anything to 'blog,' including 'pile of manure,' but again, they don't ask). They haven't quite gotten around yet to double-naming non-electric automobiles, unless you count 'gas guzzler,' which I guess is a double name (that preceded the electric, an interesting reversal).
All this by way of introduction to a headline I saw this morning, that started
Tesla, the man, sparks..., now needing to distinguish between man and (electric) automobile.
At least this time the pun is not my fault. Plus, 'Tesla, the man' just sounds really cool.
Thought you should know.
I dream–I just don't remember them. Mostly I have/had dreams involving being late to an event or having two events, and people were actively trying to keep me from the next thing.
Last night's dream took a nasty turn. In the dream, I started to tell a joke, but then forgot the joke halfway through.
Now, i don't even remember what joke I was trying to tell.
Not a good sign.
So, back to school. Normally, a stabilizing moment, a return to steadiness, but no more. Although maybe it's a return to an even older normal, where fights were about segregated schools, prayer in schools (I remember an old joke: As long as there are tests, there will be prayer in schools) school funding, sex education and a whole host of other issues. Now we've got masks, where/how school should be conducted, what should be taught, and a whole host of other political questions that someone decided should be fought in the schools. Ain't got nuthin' to do with readin', ritin', and 'rithmatik. Glad I can ignore it.
If it's school, it's also Labor Day, the most neglected holiday on the calendar. It's really to celebrate the union movement, which is competing with COVID-19 patients for access to life support systems. Although the reason for the holiday is gone, the day off lives on.
Tuesday is Rosh Hashanah, the Jewish New Year. This is the time of year I've always celebrated new year, since for teachers it is the start of the calendar. Old habits die hard.
They may not really be good old days, but lots of the time, they end up looking good compared to what's going on now.
So here's the question: if you could live the rest of your life in a particular time/place, what would that be?
And here's another one, courtesy of George the Poet: Leadership or Companionship?
Unless Sony is working on a host bot, the answer might be
Who is Nobody?
Certain events have pictures associated with them. Hurricane Ida has this one.
Some of the most common advice given is
follow your dream (or for the Campbellites it's
Follow Your Bliss). You also see 'passion' thrown in there sometimes.
Some people prefer the path model. That implies a destination, and more of a direction.
I prefer the path. 'Dream' to me conjures up hazy, fuzzy, drifting around kinds of images, without direction. That kind of thinking does not lead to realization. 'Path,' on the other hand, at least implies some kind of destination, and definite boundaries. It also offers side paths, which may be temptations, but may also be the direction you're supposed to be heading–options, if you will.
It might be time to mention my one-size-fits-all literary reference: The Wizard of Oz. Dorothy has a dream–to get back home. She is set on a path by a mentor, where she acquires sidekicks and faces challenges. Finally, she overcomes the last major challenges (the witch and the wizard) and realizes her dream.
But none of the models require that you have to make money at it. Bliss, paths, dreams, missions, vocation, avocations do not mean going pro. But we've all seen or heard stories where people like making cakes, and someone says,
These are really good! You should sell them! Only after monetizarion is the dream realized.
You may be passionate about your family but you're not going to sell them. But in a way, that's the point. There may be times you want to sell them, but they're still your passion. And there will be times that monetizing a passion will sour, too, sometimes to the point of souring the passion itself.
I've often wondered what happens to the other 50 Miss America candidates after a new queen is crowned. They are still as talented, pretty, and articulate as they were the morning of the final competition, but they did not reach their goal, the realization of their dream. Maybe for most, the contest is a means to an end, or being Miss Wyoming is the real goal. More power to those who survive.
I have a friend Mike who is an awesome painter. I'm told he is an excellent teacher. He recently had a show at a local gallery. The walls were full of gorgeous art, of many different sumi-e styles. Prices were low, he announced, because he was running out of places to put his paintings, even to store them, and also hoped that anyone who liked one would be able to take it home.
I talked to Mike, and it was obvious he was excited, even passionate, about his art, even if he never made a dime on it, and money wasn't the point.
A good role model.
So, let's say you want to follow a dream, passion, or path. What do you do? Throw yourself into it. Develop your gift. Devote as much time to it as it needs, not as much time/effort/resources as you can. I'm always amazed at people who say they are passionate about writing, or painting, or whatever, but such-and-such gets in the way, and they never write or paint. Some dream. Some passion.
Some other tips. Cultivate your muse. Get a mentor/teacher. Get a fan club or cheerleader. Get a sidekick. Don't be afraid to be bad. Don't give a damn what other people think. Be a mentor/teacher, a cheerleader, a sidekick, or general booster. Accept criticism, but don't let it derail you. In fact, if the criticism is mean-spirited or misguided, you may use it as inspiration in an
I'll show them kind of way, as Penny Oleksiak, 2020 Olympic swimming multi-medalist, did:
I want to thank that teacher in high school who told me to stop swimming to focus on school bc swimming wouldn’t get me anywhere. This is what dreams are made of.
As I was lying awake in bed at 5:30 the other morning, this thought wandered through, with absolutely no context:
God says, 'Break all the dishes.'
I think my muse is messing with me again.
It's too bad I don't have a therapist. This is the kind of thing I imagine would mess them up, too. Or pay for that month-long vacation to the Bahamas they've been meaning to take.
The Los Angeles Times notes:
As California burns, some ecologists say it’s time to rethink forest management.
I'll ignore the obvious
duh! moment to issue a (tacky alert.) The good news is that we've got lots of time to think. It's going to take a generation for all those millions of acres burned in the past couple of years to grow back. Just another problem to leave for the kids. To say nothing of a great opportunity for university forestry programs.
The Poetry Foundation has an excellent collection of poets and their works (O.K., they don't have poets, they have information about poets. Happy?). Sometimes I browse. Sometimes it's focused–I'm looking for a particular artist.
So it was the other day when I was looking up W.B. Yeats. The website is set up so there's a biography and a sidebar of poems, including an entry for 'all poems,' which I click on and browse. This day, I noticed another list called 'Related Content,' which included categories like 'anti-love poems,' 'poems of uncertainty and anxiety,' 'common core state standards text examples,' 'summer poems,' and 'Christmas poems,' not the things I necessarily think of when thinking of Yeats.
So I tapped on a link in the related articles section, to read this question from David Orr:
Can a bad man write good poetry?
He didn't ask two related questions:
–can a good man write bad poetry?
–if a good man writes bad poetry and insists that other people read it, is he still a good man?
In this age of political correctness, there are just so many ways to be a bad person. In fact, you don't have work at it, or even know you're being bad. Passive badness is not nearly as much fun, although it's a lot less work. There's always someone who will find fault with what you're doing and take offense.
TomatoPlanet!! (this website) does not collect any user data or information. Since we don't collect data, we can't store it or pass it along to third parties. If you e-mail us, we will have your e-mail address, but only long enough to reply to requests.
Or to quote Col. Kurtz,
The horror! The horror!
If you're looking for something even older, it's down below.
It's the penultimate day of August. Soon, school will begin again, traffic will get congested, and we (the inmates of this particular asylum) won't care, except for vague concern for the health and safety of all those engaged in the enterprise. Take care.
Freedomflavor of anti-vaxxers, and other COVID-19 oddities.
Yes, you are an American. Yes, you have guaranteed freedoms. I will grant your right to not be vaccinated. But if you follow that path, your employer has an equal right to point out that you are free to work someplace else. Insist on it, even.
The latest twaddle about cures for COVID that do not include vaccinations revolve around something called ivermectin, a prescription drug for treating head lice, which is being heavily promoted by Facebook, Reddit and Tik-Tok. A news report I heard last night claimed prescriptions jumped from 3,500 a week or so to 88,000.
So who are the doctors writing these prescriptions? Just just to keep perspective, those 88,000 represent 0.02% of the American population. Should they be driving the discussion? For comparison, the city of Nampa, Idaho has a population of just over 100,000.
By the way, a shout-out to whomever at Delta Airlines came up with the idea of giving employees a choice: get vaccinated, or pony up a couple hundred bucks in additional health care costs a month.
Luxurious. If you must use it, you can use all variant forms, like luxuriate, luxuriant and, uh, I forget.
Random bonus factoid: There used to be a bar soap called Lux, available on store shelves right next to Ivory, Dial, and Palmolive. It's now mostly sold in South Africa and Brazil, as well as online from Walmart.
I've been having a recurring dream the past couple of mornings. I'm moving into a dorm room, there's the usual general melee, there are parents around like it's open house, I'm trying to get to the shower, the roommates are already borrowing things without asking, and every now and again some idiot a couple of doors down decides to play
In the Jailhouse Now at random times but always at top volume. Mercifully, I can't remember if he sings along.
As usual, I woke up before resolution.
Rolling Stones drummer Charlie Watts died at age 80. He was best described as low-key, elegant, almost formal, when he was drumming even on hard-driving songs like
My friend Fran went to a new hairdresser the other day. I am told the trip was a disaster. Fran claims she gave instructions, but the hairdresser apparently had a vision, went off her own way to the point where Fran said,
I don't even recognize myself, and had to go back for remediation. It was salvaged but not saved or restored.
The incident did provide me with a truth takeaway: If a personal service provider (barber, massage therapist, doctor, car salesman)feels the need to ask,
do you trust me?, especially on first contact, the answer should probably be, no, not really...
On the good news side of service, we had to have our dryer vent replaced. The company sent a pair of installers, who were polite and efficient. They explained options and recommended the minimum work needed to get our dryer functioning again (with no upsell). When it came time to pay up, they gave a price. We asked about the $39 appearance fee, and they said, no, that's only if they come and don't do any work. So the work, including parts, cost only like $10 more than we thought it would. All told, a most pleasant interaction event.
The Big Think wants to let us know about
The strange case of the dead-but-not-dead Tibetan monks who, because their bodies decay more slowly, other monks believe are in an advanced meditative state, and so not quite dead yet.
Well, that's actually more common than you think. Consider:
According to Yahoo!,
Every hotdog eaten shortens life by 36 minutes.
Let's see, for me that's 2 x 36 x 52 x years eating hot dogs, subtract from total anticipated life minutes. Hm, OK, carry the seven, add 150 per year to account for picnics and other random hot dog eating like in beanie-weenies and cocktail hors d'oeuvre sized pigs in blankets and carnival corn dogs, convert that into month an years and we get...that I died sometime in April, 2019.
Regular readers (what is wrong with you people!?!) know that I rely heavily on news and entertainment sources to provide a springboard for much of what appears here.
Well, the Wall Street Journal's
Off Duty section made it Christmas in August (designed to bridge the gap between the Hallmark Channel's Christmas in July and the now-September 1st to December 25th retail event). Such a wealth of material! There's an ugly shoe for you! (sugarcoated as
enchantingly weird shoes). Dan Neil says, Not to brag but I've seen a lot of car paint. A recipe for ketchup (I have one, thanks. 1) Go to store. 2) Find condiments aisle. 3) Buy ketchup.). Bob Costas shares that he still has a flip phone. A wardrobe to weep over. And the puns! The sipping point (on an article about wine). Flapper dresses are roaring back. And finally, an article by/about professional dorm room designers. Comedic gold, all of it.
I'm trying out a new browser that promises greater privacy and security by, among other things, blocking tracers (pixels that lock onto your information to create/build a profile of your browsing activity).
I tested it on a couple of websites I visit regularly, like Fast Company, where DuckDuckGo blocked 24 tracers from the FC website. 24 is a very big number, by the way.
The article I read?
The incredibly sneaky way websites sidestep privacy tools to spy on you.
Update: I checked a couple of other news sites. Our new winner in the tracker wars is Recode, a VoxMedia company that served up 50 (that's right, 50! fifty! L!) trackers. Oddly, its sister publication, The Verge, only has 11 trackers.
When I send an email, there's a signature block, sort of boilerplate text. Mine has name, phone, website, and catchy phrase.
I'm thinking of adding another line,
Back to doing what I promised myself I would do but don't want to.
Instead of changing up the website all at once, I'm doing a slow roll on a new look. Cleaner, more graphically inclined. There will be a few tweaks to this page and redos of the back pages. Hope you like it.
Yellow Submarine. I didn't like it when it came out, I really don't like it now that it's on a seemingly endless loop in my head.
Oh, I probably should have mentioned that some of these earworms are highly transmissible. Exercise caution.
It's fun, but it can hurt your brain. Take, for example:
As we know, there are known knowns. There are things we know we know. We also know there are known unknowns. That is to say, we know there are some things we do not know. But there are also unknown unknowns — the ones we don't know we don't know.
You know, Donald Rumsfeld caught a lot of flak for some of his metacognitional pronouncements, particularly this one, but the more I look at it, the more sense it makes.
I don't think anyone has problems with known knowns. The second part is the basis of science. We know people get cancer. We don't always know how. Hey, the scientists say, let's find out!, moving the cause of cancer from known unknowns to known knowns. The third one? It's tough to come up with an example, since we don't know.
One known unknown is why Rumsfeld didn't fill out the chart (see figure). Is there such a thing as an unknown known? Well, I'd say I forget, but that seems too easy.
But if forgetting is a part of the chart, it also shows how fluid the elements are, moving from k.k. to u.k., or from k.u. to k.k.
Simply because you do not have evidence that something exists does not mean that you have evidence that it doesn't exist. Again, this takes some pondering. I'm trying to think of an example. But I do know if you flip the statement on its head (
Simply because you do not have evidence that something doesn't exist does not mean that you have evidence that it does exist), you would destroy the premise of every alien encounter show ever made.
From the recent catalog: Unless, of course, the spouse of the object of your flirtation is a current or former NFL linebacker, or a recently released violent felon given to fits of homicidal rage. I bet your spouse takes a dim view of flirting, too, even (or especially) if flirting was a part of your courtship. The Wall Street Journal Opinion page: Democrats will also cause 92 percent of bad breath, the Cubs not winning the World Series this year, and that traffic jam at the junction of I-71 and I-75 last Thursday morning? All on the Democrats. From Fox News by way of Business Insider: The woman is seeking $14 as compensation for sustained moral damage. I hope McDonald's at least gets court costs. If I was the advertising firm, I'd pay ten times that, as long as I could use one of those huge promotional checks. A few nights ago, we received our first phone call from Vietnam. They didn't leave a message. That's all right. We probably wouldn't have understood them, or they were just calling to remind us we owe the IRS money that we can pay with Apple gift cards. This morning, part of breakfast included one of those individual yogurts with 'real fruit' in the bottom. I found three whole and one half blueberries, in addition to the usual puree. It's going to be a good day for me with that start. I hope someone in the yogurt processing facility doesn't get in trouble, though. My wife's Fall sumi-e society newsletter came the other day. Prominently displayed on the front cover: Way to sell the contents of the fall issue, gang. The Conspiracy Theorist is in serious awe of whomever came up with the theory behind this Bloomberg Businessweek headline: Reuters: San Antonio Express News: Or maybe it's a warning. We have been experiencing an extended heat wave, with temperatures running in the mid-nineties, above average even after the recent adjustment to average (we're a couple of degrees warmer). Now, I'm not complaining–many have it worse. But I do wonder when a weathershaman announces a break in the severe temperatures, as one did the other day, claiming that highs in the low 80s is a 'preview of fall.' One thing that archeology tells us (presuming they're not just flat out lying to us, confused, or seeing all ancient monuments through the same Well, the Scientific Revolution and subsequent Industrial Revolution fixed all that. No longer were we dependent on gods or natural cycles for food. No, we were given dominion (in Genesis) over the creatures of the earth, and by extension, the plants and the earth they grew in. We were the gods. If there wasn't enough water in one place, move it someplace else. Make the deserts bloom! Build higher! Dig deeper! Pave that highway! Maybe we weren't as smart as we thought. Back when I lived in Houston, my two favorite grocery stores were Fiesta Mart and Foodarama. Fiesta was a larger supermarket, and Foodarama reminded me of the neighborhood grocery stores when I was growing up. One thing that they had in common was they were both set up to serve their local constituencies, often poorer minority or ethnic populations. Fiesta took this service model to seeming extremes. When other stores were putting wheel locks on their shopping carts to keep them on the property, Fiesta had no locks. They expected that shoppers without cars (a significant part of their customer base) were going to need a way to get the groceries to their homes. So, by plan, the grocery carts would stray, and a couple of times a week the Fiesta store manager would send a pickup truck through the neighborhoods to corral the wayward carts and return them to the stores. Of course Fiesta lost some carts to street people, but I guess they figured it was a form of advertising or something. Sooner or later, they knew they'd get 'em back. I was reminded of this when I was shopping at my local Food Lion, and pushed the cart full of purchases to my car. About ten feet short of my car, and well short of the edge of the parking lot, the wheel lock well, locked. I was able to shove the cart close enough to the car to unload it, but I was not kind when I pushed/shoved/toppled the cart out of the way. Now that I know what my local Food Lion thinks of me, I'll try to pass along what I think of them when I drive past the store to do my grocery shopping elsewhere.
Democrats will ruin the climate.
Woman sues McDonald's after complaining that a cheeseburger advert was so irresistible it caused her to break her fast during Lent.
Speaking of firsts.
Coming in the Winter Issue.
Did Avocado Cartels Kill the Butterfly King?
It's OK if you just 'escape from sanity.'
New York's $200 french fries offer 'escape' from reality.'
Experts underselling it.
Man killed by bees in South Bexar County; experts urge caution.
Sign o' the times?
Unlearned lessons of history, part (insert a number just short of infinity).
it's a solar observatory filter, like builders who only have a hammer think everything is a nail), is that ancient cultures were very connected to the world around them, and were intimately familiar with seasons, movements of heavenly bodies, growing cycles, and the mysterious powers that governed life in all its aspects. They understood that there was an organic unity (what the medievals called the music of the spheres).
Customer for life.
But will it play in Peoria?
A Particle Just Did Something That Changed the Nature of Reality, Popular Mechanics tells us.
Unless, of course, the spouse of the object of your flirtation is a current or former NFL linebacker, or a recently released violent felon given to fits of homicidal rage. I bet your spouse takes a dim view of flirting, too, even (or especially) if flirting was a part of your courtship.
The Wall Street Journal Opinion page:
Democrats will also cause 92 percent of bad breath, the Cubs not winning the World Series this year, and that traffic jam at the junction of I-71 and I-75 last Thursday morning? All on the Democrats.
From Fox News by way of Business Insider:
The woman is seeking $14 as compensation for sustained moral damage.
I hope McDonald's at least gets court costs. If I was the advertising firm, I'd pay ten times that, as long as I could use one of those huge promotional checks.
A few nights ago, we received our first phone call from Vietnam.
They didn't leave a message. That's all right. We probably wouldn't have understood them, or they were just calling to remind us we owe the IRS money that we can pay with Apple gift cards.
This morning, part of breakfast included one of those individual yogurts with 'real fruit' in the bottom. I found three whole and one half blueberries, in addition to the usual puree.
It's going to be a good day for me with that start. I hope someone in the yogurt processing facility doesn't get in trouble, though.
My wife's Fall sumi-e society newsletter came the other day. Prominently displayed on the front cover:
Way to sell the contents of the fall issue, gang.
The Conspiracy Theorist is in serious awe of whomever came up with the theory behind this Bloomberg Businessweek headline:
San Antonio Express News:
Or maybe it's a warning. We have been experiencing an extended heat wave, with temperatures running in the mid-nineties, above average even after the recent adjustment to average (we're a couple of degrees warmer). Now, I'm not complaining–many have it worse. But I do wonder when a weathershaman announces a break in the severe temperatures, as one did the other day, claiming that highs in the low 80s is a 'preview of fall.'
One thing that archeology tells us (presuming they're not just flat out lying to us, confused, or seeing all ancient monuments through the same
Well, the Scientific Revolution and subsequent Industrial Revolution fixed all that. No longer were we dependent on gods or natural cycles for food. No, we were given dominion (in Genesis) over the creatures of the earth, and by extension, the plants and the earth they grew in. We were the gods. If there wasn't enough water in one place, move it someplace else. Make the deserts bloom! Build higher! Dig deeper! Pave that highway!
Maybe we weren't as smart as we thought.
Back when I lived in Houston, my two favorite grocery stores were Fiesta Mart and Foodarama. Fiesta was a larger supermarket, and Foodarama reminded me of the neighborhood grocery stores when I was growing up. One thing that they had in common was they were both set up to serve their local constituencies, often poorer minority or ethnic populations.
Fiesta took this service model to seeming extremes. When other stores were putting wheel locks on their shopping carts to keep them on the property, Fiesta had no locks. They expected that shoppers without cars (a significant part of their customer base) were going to need a way to get the groceries to their homes. So, by plan, the grocery carts would stray, and a couple of times a week the Fiesta store manager would send a pickup truck through the neighborhoods to corral the wayward carts and return them to the stores.
Of course Fiesta lost some carts to street people, but I guess they figured it was a form of advertising or something. Sooner or later, they knew they'd get 'em back.
I was reminded of this when I was shopping at my local Food Lion, and pushed the cart full of purchases to my car. About ten feet short of my car, and well short of the edge of the parking lot, the wheel lock well, locked. I was able to shove the cart close enough to the car to unload it, but I was not kind when I pushed/shoved/toppled the cart out of the way.
Now that I know what my local Food Lion thinks of me, I'll try to pass along what I think of them when I drive past the store to do my grocery shopping elsewhere.
Not feeling it. Still hot. Still humid. The IRS is still expecting us to pay taxes. News outlets, the CDC and weathershamans are still trying to scare the living daylights out of us. The Baltimore Orioles are still the worst team in the American League. The front lawn needs mowing.
Maybe I was expecting too much. After all, it's just a particle.
Today in the Catholic Church is the Feast of the Assumption of the Blessed Virgin Mary, a holy day of obligation. For the heathens among you, that means that Catholics have to go to Mass.
For you non-practicing Catholics (a.k.a. lapsed) you get to spend the day feeling guilty about not going to church.
If there was a poll taken of the most popular holy day of obligation, the Feast of the Assumption would come in last. Lots of Catholics aren't quite sure what we're celebrating. For kids, all the other feast days were during the school year when we were already dressed up. The Assumption came when we had spent nearly two months in shorts and T-shirts. We already had dressed up on Sunday. It was so unfair!
Except for 1965 (and this year yay!), when August 15 fell on a Sunday. We got to use one Mass to cover two events. Very cool.
It was really bad if we went on vacation the week of the 15th. We had to pack church clothes, and then go to a strange church. Not a good experience.
I asked my mom one year if we could skip Mass since we were on vacation. Our pastor back home wouldn't know. She said,
God would know. He's not on vacation.
So who died and gave God the powers of Santa Claus? Sounds like double jeopardy to me.
The United States is going back to a post-pandemic normal, we are told. Except there ain't no back and there ain't no normal.
One common topic of discussion is going back to work. We hear how a lot of people are not going back to work, and there's a lot of back and forth between employers and employees about how much they should go back to work, where they should work, and so on.
Fast Company magazine takes a stab at explaining why people don't want to go back to work, from the viewpoint of some workers who want to keep their jobs and are lining up compelling arguments using cost-benefit analysis to use on their boss..
Now these are all compelling arguments (especially the commuting), but I'm willing to bet that a lot of real reasons for not going back to the office are never going to be voiced. But as a former wage slave, I can say them.
Someday we'll figure out how to get it all straight.
From the BBC News:
China: Backlash over marriage question in Olympian's interview. One typical comment: 'Is marriage the only thing that can be talked about women?'
The problem, as I've pointed out before, is lazy journalists with pre-assembled, one-size-fits-all questions. It's a lot easier to ask
So, any suitors back home? than it is to actually do research and ask a question that is remotely connected to why that person is sitting in front of you.
Of course, for all we know, maybe the young woman had just gotten engaged before the Olympics, was very excited, and asked the interviewer to ask her that question.
Also from the BBC:
US border agents seize 15 giant border snails.
Oh, great, now even snails are able to get past Trump's wall.
Billie Eilish Is 'Literally Furious' About Celeb...
It literally doesn't matter what she's literally furious about. I want to know what literally is bringing to the party. Is it supposed to be an intensifier like very, so, or really? The way it is, it's just dumb.
A review of Half Waif's new album included this comment, which I'm taking as praise:
Some of its best songs, like the single 'Swimmer,' explode into new levels of catharsis.
My head hurts from sorting out contradictory ideas. But, as Dave Barry might used to say, 'Exploding Catharsis' would make a great name for a rock band.
No, I'm talking about the talking about writing. 'Idea generation' and 'research' will be rolled into 'pre-production.' 'First draft' will become simply 'draft.' Revision, editing, proofreading, worry and fretting will be placed under the general rubric of 'post-production.' Obviously most of the changes will be 'under the hood,' as they say, but you should still see generally improved writing, smoother transitions, more cheerful content, and better gas mileage.
Like that's ever going to happen.
Apparently some malevolent DMV employee declared today
Truck drivers! Practice backing up in front of John's house and making sure your backing alarms work! day. Special invites were apparently issued to trucks with bad mufflers and worn bearing joints.
I don't know which is worse: being play-by-play/color commentator, or watching these events on TV. Either way, you are in serious need of a life. Get out of the house. Maybe go to a local lake or pond, find some kids, and watch them skip rocks, the way God intended if you have to watch rocks skipping across a pond. Much better to do the skipping, though.
The new L.L. Bean catalog arrived recently. It has the usual selection of apparel, very close to being reasonably priced. What provoked discussion was the front-cover tagline:
Summer's Never Felt Better.
Discussion was not about the irony of juxtaposing 'never felt better' with a hugely hot summer (we are currently sitting on an 'urban heat island' with nary a margarita or pina colada in sight). It was about that randomly floating 's (English majors, am I right?). It didn't feel good, much less better, so we explored what went wrong and what would make it right.
Choice 1: Summer's Never Felt Better. With the presumption that 's is a contraction of has, it's technically correct, it just isn't breezy and unstructured like the clothes on the cover. Not wrong, just not right. Fastidious always leaves that taste in your mouth.
Choice 2: Summer Never Felt Better. I like this better. It has the same simple, casual, and wrinkled feeling as the clothing, and does not flaunt its status as a complete sentence, and thus is grammatical correctness.
Choice 3: Summers Never Felt Better. This is the best of all. It has all the features of Choice 2, and the plural 'summers' subtly reemphasizes the comparison inherent in 'better.'
(Sidebar disclaimer: I have visited the L.L. Bean mothership in Freeport, Maine as well as outlet stores in Ellsworth and Portland, Maine; and a regular store in Virginia Beach. About half my wardrobe comes from Bean).
If I put this on Facebook or someplace, it would provoke discussion, no doubt. Here, it's quiet, which is best. I hate people telling me I'm wrong.
You can't have everything. Where would you put it?
Take my wife. Please!
I'll let you figure out why they're funny, the science behind the laugh. Unless you're an anti-laugher, in which case comedy is a plot by the government or Hollywood elites to keep us doubled over with tears in our eyes, unable to protect our guns.
I like this quotation from Thomas Bulfinch, in Mythology:
The Romans believed that every man had his Genius, and every woman her Juno: that is, a spirit who had given them being, and was regarded as their protector through life. On their birthdays men made offerings to their Genius, women to their Juno.
Growing up Catholic, we had God who gave us being, and the aptly-named guardian angels who protected us. I'm not as smart on this, but I believe American Indians also had some concept of a spirit protector.
I think we should get back to those concepts of an individually infused spirit or being, and I also like the concept of having a protector. However, I don't know what a proper offering is. Maybe like a tip, say 15 percent, but I'd have to figure out 15 percent of what.
More math, alas. That's one of the things I'd like to be protected from.
If you are over the Olympics already, click here to get over it to the good stuff.
Some random disjointed thoughts. Such a strange Olympics. No fans. Athletes who passed all multiple, preliminary screening tests test positive. Japan lied to the Olympic Selection Committee about the weather, and in a nudge, nudge, wink wink moment, the OSC let them.
It's no surprise that there are upsets and surprises.
The best are the surprise upsets, like Anna Kiesenhofer, an unknown who won the 137km road cycling race at the Olympics with a lead so great that nobody knew she was ahead, including the presumptive, anointed winner (does anybody think Kiesenhofer will not be tested for drugs over and over and over again? Congratulations, by the way).
And in a throwback to the days when Olympians were amateurs, Ms. Kiesenhofer has a day job: post-doctoral mathematician.
Many of the upsets were not on a court or field.
In fact, the greatest upsets are probably to NBC and the other reporters who had come to Tokyo with their memes and soundbites as carefully crafted as a commentator's upswept coif. All the American athletes had to do was follow the script.
One NBC commentator even admitted (on Thursday night) that Biles' withdrawal had forced the script to be rewritten.
There used to be something called the Sports Illustrated Cover Curse. Successful players or teams would appear on the cover, and then they would lose their next match.
The same thing, I think, is happening to Simone Biles, with all the talk of perfection and being the G.O.A.T. (greatest of all time). In every interview I saw, the interviewer asked her about it. You just knew that something would go wrong, and it did, in front of a global audience. It wasn't just a tiny slip. I don't watch a lot of gymnastics, but when have you ever seen someone at that level step onto the out-of-bounds part of the mat, much less miss the mat completely?
I chalk it up to all the goating going on. All those people asking Simone about what it means to be the best ever, to do things nobody else can and to keep raising the bar, sooner or later it has to get in her head. Not go to her head. At a certain point, competition is as much in the head as it is a physical activity. I can't really say, but I'm betting the whole goatery was a significant factor in Simone's getting
the twisties. Other gymnasts also report catching the malady. You can't help but thinking
I can't screw up and
I can't let people down.
It's not just gymnasts. Golfers get the yips. Infielders (exhibit A: Steve Sax) suddenly can't catch routine grounders (also known as the yips). Writers get blocked. Having a name for something is an indication something happens a lot more than we may think. So more power to those who inspire, thrill, and entertain us, but shut down when we all get in their heads. We appreciate the effort.
How hard something is to do is part of the scoring in a number of sports, like gymnastics, diving, and figure skating.
It applies to life, too. Simone Biles is an example. So of all the things in Simone's life, which of the following do you think it was hardest for her?
One of the more curious aspects of qualifying for the Olympics is the
two per nation rule. You can be the third-best sprinter in the world, but if the two best sprinters in the world are from your home country, well, you're just SOL. And we're left to wonder if the best athletes in the world are really taking home the hardware.
Well, the withdrawal of Simone Biles left a lot of Americans worried that we wouldn't get our expected haul of medals. But the other American gymnasts showed that they had every right to be there, and should have been there anyway.
Texas Deputy Attorney General Aaron Reitz called Simone Biles a national embarrassment for withdrawing from some Olympic events. He's upset because he's an embarrassment only to the State of Texas. He has greater ambitions, and Biles is in his way.
I don't know why August 1st falling on a Sunday strikes me as being very, very wrong. It's inevitable sometime, like there having to be at least one Friday the 13th each year. I have no problem with other months starting on Sunday, and I'm sure I've lived through other Sunday, August 1sts before. But this time, though, it feels like a sneak attack. Maybe even by alien forces in huge spaceships that block out the sun. Which would be a really cool way to stop the western wildfires and global warming in general.
This post is brought to you by John, who obviously didn't major in anything scientific.
John also did not intend that
really cool pun. It is beneath even his naturally low standards. (follow-up: a while back, John pointed out that anytime someone says 'pun unintended,' they totally intended it, and 'p.u.' is just a way of pointing out the pun in case you missed it.
And for those of you wondering either a) who the heck John is or b) why John is referring to himself in the third person, well a) please try to pay more attention, and b) John doesn't know. But John will stop now.
You are free, of course, to use either. Bonus points to anyone who can use both correctly in the same sentence.
Me!, for not going for the obvious joke about what a hippocampus is.
There isn't one, because the voices in my head have been squabbling for the last two weeks about whether Star Trek: The Wrath of Khan or Star Trek: The Voyage Home was a better movie.
I occasionally stir the pot by quietly sneaking in and suggesting the best film is Star Trek: The Voyage Home. It's like kicking a hornets' nest: great fun, as long as you can get out of the way quickly enough.
We have a couple of aloe vera plants. The one in the kitchen gets a regular pruning from when I burn myself on the toaster oven. But I wonder who the first person was who burned themselves and thought,
I'll rub some of the sap from that plant with the little stickers on my wound. That'll fix it!
Right up there with the first guy who ate a raw oyster, or looked at a spiny sea urchin said said,
I bet that's good eats!
An article in the Wall Street Journal about making teen drivers safer included the helpful sidebar,
Research is emerging that shows positive reinforcement works best with drivers.
Uh, guys? I bet if you expanded your subject group just the tiniest little bit, you would find that 99 percent of the population of the planet works best with positive reinforcement.
I'm not even going to get into that
research is emerging part.
I've been interested in watching Antiques Roadshow deal with restrictions and limitations placed on the show by the pandemic. As you would expect, they came up with some innovative solutions that I hope they continue when it's OK to come out of our burrows.
One is shows where one estimator visits a semi-celebrity–someone well-known in a limited circle (for example Mo Willems or Christian Soriano. They will talk about the person's life, and evaluate some treasures the celebrity selects. What's nice is not the value of the piece, but why the celebrity chose the piece.
The second group is reruns, but where items are re-evaluated. They run the segment, show the estimator going bonkers over a Civil War Persian carpet, get assurances that it's a family heirloom and will never be sold, and give a surprisingly high estimate. Twenty years later, in the cold light of day, the value has dropped in half. Or gone up by a third.
What I find interesting:
I guess I'll have to bring it up from the basement.. No, leave it in the basement. It's ugly and probably reeks of cat pee. Or sell it. It has no value to you.
This bowl (we think it's Ming Dynasty) was given to my great-grandfather by a grateful opium addict who he helped get clean,only to hear the appraiser say,
thus bowl was made in Kentucky in 1953.
I wonder how many of those priceless family heirlooms are being shopped around when the estimate is much higher than anticipated?
I wish the appraisers would stop saying,
now, if this had the original lid, was in green, in perfect condition, and signed by all of the 1927 New York Yankees, it would be worth three times what this is. It never was, it never will be. Why are you spoiling the pride/joy/excitement the people are feeling right now?
Hot girl summer 2021? Maybe it got too hot. Maybe they're too busy being hot to take pictures and post them the social media.
Excuse me, I got a little woozy and light-headed there. I thought I said something about young people not taking pictures of themselves and posting them on the social media. Oh, I did. I should probably go sit down in the shade over there until the fever passes.
The July 19 Wall Street Journal has a review of a new show at the Metropolitan Museum of Art: The New Woman: Behind the Camera, which displays work by women photographers from the 1930s and 1940s, with a goal of carving out a larger place for them in the artistic universe. While generally complimentary, the reviewer, Richard B. Woodward, questions some of the curator's choices (I think that's required for reviewers so they can keep their street cred) but he then suggests that
male photographers were equally responsible, if not more so, for creating the image of women in a modern era, and says the show is incomplete without the inclusion of the male photographers.
Dear Richard. So trite. So predictable. So clueless. So neanderthal (with apologies to Neanderthals ). Please try to keep up.
If you're a fan of the funnies, you may have wondered why the Sunday funnies were different. Longer comics (eight panel), color, different storylines. Well, it turns out that length and color were due to the comics having their own section, which were called full pages. The different storylines were designed to accommodate differences in the subscriber base. Readers could subscribe to the Sunday paper, the weekday paper, or the entire week (see Venn diagram below, the first time I have used a Venn in the real world where it might really help). So to not disappoint or frustrate customers, the Sunday and daily comics were kept separate, content-wise.
For those of you wondering why the New York Times and the Wall Street Journal don't contain comics, I always thought it was because they didn't want competition for the editorial page.
I've either got to start paying more attention, or less. Not to important things like people I know, music I select or is curated by a respected radio announcer, oven timers, or birdsongs. No, what I'm talking about are the background-noise yapping terriers of influencers, the opinionated, and voices appearing related to the news. On the other hand, they do provide low-hanging fruit for me to mock (Hot Dog and Word of the Week). On the third hand, I'm not paid enough to let more crazy-making stuff into my head. I'll stop now–otherwise, I'll need to borrow another set of hands.
I am pleased to announce that last Thursday, I turned 71 and 3/:4. A signal accomplishment. It was a small celebration–I had an extra meatball with my spaghetti. And a couple of extra antacid tablets before I went to bed.
In the Heartwarming Story Section, CNN lets us know
A woman was looking to adopt a new pet. Then she found the dog she lost two years ago.
I bet it was under the bed. I also bet it was really, really skinny.
‘I’ve outlasted them all’: the spectacular life of the world’s most powerful crossword editor.
I think for a while during the Cold War he had a red phone on his desk. Also, he gets to determine the daily Blue Plate Special at the Sterling Diner in Fargo, ND. Now, that's power!
Dick Sargent didn't replace Dick York on Bewitched. Rather, Samantha wanted Darren to have a less assertive chin, so she wriggled her nose and, well, you know. Same Darren, new look.
Semantic question: Is it wiggled or wriggled?
Cnet (among lots of others) thinks it's important for us to know about this publicity stunt:
Heinz starts petition to make hot dogs and buns come in equal packs.
Well, I don't know where Heinz is buying their hot dogs and buns, but where I buy mine, they are both already sold in packs of eights, most likely courtesy of a previous
public outcry. Maybe they're buying those exotic kosher gourmet hot dogs or something, to which I say, <>you made your bed of sauerkraut, now go garnish it.
Plus, I've got two (more) words to say: homemade Beanie-Weenie (OK, maybe three words. I've never quite gotten the hang of hyphenated words when counting). Adding a dog or two to a can of pork and beans is a guaranteed way to knock off the count and Heinz' push for equality.
Plus, why is Heinz so concerned about hot dogs and buns? Everybody (everybody!) knows you put yellow mustard (and sweet pickle relish) on hot dogs, and there is only one brand of mustard for the job, and it ain't Heinz.
The sharp-eyed among you may have noticed that we now have a word of the week. Why, you might ask? Well, it alliterates, always a benefit. And exotic has all the hallmarks of a wow. It is fun to say (really, that's the only thing that makes a word a wow. A word like 'stud,' even though it has an 's' in it, will not make the list, no matter the context). Plus there's commentary, so we're giving you more time to read.
And now for something different–a dissertation on the word of the week, called exotic: a defense.
You know how you can commit micro-aggressions, even when you don't know you're doing it? Well, you might be unconsciously racist, even xenophobic, whenever you open your mouth to speak or eat and the word exotic comes out, a food writer from the <>Washington Post> tells us in a piece (
Stop calling food ‘exotic’).
I admit I only half-read the article. That's unusual for me–I even hung on all the way through The Ambassadors and Moby-Dick (full disclosure: they were both required reading. Also, I did not make it even part-way through Ulysses.).
I think the problem is the author's definition of exotic, which, since you can now buy nearly any spice or foodstuff at your grocery store, or on the internet, it's not exotic, you are no longer allowed to use exotic, those of you with your neo-colonial xenophobe and your racist, Western superior attitudes to oppressed subjected peoples! Sorry, maybe my reaction is so strong because my local supermarket isn't stocking piri-piri, tikka masala sauce, or yak chops.
Here's my definition of exotic: things I didn't grow up with. Exotic means distant, interesting, unusual, special, and a bit mysterious. I encountered exotic in the pages of the National Geographic, which never wrote a story about my hometown, so all its content qualified as exotic. Grit magazine is exotic. Agriculture is exotic. I have eaten rabbit and goat a few times, but every time the resident bunny is out in the back field, I watch it because it's exotic. Boiling garlic with potatoes is exotic, as is melting cheese into mashed potatoes. It's exotic, even though my last meal will include a large helping of mashed potatoes. A Jaguar XK-E is exotic. I have been fortunate enough to dine in some fine French restaurants, but I still consider the cuisine exotic. Growing up inland, I consider shellfish exotic, even though I've lived half my life near a seacoast. Buffalo Bill's Wild West Show and Ringling Brothers/Barnum & Bailey Circus: exotic. Green peppers: not exotic. Red peppers: sorta exotic. Yellow peppers: exotic. Hula dancing: exotic. The twist: not exotic. Marching bands, football, cheerleaders: exotic when you're not in North America. The VW Beetle: exotic. Chevys: not exotic.
I think exotic is admirable and sometimes fun. It signifies adventure and a unique adaptation to the local environment, becoming accessible to us through the spices and foods from foreign lands.
Am I practicing unconscious racism, xenophobia and advocating colonial-era oppression? Maybe, but then I think that maybe I'm learning to appreciate other cultures and their uniqueness. And maybe there's someone in the world who thinks I'm exotic. And that's all right.
Ars Technica updates chronology in an article entitled
Archaeologists 'flabbergasted' to find Cerne Giant’s origins are medieval.
There's some sort of broken tradition. I read the article, which starts
The Cerne Abbas Giant is a 180-foot-tall figure of a naked man wielding a large club,
If you look at the picture, the response is, Uh, yeah. Maybe two.
The article also notes that the first recorded mention of the figure comes from a 1694 warden's account from St. Mary's Church in Cerne Abbas, recording
the cost of three shillings to repair 'ye Giant.' This quotation was provided for fans of irony.
My mother lived her entire life within five miles of where she was born. My brother, on the other hand, left for college and never came back.
If you're feeling off center, it could be stress, it could be be job-related, it could be a bad relationship, or if it's a vague, unspecified underlying unease, you could just be in the wrong place, and your ley lines are not laying flat for you. And it may not be the big lines–you may have your own set of lines that match up with your personal mission and goals.
It's worth a thought.
at the bottom of the referenced article, there was a link to an article entitled
Are meteorites full of star jelly?
Begging the question, what flavor is it? And if grape, is there star peanut butter?
It's that time of year when life plods along. The only break in the relentless beat-down the sun gives us is a small plane dragging a banner behind it, which I cannot read. It's nice to be reminded of a time when an airplane dragging a banner could stir interest. Another way of saying that is
It's nice to be reminded of ten minutes ago.
From the CDC, by way of CNN:
CDC warns not to swim with diarrhea...
There was more headline, but it's irrelevant. I can think of a lot of things that you shouldn't do when you have diarrhea. Like, anything that's not sitting on a toilet.
I notice they no longer warn not to swim with sharks. Maybe the diarrhea keeps them away.
The Verge did research, and found Apple’s weather app won’t say it’s 69°.
In these heah parts, the temperature never gets to 69°. Tonight, it's getting down to 77°. In the winter, anything above 55° is a surprise. I'm sure they took those unused numbers out as a convenience to users and to lessen the overall weight of the phone.
I think irrevelant, a mash-up of irreverent and irrelevant, would be a great word. I just don't know when or how a person would use it.
I was writing an email in which I mentioned I didn't know if I refused as much as was confused, and then wondered if refused and confused had the same root. After I sent the email, I decided to find out (it was still early in the day, and I was enthusiastic). So off to the Online Etymology Dictionary I went.
Short answer: they're not. But I was totally charmed and amused by this part of the history of confused: The Latin past participle also was used as an adjective, with reference to mental states, "troubled, embarrassed," and this passed into Old French as confus "dejected, downcast, undone, defeated, discomfited in mind or feeling," which passed to Middle English as confus (14c.; for example Chaucer's "I am so confus, that I may not seye"), which then was assimilated to the English past-participle pattern by addition of -ed. By mid-16c., the word evolved a back-formed verb in confuse. Few English etymologies are more confusing.
It's nice when people enjoy their work.
As I've worked my way through the ol' home library, and the City of Norfolk has not yet seen fit to reopen the real libraries, I've been looking for book recommendations to keep me occupied and off the streets. Some come from friends. Others come from newsletters or other remote but trusted sources. Many of these include a link to Amazon, which I will follow. I'll take a look, and then decide if this is the type of thing I want, and then if in e-book or paper format.
So far, so good. But what I've been noticing more and more on Amazon is that the e-books cost more than paperbacks, sometimes by as much as 20-25 percent. Same words, same author, same information/entertainment value. Paper has to have higher inventory costs, doesn't it? The whole logistics-delivery system has to have more cost built in, too. So why?
The Daily Mail reports on a school in Edinburgh that proposes removing To Kill a Mockingbird and Of Mice and Men from the curriculum because those novels are
dated and their lead characters are not people of colour. Oh, yeah. And colonialist.
A couple of notes:
datedbooks, like voting in the baseball Hall of Fame, where after 15 years players get thrown into the old guys bin?
It's a doll.
To sum up: On Northern Exposure, in season 5, episode 16, Chris in the Morning had a listener write a letter that claimed that Chris' music choices led to his suicide. Chris began to cull his song choices to remove songs that could make people sad or depressed, and ended up with only Red Rubber Ballon his playlist. The townspeople complained, and convinced Chris that he was not responsible for the suicide, but in fact was making them crazy with the reduced playlist.
Yeah, life is like that.
Who first said,
You do you?
Can we have them shot?
Each Friday, The Wall Street Journal has a section called
Mansion. I look at it for design ideas. I especially like it when the design ceiling is around a million dollars.
Last week, they featured a $2 million, two-year renovation, where the sidebar noted the owner's family lived there [in the final stages] without a fully functioning bathroom or kitchen.
How does one react?
admiration for the owners, emulating the hardships of their sod-busting pioneers?
poor planning either on budget or schedule?
feel sorry because they have to eat out?
Oh, dear! Not Chez L'Moleskine again!
Wonder about hygiene, like, where do they shower?
One of those interchangeable shows on the so-called Discovery Science Channel was discussing giants, and some bones of giants found on Sardinia. We learned that giants were entombed in giant graves.
Of course they put them in giant graves! They wouldn't fit in pygmy graves!
One of my credit unions just told me I'm pre-approved for a car loan, new or used. My confusion comes in being offered assistance in buying something that is at best in short supply, if not non-existent, and at a high price, at a time when I'm perfectly happy with the current vehicle.
Timing is everything.
We have now entered the dog days of summer, which will extend until August 11. This parallels that looong stretch of time between holidays. Some countries like (I believe) Canada, have a holiday every month. In August, for lack of anything else to celebrate, Canada has Civic Holiday. That's why I'm glad we added Juneteenth to the holiday calendar. Now, if we can only give St. Patrick's Day and Halloween the official recognition they deserve, we'll be down to April and August needing holidays. Unfortunately, April Fools' Day just isn't what it used to be. Maybe one could have two celebrations of
the month that begins with 'A' Day.
Woodstock, but only the first two lines and the last two lines of the refrain. Lots of humming and an occasional remembered word between.
Woodstock has been covered 379 times, including by Led Zepplin, John Legend, and Muruga and the Cosmic Hoedown Band.
QAnon Followers Think They See Donald Trump in White House Window Reflection.
No, No, No, Newsweek! It's Jesus and a tortilla!
Mr. Trump, we've told you over and over. You don't live here any more. So please get out of the petunia bed and go back to Florida.
And from Reuters:
Austrian gets shock of his life as python bites him on the toilet.
Sorry, I forget. Is the toilet bone the one between the shoulder and elbow, or between the elbow and wrist?
The Atlantic says:
We’re Not Ready for Another Pandemic.
Well, we weren't ready for the last one, so yeah, totally believable. Also consistent.
At one point,
Stairway to Heaven was the most played song on the radio. You can bet it wasn't this version.
And in the I-hate-it-when-people-are-funnier-than-I-am department, check out
NBC News reports
You're not the only one who's had enough — 95 percent of workers are considering quitting.
This is not news, really. Only in degree. As far back as 2004, Marcus Buckingham and the Gallup Organization reported that 80 percent of workers were dissatisfied with their jobs, and felt unfulfilled. I'd be willing to bet that people were dissatisfied a lot further back than that. A fifteen percent rise over nearly two decades isn't that big a deal.
Jocelyn Glei, by way of her newsletter, passes along
Why Adults Lose the Beginner's Mind (which is a transcription of The Ezra Klein Show podcast). Bottom line: kids have an exploratory approach to life–they're in learning mode. Adults process and focus and organize things.
Short takeaway: as various Hallmark movies have shown us, you can't follow in your parents' footsteps, because you already haven't. You've taken so many exploratory steps to organization that your parents didn't take. So you will always be unique and on your own path. Said it in 59 fewer minutes than Ezra and 89 fewer minutes than the movie.
If you are also a fan of WKRP in Cincinnati, you've probably wondered about the closing song, whose lyrics go something like
Hey Bartender, mumble mumble screech yip yip small howl. Well, it turns out it was a melody check, and they used gibberish placeholders, which were never replaced.
Basil is the 1,346th most popular name for baby boys in the U.S. in 2021.
A second factoid: the herb is pronounced BAY-zil, the man's name BAH-zil. Not that you'll probably ever have to know that, considering how few Basils there are these days.
Microsoft is in the process of introducing Windows 11, the newest iteration of its PC operating system. As is always true of change, there are confused, concerned and upset users.
Microsoft tries to make changes that are meaningful and cause the least disruption. This can be seen in their moving the start button from the lower left corner of the screen to lower middle of the screen. I'm sure the button, which has been in the lower left of the screen since 1995 (footnote: Microsoft licensed the rights to
Start Me Up for the initial marketing campaign, which caused quite a stir for some reason), was apparently causing problems for users, thus necessitating the change.
Another change is the system failure screen, known to the really old as the Abort, Retry, Fail, or ARF. I never could figure out what the difference was between abort and fail. I did know that we had three choices, and two of them were bad. Anyway, the new system failure screen after ARF became known as
The Blue Screen of Death, or BSoD, for its blue background. In Windows 11, the screen has been revised so it now features a black background. Please note that Microsoft kindly selected a color that allows users to continue to use the BSoD acronym.
Prince Charles reveals the songs that give him 'an irresistible urge to get up and dance'.
I'm picturing a sort of less shiny C-3PO. If for some demented reason you want to know what gives Prince Charles irresistible urges, it's here.
I was torn between writing a poem and doing a post about this. Maybe I'll do both, starting here.
I was looking for a hanging basket for a new plant. I spotted a couple of likely candidates, and tipped them over to get rid of some dirt left in the bottom from the last plant.
I was not expecting the explosion of activity that followed. Little ants were everywhere. On the pots. On the potting table. On my arms. They are fast, and I think they are capable of Superman-quality jumps. But I didn't check. I was too busy backing up and brushing them off me.
Once I had brushed all the ants from my arms and anyplace I thought I was feeling them (and believe me, you feel them even in places you don't know you have), I took a closer look at all the activity on the table. I figured the ants would have scattered to safer, shaded places by then, but they were still scurrying quickly around the tabletop. Most were carrying little white pill-shaped sacs about the same size as the ants carrying them. Those that weren't carrying sacks were rushing around a pile of white sacs. That's when I realized I had not only knocked over an ant house, I had knocked over an ant nursery. I watched for a couple of seconds, wondering if there was any sort of rhyme or reason to the activity, and what if anything was providing the direction to save the eggs. I wandered off for a bit, and when I came back, it was like the ants had never been there–no ants, no eggs, just the overturned pots. All sorts of deep-thinking material there. What was that primal instinct inside each little tiny ant that moved them to save
the kids? How did they know where to take them where they would be safe? Did they all end up 9in the same place? And how did they communicate all this to each other? I doubt if these ants had ever suffered this kind of disaster before. How did they know?
I have a link to a webcam in Churchill, Manitoba, set up to show the Northern Lights. It's live, but will let you check the last day. I've seen some impressive displays, and when I saw the link, I decided to check, forgetting that at latitude 58.768410 in July, there's not a lot of night time for a really good northern lights display. In short, all blue sky, except for on impressive cloud bank. I'll have to check back in December.
Before we get into it, I'd like to step back to July 1st and give a big shout-out to our neighbors to the north as they celebrate their Independence Day. It's not nearly as exciting as the American origin story (no wars, no John Hancock), but very, very Canadian. We used to share the
longest undefended border in the world, but it seems pretty defended now, less easy to cross than the southern border, apparently, in spite of a wall and troops in Texas. Sad.
It's the day between the two days (the second and the sixth) that were much more instrumental in the foundation of our country than this day actually was. But still, you've got to celebrate sometime, so why not? The Fourth sounds much more authoritative than The Second or The Sixth, with their initial sibilants leaking and slobbering all over the place. One other thing the Fourth has going for it is a clear image–fireworks, birth of a nation, flag, food (hot dogs, hamburgs, cookouts) music, and the start of the NBA Finals. So enjoy.
My wife was cleaning off a table in the sun porch the other day, and came across a book of puzzles and brainteasers that our financial advisor (side note: I still can't believe I can put the words
our financial advisor together without giggling) gave us. It's supposed to help us keep our brains sharp as we enter our senile (sorry, senior) years.
As we did one set of puzzles, I realized I've been doing this for years, ever since I first set my alarm clock ten minutes ahead. I know I set it ahead, and every time I look at it, I automatically subtract ten minutes to get the real time (if any time can be said to be real), so I don't know why I bother. But it turns out it's a mathematical brain teaser, helping me stay razor-sharp, gray-cell wise. So I guess I'll keep the time where it is in the name of good mental health. Plus, it's much harder to reset the clock than do the math. So math for a stronger brain it is.
You'll notice I cleverly used sharp in the headline above as an indicator of mental acuity, creativity, awareness, and all those other good things. While sharp usually gets all the good press, sometimes dull is the way to go. Take, for example, a cocktail party. If you're sharp, people will gather around you and expect you to entertain them. If you're dull, nobody will want to hang around you (even other dull people), which means you can lurk around the food table unnoticed and scarf up all the good bits of grub. The only danger is someone sees you standing there and takes pity on your solo state, and comes over to talk, blocking the buffet table as they do so.
If you wake up dull-witted, you have set no expectations for the day, and so the only way the day can go is up.
When I was a kid, on a very hot summer's day, one of the local TV stations would send out a hapless reporter to film an egg frying on the sidewalk or the hood of a car. It got old, I guess, or cooler, and it kind of disappeared as a thing.
Well, it's happening again. AccuWeather wants us to
Watch as record-breaking heat in Oregon cooks an egg.
One big difference that shows us it really is hotter: unlike back in my youth when the egg was fried directly on the pavement or the car hood, this egg seemed to be fried in a cast-iron skillet. It takes a long time to get one of those puppies up to speed and ready to cook something. Or they had a reporter with nothing better to do and lots of extra time to do it in.
Well, it may not be hotter, but at least it's more sanitary.
Growing up, I lived in New York during the Nelson Rockefeller as Governor era. Generally, it was OK. People complained about high taxes, but we at least saw results–roads, a viable university system. One year, he faced a challenge from a well-known Democrat, and Rockefeller campaigned hard, which, in the way of rich people, means he spent a lot of money, approximately $8 million. A friend of mine (called a wag in the then-contemporary jargon) suggested that we should all vote for him if he just promised to donate his campaign spend to the state's coffers, and lowered taxes.
I am reminded of that because we have such a candidate here–a wealthy businessman who takes great delight in reminding us he's a political outsider every chance he gets. Which seems to be every ten minutes, or every commercial break.
What this means for us poor Virginians is we've been subjected to politics non-stop for well over a year now, a string which will apparently last until the November election (or horrors, after). It used to be that we could expect a break after the Presidential election, but that got sucked up with the Trump endless whine about having the election stolen, which segued into the primaries. In normal years, everybody would take a break for a few months to enjoy summer without having to think about civic responsibilities. I want–need–that time off. It's enough to make a person think seriously about subscribing to an ad-free streaming service and/or living someplace out of reach of a TV signal. Maybe it's time to get out the ol' reading glasses and giving books another shot.
Anyway, I need a break, Candidate Glenn. You're on notice. I've been known to vote against candidates for far less reason. Actually, I've been known to vote against candidates for exactly this reason. Capice?
Our Arboretum is offering a seminar on the Wonderful World of Rose Diseases. I can only hope that they were going for the alliteration and meant it in a
world full of wonder sense. I can't see where it's very wonderful either for the roses or for those who care for them, to see them infected and dying on the trellis. Sort of like giving a lecture on the joys of COVID-19.
Every now and again, I see kitchen equipment reviews and comparisons. Recently, one looked at toasters, the kind that have slots and provide cheap jokes on sitcoms when the device launches bread into space. The conclusion: toasters haven't made a lot of progress since their invention in 1909. Bread isn't evenly toasted, it sometimes gets stuck in the toaster (if not launched), there's often a limited range of thicknesses that can be accommodated, and they're a pain to clean. Oh, and they're dangerous.
I don't know why anyone would have a toaster, especially since the invention of toaster ovens. They're much more versatile, toast bread evenly, can handle different sizes of bread, and toast four and sometimes six slices at the same time. And you can make cheese toast! Try that in a toaster!
A Fresco's Relocation Is Handled With Care,
the New York Times tells us.
I'm just trying to picture why the movers might not want to handle with care.
And just to be perfectly clear,
a fresco is not the same thing as al fresco, a mistake I've made many times. OK, only once, but that's still one time too many.
From something called NextShark:
Australian Woman Who Woke Up From Surgery With Irish Accent May Be Stuck With It for Life.
I'd like the name of the surgeon and where the surgery was performed. That sounds fantastic. As would my post-tonsillectomy accent. Sure, and I've begun practicing my begorras already.
PBS, at least one of the local incarnations, is now billing itself as America's home for documentaries. Now, I don't know the first thing that pops into your head when you hear documentary, but for me, words like
entertaining have done their Elvis imitations and left the building. And there has to be at least a little taste of f&e if you want me to stick around for the hectoring and microaggression part of the program.
Also in the running for the earnestness prize, smug self-righteousness category: the BBC News app, which on the U.S. & Canada news and features page has devoted half the page to stories of sins against blacks, Asians and Native Americans for most of the year, it seems.
Makes you want to check on your definition of news.
From a description for the Stella Maris Hotel outside Ballycastle in County Mayo:
The beach is 500 metres away and the accommodation is 1 km from the centre of Ballycastle and 22 km from Enniscrone. The venue places you within 0.5 km of Ballycastle Beach. This hotel is located close to the Atlantic Ocean. Doonfeeny Cemetery is nearby.
So is including the proximity of the cemetery a warning about the food or some other factor that makes the hotel dangerous to visitors? Or is it trying to appeal to people who are really seeking quiet?
Where did Ted Geisel get the Dr. Seuss name, anyway?
And what happens if/when someone finds casual, low-level racism in a book like Green Eggs and Ham or How the Grinch Stole Christmas?
Should't that title be something like How the Grinch Stole Christmas (but then brought it back)? Otherwise, it's another example of our sensational rush-to-judgement culture at work, where the accusations fly fast and furious on the front page, but later, when things are cleared up and we find out no, it didn't happen, that's buried on page 17 (think Duke University lacrosse team).
What if Elvis is still in the building?
Why doesn't a cat's hair turn gray as it gets older?
When a person dies, do all the independent organisms inside like bacteria die too?
Saw a post on Facebook that mentioned Ellen was getting emails for a Gloria, and now the two different Glorias (Laura Branigan's and Van Morrison's) are competing for space in my head. As an extra added attraction, instead of picturing Laura Branigan, I keep picturing Lieutenant Branigan from Guys and Dolls.
It's a beautiful morning. I'm standing at the kitchen door listening to the birds sing, when the refrigerator behind me starts making breathing sounds, almost like it's sighing. So we have progressed past smart appliances to living appliances, and it's just my luck to get stuck with one that's depressed.
I write poetry. Sometimes, I think I should (or people encourage me to) publish some, even if just electronic publication.
But I stop and consider. If I do that, someone might read it, and it might become popular, and then they'd want to know more about me, and then someone would want to write a thesis or worse, a biography. I also have Kathy-Bates-in-Misery nightmares. So unpublished I stay, unless you consider this collection of bad typing publishing.
I suppose I could take comfort in the fact that if people look, they will discover I didn't lead a very interesting life, so not worth chronicling. Also, in the unlikely occurrence it happens, I'll most likely be dead, and won't care–or at least inconvenienced.
I apologize–I saw this a week ago, but just now am passing it along. BBC News reports:
Chinese astronauts dock with country's new space station.
I say congratulations to China on this singular achievement. I also wonder when they got a space station orbiting the earth. I try to keep up. How did I miss that? They must have hired one of those James Bond villains who specialize in building humongous structures without anybody noticing.
After Apple managed to muck up the Podcasts app/player in ios 14.6, I went rummaging around and found the Overcast app. The good news is it's clean and well-ordered. The bad news is it doesn't have all the podcasts I listen to, so I'll have to muddle along with the Apple app for some things.
Anyway, the rummaging included looking for things to listen to in Overcast, and I bumped into Have You Heard George's Podcast?. If you're a fan of the original Hitchhiker's Guide to the Galaxy radio show, you'll feel right at home. It's like that, only on steroids or some other drug. As a bonus, it's only in episode 20 or so, so it is possible to get up to speed, unlike some other podcasts that are already in episode 243 or something, and you despair of ever being considered one of the cool kids, because you always find out about things after they've stopped being a thing, much less cool. You will never not be cool if you listen to George the Poet.
Why was the Daytime Emmy Awards telecast on at night? And why wasn't it any fun?
the mysterious monolith in Utah?
Alaska hiker reported missing was found alive after being charged by bears.
First thought: Bears take Visa and MasterCard?
Second thought: I wonder what the charge was: Littering? Trespassing? Fishing without a license?
Third thought: So what was the order of events: charge-missing-found? Missing-charge-found? I mean, maybe the bears did a good thing and the guy was resisting coming out of hiding.
Bears will do that to a person.
Google might copy Apple's newest hit product.
You can 99.44 percent take
probably out of that sentence. The shock, of course, is that it's not Samsung or some Chinese company borrowing the feature. Maybe they already copied it.
Baby was playing with an iPad and accidentally bought a $10,000 upgrade from Tesla.
I bet it included the really plush cashmere car seat with extra butt padding, automatic diaper changer, built-in surround sound and 4K video screen.
If you want to be thought a master wit, you have a choice:
a) you can immediately come up with a witticism that meets the moment, a la Oscar Wilde or Winston Churchill. If you choose this route, be prepared to have people get angry with you, because often the wit is directed at a particular person, who may not appreciate it.. Also be prepared to be called an
aphorist, which isn't as unpleasant as it sounds. It just means the person thinks you keep bees.
b) you can collect phrases or sound bites that cover a host of everyday situations. They do not have to be originally funny. It's probably better that they not be. The trick is to strategically decontextualize them. Saying
we've got to stop meeting like this or
Come here often? is funny if you say it just before a meeting starts. It's weird if you say it in a washroom.
Here are a few:
What a world, what a world.
I'll get you, my pretty, and you little dog, too!
I don't think we're in Kansas anymore.
Learn to live with disappointment.
OK, that last one may not be all that funny, but boy howdy do I give it a workout. Even when I'm the only one there.
Museum of Useless Data and Precambrian AntiquitiesI keep stored between my ears).
Oscar Wilde's full name was
Oscar Fingal O'Flahertie Wills Wilde. Always a man of excess.
Today is the first day of summer. More accurately, in the eastern time zone, the first half-hour of summer, as it starts at 11:32 pm. Many people (people who should know better) will say that this is the longest day of the year. It is not. All days have 86,400 seconds, even in leap year. What we have here is the most daylight in a day, or 52,881 seconds of daylight, or one more second than on June 19. (The perceptive among you no doubt noticed that I am employing The Rule of Big Numbers, which holds that large numbers give more authority and scientific credibility to the speaker/writer, while making the topic less comprehensible, a win-win in my book.)
Today is also Father's Day, a day on which kids and spouses try to come up with gifts for the person who, if he needs something within a kid's budget, will just go out and buy it. One benefit of being a dad is you probably don't have to put up with breakfast in bed. I'm sure that whole tradition goes back to the Royal Courts of Europe, where the Royal Bedchamber was actually a place of business, and they had the staff and equipment to do it right. So happy Father's Day, no matter what the offspring may throw at you, present and activity-wise. Even breakfast in bed.
Yusuf Islam's (AKA Cat Stevens, Steven Demetre Georgiou, and Yusuf) Wild World.
NBC News opines:
Opinion | Dads need to earn Father's Day.
So if dad doesn't? Does he not get the tie or the smelly cologne? Will children no longer ask for money or to borrow the car?
I'm looking for the downside, but having trouble finding it.
I have a solitaire app on my phone. It's free. My payment is to receive an ad when I win. I don't pay much, trust me. However, I recently won two games, and was invited to bid in a Sotheby's of London auction to be held at the end of the month. Darn! Wouldn't you know it? There's noting in the catalog that I'm interested in.
From the Guardian
‘I rip off my skin and give him the guts’ – Lisa Dwan on her approach to Beckett.
I'm sure there are less appealing images to start the day with, but I have no idea what they may be.
Never answered: does Beckett even like guts? Who handles cleanup? Who are these people?
Of course it's from the Guardian:
'Everything went dark’: humpback whale swallows and spits out diver.
Was his name Jonah? Don't tell me his name was Jonah!
I suspect many psuedoscientific TV shows will claim this is more empirical, scientific proof of the veracity of Old Testament stories.
I will pass along part of the subheading only because I like to inflict pain:
Experts say the encounter was a fluke.
Also from the Guardian:
Star swimmer Maddie Groves withdraws from Olympics as lesson to ‘misogynistic perverts.’
I'm going to punch myself in the face. That'll show em!
The Big Think speculates,
Is Human Consciousness Creating Reality?
scientific has caught up to poets, fiction writers and other dreamers and figured out how the universe works. We're building it as fast as we can.
Austin Kleon discusses what Horace meant when he wrote carpe diem. A more correct translation, he argues, is
Pluck the day, as opposed to our more robust, gustatorial, even violent
Seize the day.
Kleon has an excellent discussion of why we really should consider implementing plucking the day, which you should totally read, and incorporate into your dealing with the world around you toolkit.
However, I don't know if this is the right battle to fight. Let's face it–after 1,500 years of seizing days, there's no going back to a kindly, gentler time in the Roman Empire. If nothing else, seizing is a more American approach. So carpe away, friends, in whatever fashion you choose.
Kleon admits that the phrase probably wouldn't have survived without its misinterpretation. And now, after all this time, we get to layer meaning on meaning and fine-tune our relation with the world.
No, not me. *chuckles*. Do I look stupid to you? O.K., that might not be a good evaluation criterion. I'm thinking of all those people who are slowly going back to work now that the pandemic restrictions are being lifted. Or, more specifically, not going back to work.
Labor shortages have been appearing in lots of industries, including manufacturing, transportation, education, and logistics, but the most visible (or audible) are in customer-facing service industries, notably restaurants. Traditionally, these are considered entry-level jobs requiring minimal job skills. Often, we have a perception of who's filling those jobs: college students, people between real gigs, people looking to supplement their income with a second job, people without skills or an education, housewives and others with flexible schedules.
Yet, as we open up, many employers go on TV and complain that even though they've put the Help Wanted sign in the window, people aren't tearing them down, rushing into the establishment and handing the sign to the owner, saying
I'm your boy!, like they did in movies of yore.
That's not happening. Here are a few reasons why:
Normalisn't coming back. Lots of people have (quietly) decided they liked pandemic life, and are going to stay with it. Which is part of:
It's no longer just about money. People want something else from a job, like a sense of fulfillment and respect, and a chance to grow and achieve. Articles are beginning to chronicle people quitting jobs because they don't like the fit, or think this is the time to go after the dream job.
More power to 'em.
Someplace up above I used the word
yore. I was going to look it up the way I used to (fire up the browser and open a dictionary, or even find a paper dictionary) but then remembered I could right click and the program I was in would do the looking up for me. It's tough to remember that.
Ah, our brave new world of technology.
Oh, and I used yore correctly.
The Official Summer (accept no substitutes!) is still a week away, but Ma Nature missed that memo. We went directly from jacket weather to hot and sticky, with pop-up thunderstorms in the afternoon and evening.
In these parts, it's the last week of school (your parts may vary). In a couple of weeks the little kiddies will be packing up their book bags and getting ready to go back to school. For some kids, that will be the first time this year they'll be back in the building. In the summer. A fitting conclusion to the school year and the year, indeed.
Today's scare (according to the 6:00 news): ticks! That's right, friends, millions of those nasty, disease-ridden vermin are in your back yard even as we speak, waiting for you and your pets to emerge with exposed skin so they can bite you and kill you! There is absolutely nothing you can do, friends, except huddle in terror indoors, and watch TV.
'They're the chosen ones,' [Jacquie] Joseph said, referring to the women's basketball teams, 'and they're treated like afterthoughts. What's lower than an afterthought? That's us.'
To: Avian QC.
Re: Recent windshield event.
I recently had cause to use my vehicle, which was parked outside. While I was getting in, I observed a recently placed gift of guano from one of your operatives. It checked all the boxes for volume, opacity, and distribution. In fact, the deposit was almost a perfect circle, an impressive feat when conducting a mid-air delivery. When I tried to clean it, the wipers left a sticky smear across the entire driver's side of the windshield.
However, while otherwise impressive, the offering was not placed on or near the spot on the windshield where it would most interfere with my (the driver's) line of sight, and in fact I was able to drive the car without having to stop and remove the blob.
This lack of attention to detail has been noted. I expect you will address this matter so that the next time I am in a hurry to get somewhere, I will be suitably delayed by a perfect deposit.
PBS is raising money this month, and in typical PBS fashion, they abandon their regular schedule and viewers in favor of shows they think will bring in more donations. So there are a lot of shows about health and aging, financial planning, and musical events featuring singers from the 50s and 60s (the years they were popular, not their ages), with equally dubious provenance (the Tina Turner special, for example, is from 2000, but you have to look quick to see the date), but, now that I think about it, that's true for a lot of the comedies PBS imports from England–they're at least that old.
Every now and again, they broadvast a program that shows promise, but through the magic of earnest documentary/tribute show, manage to suck any life out of it. So it was with Monty Python: A Celebration. The only good thing was the clips from movies and shows, which were not shown in their entirety. The clips were surrounded by very good comedians who weren't funny, as they bore the ponderous weight of enshrining the troupe in the comedic pantheon. Translation: they were all as funny as a heart attack, especially when talking about how Python had influenced them. Only Paula Poundstone and Stephen Wright were able to say something resembling funny, but they couldn't save the show, which could have replaced the
Liberty Bell March with
Song of the Volga Boatmen, it was so pretentious.
This whole mess was of course wrapped in fundraising led by enthusiastically unfunny spokespuppets who claimed only to have watched Python, but didn't necessarily get the joke. And they sure weren't spreading them. For them it was all they could do to say
nod, nod, wink, wink every couple of minutes to make them Python experts and keep the comedy flowing.
Insert fart noise here.
Hydrangea is a very silly word, but fun to say. It was a good year especially for hydrangeas, the flower. The flowers are big, beautiful, and bluer than the sky. Here are a couple of plants in the back yard.
For those of you who are about to launch into an incredibly boring explanation of how minerals in the soil are responsible for the colors, kindly zip it and just stare at the flowers in awe.
The good news: To Kill A Mockingbird will reopen on Broadway on Oct. 5. The bad news: the New York Times felt it necessary to tell us how long it took for the play to recoup its original investment when it announced the reopening.
Yes, I know survivalists have mostly gone underground (pun intended) from their heyday in the late '00s, and could easily be added to any 'whatever happened to' list, but I just had a wandering thought about them. Survivalists put all these food and medical supplies in the bunker, but what do they do if someone gets sick? I mean, what happens if someone's jaw just freezes up one day? Or an appendix bursts? Or they get an abscessed tooth? Or toenail fungus?
The Atlantic offers up this headline:
Cicadas Are Fine Until One Explodes in Your Mouth.
Boy howdy, but ain't that the truth! I remember one invasion–not the last one but the one 'fore that, the monster invasion of '87. I was in Ohio, outside of Cincinnati, visiting my uncle Gary. The cicadas chose exactly that time to pop out of the ground and start singing their little songs. At least they were in tune. One would start, a couple more joined in, and pretty soon they all felt a compulsion to harmonize. It was so loud, dogs and cats were trying to chew their ears off or took to hiding in libraries. Anyways, the noise was enough to drive a person crazy, but I figured if that was the worst of it, well, bring it on. But then, a couple days later, darned if one of them vermin didn't up and hop right in my mouth, and then jes' go and explode for no good reason. It was like a pop rock grew legs. Right you are to say 'eew!' It was really a two eew! moment. In case you were wondering, it tasted exactly like you would expect
a cicada to taste–kinda like chicken. I figured that was it, that the little varmints had done their worst, but it wasn't a day later that another one of those critters did it again, just jumped into my mouth and exploded, like they was Juliet and Romeo and my mouth was their crypt. Well, I figured I better get this checked out and it was a good thing I did 'cuz the doc extracted a couple of legs that had poked into the roof of my mouth. The doc said they could have caused an infection, and seemed sympathetic, but he kept muttering 'damn mouth breathers' while he was working on me. Charged $40, too, which seemed a little excessive–the legs weren't all that long. Anyway, the pestilence subsided, but even to this day, I think Hollywood is missing out on some great horror film opportunities, like Invasion of the Exploding 17 year Cicadas and Exploding Cicadas vs. the Mouth-breathers. Sure fire hits, both of 'em.
And that's why I've lived south of the Mason-Dixon Line to this day.
Headline from Politico:
Republicans, Democrats battle for high ground after McGahn testimony.
On a flat, featureless desert, two groups are seen approaching an ant hill. A few are trying to scale it, some others are trying to keep the other guys from the top, but mostly, they try to keep everybody from the top.
Prepare for rimshots ahead.
People who know me and my family think I got my sense of humor from my father. Actually, I got it from my mother–she wasn't using it and wouldn't miss it.
My humor is a combination of quick, sharp wit and remembered jokes and humorous stories. Even when I was a child (i.e., in my thirties) I would tell jokes and stories, and people would say
you should write jokes for Johnny Carson. They meant it as a compliment.
Now I'm not so sure. At this distance, Carson doesn't hold up well. Jokes are tired, with celebrity cardboard cutouts for targets, and obscure insider or L.A. references that people didn't get even then. Sometimes the jokes seemed unnecessarily mean. I mean, other comedians who also fell back on a weak schtick have held up well over the years, like George Burns, Groucho Marx and Jack Benny. Who woulda thunk it? Comedy goes through fashions, just like clothes. It's interesting to watch the evolution of George Carlin, for example.
Bad news for Kardashian fans. The final episode of KUWTK (as it's known to the cognoscenti) aired on June 10. But not to worry, stout-hearted fans. BBC News reveals there will be a two-part reunion special shown later this month.
Now that we are officially into June, we have been getting all the rain we were supposed to be getting in May. April is not our rainiest month–May is. All the flowers came and went in April. That's not the only backwards thing around here. I've been trying to tweak the website to be prettier and more efficient, a process I've been doing almost since I started the website mumble-something years ago. Well, this time around, nothing is working, even the stuff I've done before. You know that old build on experience and what you've already done? Study, work hard, execute, and you will succeed. Well. there's a word that sounds like the name of a Russian ballet troupe. I'm applying it liberally. On the plus side, frustration has driven me back to working on new cartoons. Expect those in a little bit.
I was playing one of those stupid, time-wasting, all-empty-calorie 50s TV trivia games (I scored 100%, which tells you I misspent my youth as well as my elderliness, as well as all the time between), when one of the questions asked about Perry Mason. Immediately, the opening theme jumped into my head. I don't know when it'll go away.
As things get older, they're more prone to breaking. People are like that, too. Every morning, it takes a little bit longer to get the knee joints to respond and the eyes to focus. I'm not complaining–I've led a blessed (or charmed, depending upon your belief system, or had a good run, if you want to get all casual about it.) life with good health. It's bound to change. My friend Fran is a case in point. She's spent her life as a productive, contributing member of society, while pursuing world travel and giving expression to her artistic side as a painter, author and preacher, all with limited health issues.
A month or so ago, she ended up in the hospital for a week, and two weeks ago, she was sidelined by a different ailment.
She's fine now, I'm happy to report. But my question–:Was there a connection?–will go unasked, because I'm afraid she may not be able to answer it. Why? Medical specialization.
Now, don't get me wrong. America has a fine health system. My own primary physician is excellent, and I trust him. As much as possible, I keep him in the loop on outside procedures (I'm always surprised by those ads that warn you to tell your doctor about all the medications you're taking. My doctor prescribes everything I take.). Some one person besides me should know what's going on. Preferably, besides me. I don't know what's going on, or how to fix it.
But even my doctor is part of an elaborate system built on referrals. So when the doctor notices something going on, he will almost invariably suggest follow-on with a specialist, unless, of course, he dips into the comedy classics vault:
Man (sitting on examination table, raises arm): Doctor, it hurts when I do this.
Doctor: Then don't do that.
The problem is there are so many specializations. We're constantly spinning off new subcategories. I'm expecting any day now that the man in the doctor's office will raise his arm, and the doctor will say,
I'm sorry, I only do right arms.
Here are a few of the more common medical specializations where people consult the practitioners. (there are a lot of others who are on the scientific or laboratory end of things.):
I'm always tempted to say
collect them all! when I see the list.
Now, I don't know how to fix the entire system, starting with the doctors who have worse bedside manners than a bedpan, the factory model used in some medical practices, the do what I say and don't ask questions school of doctor-patient interactions, and so on.
Republicans in the Senate have effectively blocked setting up an independent commission to study events at the Capitol on January 6. I can understand this–it would mean taking time and resources away from investigating what happened at Benghazi.
OurTopNews lets us know
Principal Escorted Off School Premises After Graduation Speech: ‘Effective Individuals Stomp On Each Other’.
I forget was that the third or fourth habit in Stephen Covey's book?
For some reason, I found this headline from Inc. magazine really annoying:
This Co-Founder Hates Wasting Time. Here Are His 3 Pandemic Productivity Hacks to Beat Burnout.
First, there's that whole
hack thing. It's so 2017, Inc. You might want to trade it in on a newer model cliche. Second, what exactly does
wasting time mean? Right now, I'm sitting on the porch with a cat in my lap, trying desperately to figure out how I'm going to get someplace near a thousand words or so this week. As far as the cat is concerned, I am fully occupied fulfilling my primary purpose. The part of me not supporting the cat is either typing or thinking about things to type. This last is something that creative types do a lot of so they have something to share.
Unfortunately, lots of people think that just because I'm staring into space I am wasting time, when in reality they aren't seeing the gears turning in the background. Well. mostly. Sometimes I sits and thinks, and sometimes I just sits.
Oh, yeah, productivity. If you aren't being productive, you're wasting time. We're supposed to be productive, productive, productive. Uh, not really. We're designed to be non-productive for large chunks of time. We sleep (on average) eight hours a day. Even when we're awake, we build in slack or down time. And when we're productive, what are we doing? Right now, Virginia schools are going through the annual paroxysm of SOL (Standards of Learning) tests, during which time teachers stare at students to make sure they don't cheat. So all across the state, you've got thousands of highly educated, talented people staring at other people. I'm sure there are definitions of productive that would include this sort of behavior, but I'm going to have to sleep on it. In the meanwhile, don't judge if I'm being productive. I'm sure there would be some kind of measurement, and if so, don't be surprised if the measuring device ends ups being placed someplace uncomfortable.
I'm sure there's somebody who will chide me for not putting the correct accent mark (the aigu) on the e in cliche. It's French, they'll sniff, expecting me to be all apologetic or something, and rush off to fix it, or at least commend them for their attention to detail, and wide breadth of knowledge about language.
Well, I'm not apologizing or fixing, cuz:
So anyway, if you want an accent aigu, feel free to draw one on. Me, I'm going to sit and think some more.
It is now the end of May. I'm looking forward to June, 'cuz there's not a lot of options. I'm not going to talk about weather, because, if you're from up north, weather is whatever is around you, as opposed to the Southern view, where weather is a loose synonym for precipitation. Plus, as Mark Twain pointed out, talking does not imply that anything will change, weather-wise, unlike the weather around here, where it does, as witnessed by the 30-degree drop we experienced from Friday night to Saturday evening. Annnd, there' a lot more interesting stuff to talk about.
I never know quite what the correct greeting is for Memorial Day. I know happy is not right, but how do you incorporate a holiday into a salutation? We're all set for Halloween, Thanksgiving, Christmas, and New Year's, but I'm SOL (not the test) for all the others.
Anyway, I extend all the proper sentiments for Memorial Day, as I remember all those who died fighting for freedoms for all Americans that we too often take for granted. Celebrate responsibly!
Bucolic. It's a good word for the end of May.
Dander: it's not just for cats any more. No, it also means a stroll. Thanks to Seamus Heaney for contributing to the Museum of Curious, Random and Mostly Useless Knowledge.
There's been a sudden spate of 50s flashbacks in the past couple of days. We discovered that one of the cable channels rebroadcasts The Ed Sullivan Show. It's interesting to see what passed for quality entertainment back in the day. Like Jim Nabors singing. Topo Gigio. Plate spinners. Robert Goulet lip-synching.
Comedians like Wayne & Shuster and Myron Cohen. Opera singers. The top half of Elvis. Ed didn't like them, but there were a number of rock 'n rollers who graced Ed's stage, including the Beach Boys (who had discarded their signature matching striped shirts for matching white suits) performing a strangely semi-psychedelic rendition of
Then, on Monday morning, the classical morning drive-time jock made a reference to Jimmy Durante, with a comment to the effect that probably many (most?) of his listeners didn't know who that was, so never mind.
I don't know if kids still collect stickers, but if they do, they can now add stickers from fast food packaging. Subway puts a sticker or stickers on each sandwich, while Taco Bell is putting them on the bag. So as nearly as I can tell, the customer orders the food, the food is prepped, wrapped, put in the bag, stickered, and then handed out the window to the customer. Or the customer watches the food being prepared every step of the way. Don't know what contamination or nefarious deeds the sticker is protecting the food from, but it seems to be doing a fine job.
An Oklahoma legislator is promising a $3 million bounty to the first person who presents a live bigfoot that (who?) was captured (apprehended?) in Oklahoma. No reason was given, but really, do we need one?
No word if the program will be extended to space aliens, ghosts, or all the other critters that inhabit The Travel Channel, now known as TRVL.
Most people will 'fess up to watching cat videos on their computers. Some have even bookmarked cat-shelter-rescue rooms on their electronic devices, and visit regularly. Me, I prefer the up-close-and-personal approach of communing and conversing with an in-person cat. As in:
Cat: (jumps on lap and settles in)
Me: So nice of you to join me.
Cat: (fifteen minutes later) rubs chin on edge of tablet)
Me: Stop that!
Me: (an hour later) OK, we have to get up now.
Cat: (looks at me using sad eyes, digs in claws)
Me: No really, I'm getting a cramp in my leg. (tries to dislodge cat)
Cat: (turns on gravity suck and renders all limbs inoperable)
Me: I have to get up now. Let's go! (finally pushes cat off lap).
Cat: (rolls off lap with much flailing, in a performance worthy of a NBA player trying to draw a foul)
Me: OK, let's go check your food bowl!
Cat: piteous mews.
Next week, I'll probably be asking whatever happened to Bill Gates.
Most foodstuffs, including canned goods, have a use by, sell by, or best by date. Even Coca-Cola added best by dates, not that the sugary water they sell goes bad, or flat, or changes flavor, but as a subtle way to encourage people to buy (and presumably drink) more fizzy water.
Anyway, I have a small supply of canned goods in the basement. Mostly, it's foods that are staples or ingredients–beans, tuna, corn, pineapple, condiments, and soups. They get replaced as they're used.
For canned goods, I tend to ignore the
by dates. I rotate, so food gets used in a timely fashion.
But one can fell out of consciousness, apparently. I picked up a can of Campbell's cream of mushroom soup, and it was–empty. At least it didn't weigh its listed 10.5 ounces. (Aside: In the 1950s, if not before, Campbell's found itself on the horns of a dilemma. Its soups became essential ingredients in many recipes. At the same time, when other food manufacturers were able to shrink the size of their products while still maintaining price points, as chronicled by paleontologist Stephen Jay Gouldin
Phyletic size decrease in Hershey bars, Campbell couldn't. Cooks were depending upon there being 10.5 ounces of soup in each can, and so Campbell had to eat increased costs or raise the price of soup. End aside.). I didn't see any dents, dings or holes in the can. I wasn't about to open it to find out what happened, or if any clues were left explaining the whereabouts of the missing soup, fearful of unleashing another plague on us. So someplace in a local landfill, there is a ticking biological time bomb that will kill us all. And it's my fault.
Come to think of it, I was going to use the soup in a recipe for something called Crab Meat Mold, which I'm pretty sure was popular in the 50s, so coincidental serendipity strikes again.
Scientific American wants to know
Are we doing enough to protect the earth from asteroids?
I've always been told that writing should be clear and concrete. This never-before-read-by-me sentence failed that test as it did nothing to put pictures in my head:
AssistiveTouch for watchOS allows users with upper body limb differences to enjoy the benefits of Apple Watch without ever having to touch the display or controls. Thanks to John Gruber for passing it along.
Now, if I only knew what upper body limb differences are, we'll be good to go.
I don't do a lot of text messages. So a lot of the features and functionality are lost to me. I was pretty proud when I figured out that blue messages I sent were going to other iphones, and green messages to people who had embraced the dark side of cell phonery.
I was sending a message the other day, when I noticed a row of buttons below the input window. Some of them I recognized: Photos. Apps. Music. Pay. And a couple I didn't, including the link to animated gifs (what the hip young kids refer to as giphys). Some subjects were old, like Shirley Temple. Most were new, like the Obamas. None were from the 50s, except maybe Fred Flintstone.
As I looked at them, I wondered if I wanted to be a giphy, and have my face immortalized forever. Not that there's any danger of that, but still an interesting question.
It finally got hot. Oddly, some northern climes (upper peninsula in Michigan, for example) is equally warm. Although welcome, I'm sure it's messing up something somewhere. Anyway, I'll be out in back soaking up the warmth, no doubt sipping on a cooling beverage.
Besotted. It's a good word for use in May.
There might be exciting things that the young'uns of today might be able to experience for the first time ever by anybody, but it will be tough to match that moment in 1977 when people saw the opening crawl scrolling up the screen to John Williams' theme for Star Wars. In a theater. Not only was the visual effect awesome, but Dolby sound was new, too, contributing to full sensory overload. I was in the theater, and was totally blown away. Even though I knew some of the stuff about the film, there was so much cool stuff to talk about that people who had seen the movie forgot about the opening credits, and so didn't issue a spoiler. I don't think spoilers were a thing then, anyway.
To those who came along later who have only experienced that moment knowing about it already, see it everywhere including second-rate blog pages, and find old people prattle boring and tiresome, let me regress for a moment and say
nyah, nyah! Saw it first! It was awesome!
Actually, it's David. I've never heard him called Dave. As you may have noticed (or will when you get there), the quotation is from David Sedaris, and is taken from his essay
Pearls in the current New Yorker. It blends his classic personal confession, insight, and slightly askew humor. I'm glad that (at least for the moment) he's abandoned that dark, bleak and somewhat ugly and mean persona he adopted recently.
People have suggested !do you like what I did with passive voice there! attributing the following sentiment to someone! probably an authority! without actually naming that authority! or anyone for that matter! that all a native speaker needs to know what word is intended is have the first and last letters of the word and a fair approximation of the number of letters between! We easily !although sometimes noisily! correct mistakes in writing! including spelling! homonyms! and make sense of a text! without having the !real! word on the page! I wonder if the same is true of punctuation! After all! what is punctuation but a graphic representation of a break in the flow of text! And the rules! The are 14 punctuation marks! I didn't count! but I'll bet there are at least 2744 rules !or 14 cubed! governing the use of punctuation marks! Quick! who can tell the difference between an en dash and em dash! Or when to use a colon or semi!colon! Be careful! If you answer !yes! to either question! you may be declared a witch and burned at the stake or consigned to teach a fifth!grade English class! whichever is more painful!
I bet we could pare punctuation back to one !or maybe two! marks! without losing a lot of meaning or having to do more work!
I think there are benefits! People would become more confident writers! The market for Gotcha! Grammarians would disappear! Discussions of the Oxford comma would be rendered moot! as would the comma! Peace would reign in the land!
The BBC lets us know
The US Centers for Disease Control and Prevention (CDC) has urged people to refrain from kissing live poultry amid an outbreak of salmonella. First it was going maskless, now no chicken kissin'. It's like the CDC doesn't want us to like them.
But Darn. I was so looking to finally getting out to see some live entertainment, but I guess this puts the kibosh on the
Puckerin' with Poultry event that Carla's Chicken Coop & Roost was gonna hold.
I wonder about this. I doubt that people who engage in chicken bussin' are reading BBC News. Or paying attention to the CDC. Strikes me that folk who do that sort of thing are prime candidates for a Darwin Award, and not noted for deep thought.
And why is the CDC getting involved? OK, sure, there's disease involved, and they're trying to control disease, but I can think of so many ways I and millions of other people can get sick besides kissin' cluckers. Are they looking for something to relieve the humdrum of the pandemic? Or did they figure their credibility was already in the dumper so they might as well cement the impression that they're incompetent?
Humankind has a love-hate relationship with robots. They are pictured as benign helpers (think Robbie, R2D2 or Roombas), or evil (think Daleks, vending machines, or any computer still running Windows Vista). No matter the purpose or intent, we view robots with a certain suspicion, even when friendly.
It's gotten to the point where robots are discriminated against. On certain websites, if you want to receive a newsletter or proceed beyond a certain point, you are confronted by a
captcha, a computerized gatekeeper. One part of the gauntlet is a checkbox that wants a declaration that
I am not a robot. Leave it unchecked and prepare to hear a lot of
Totally useless footnote: Some have suggested that Sir Bedivere's inability to say
Ni! is a commentary on the Great Vowel Shift that took place from 1400 to 1700. Please note that's vowel with a v, not a b, as most young boys would have you believe so they can giggle when you say bowel. Related: I don't think it's a coincidence that the young male Simpson is named Bart.
I have been writing a series of poems about Adam & Eve (estimated time of appearance on the poetry page: never). I was working on one poem that features the genus canis. This one quest led me to these amazing facts:
Food Network wants us to know
This Cherry Pitter Can Work 6 Times Faster Than Your Average Pitter.
Except for Comstock, I don't know who has enough cherries to pit to need such a device. Also, who determined what is an average pitter is?
My greatest fear: the brand name for the new device will be
NPR has talked to some scientists:
It's Time For America's Fixation With Herd Immunity To End.
Yeah, cut it out! Americans are individuals! They should be free to pursue their own goals and dreams! They shouldn't be grouped into herds!
Yeah, we scientists are tired of talking about the pandemic. We want to talk about other things now, like Hale-Bopp, Higgs-Boson, ketones in craft bourbons, whether there really is a connection between UFOs and Sasquatch and if Kim Kardashian is serious about law school.
Netflix has long been a company known for using innovation to slay competitors. First, it was DVDs by mail. Oh, by the way, you can keep the DVD as long as you want without paying a late fee. Then it started sending movies and TV shows out over the internet, inventing bingeing. When studios started restricting content, Netflix started making its own content. Lots of trash, but also award-winning content.
Now, when every entity seems to be promoting a wine club, Netflix is doing designer loungewear, suitable, no doubt, for a lille Netflix and chill.
(Whatever happened to Netflix and Chill, by the way? And while we're at it, whatever happened to clowns? And those spinner things? As a founding member of the Tin-Hat Club, I think that the sudden appearance of all the Karens and other act-outers is because a couple of years ago, all those people were neutralized by spinners provided by the Government. And then, the spinners were taken away, leading to chaos, anarchy, and boring awards shows.
'Tis the middle of the lusty monthe of Maye, when normally reasonable people go all cattywumpus arse over teakettle about something. We delight in peeling off layers of sweaters and coats to go outside in the sunshine. For foodies, it's fresh tender greens and local strawberries. For college students, it's the end of the semester. And over at ESPN, it's time for everyone to huddle over the 2021 NFL schedule and exhaustively dissect it, the same way witches consult a sheep's entrails, or Fox News hosts analyze a Donald Trump tweet.
So whatever your springtime pleasure is, pleasure away! Not that you need my permission or anything.
Books have been a major part of my life. The only problems I have with reading are that it often distracts me from things I should be doing, and books take up space. When I'm done, I've captured the important things a book has to offer, and now I have figure out what to do with the phoenix–a paper carcass that I've sucked dry but will magically spring back to life once it touches the hand of a new reader.
E-books solve some of the problem. They don't take up space, but the satisfaction of touching and smelling the book is lost.
Libraries are a fantastic option. You get a library card (I got my first card when I was seven), get to check out books, and even better, go into the liubrary and just hang out in a space where you are surrounded by books. You can browse, and when you're done reading, you get to take the books back and get more. Unfortunately, the local library system shut down in March of 2020, and even though every local bar and restaurant seems to be mostly open again, the libraries have only opened their doors a tiny little bit, allowing pre-reserved books to be picked up. But they show no inclination of opening up again anytime soon.
Recently, a third option appeared–a book giveaway store. It opened in a local mall before Christmas, its mission to give new books to kids. They think it's important that kids have books of their own. Rules are simple. Come in. Select two books. Walk away with the books. Optional step: come back.
I just found out they are now also offering books to adults, and will take donations of lightly used books. Very nice. Worthy of support.
I just got another voicemail about renewing a non-existent auto warranty policy.
Granted it's a first-world annoyance, but it's exacerbated but the start of the message:
Our final courtesy call before your warranty expires. It doesn't inspire confidence in the quality of their responsiveness and service when they can't even keep a simple voicemail promise.
Food52 provides us with
The Chrissy Teigen–Approved Method to Organize Your Fridge.
Little-known fact: Chrissy has a master's degree in closet and appliance organizational design from the White Sands Missile Range College of Engineering and Gaming Theory.
The Guardian (which should know better) lets us know:
How to eat: smoked salmon.
I would suggest placing a suitable portion in your mouth, enjoying the flavor and texture sensations, chewing until the salmon reaches a consistency that will allow it easy passage to the stomach. Repeat as desired.
I would also suggest not reading The Guardian while eating, as it can lead to indigestion.
Reuters reports a warning:
'Do not fill plastic bags with gasoline' U.S. warns as shortages grow.
Also, do not run with pointy sticks, and exhale before inhaling again.
Other things you shouldn't put in plastic bags: flaming dog turds, bald eagles, paintings by Michelangelo.
The US does not have a gas shortage.
Interesting answer to the question does the US have a gas shortage?
Their answer (I presume) a: there's lots of gas in the U.S., b: there's a temporary shortage on the East Coast.
But here's a different question: If there's a problem with balancing demand and supply, no matter the footprint, isn't that a shortage?
And there's another question: Do Americans panic too easily? If yes, how do we make them (us) stop?
The Hollywood Reporter has the down low:
Disney+ Misses Expectations With 103.6 Million Subscribers.
Someplace in a basement on Wall Street, guys in expensive suits roll dice to determine what they expect companies will make three months from now. Or cut cards. Or spin a roulette wheel. Or maybe they've done up the room to look like an English pub and they throw darts.
Three months later, they bitch and moan when their expectations aren't met.
Maybe it's time to start checking into the predictors' track record. Or just ignore them, like they're a weatherperson who talks about hurricanes even when they're never coming anyplace nearby.
Every now and again, a word strikes my fancy (which is OK 'cuz it doesn't hurt but if it was just a couple of inches to the left, well, boy howdy, that would sting like heck and I would say a bunch of things I can't say here but they all start with $), and that becomes a word of the day. No, not
&$#&–the original word (like surreptitious).
Surprisingly, I occasionally come across a word that causes an ewww! moment and I make retching noises. They're not swear words–a well-placed swear word can be highly effective in capturing a moment. It's words that don't mean anything, but should.
Such a word is
evocative, especially when not followed by
of. Sloppy writing all the way around. What's doubly sad is evocative is mellifluous, and should be a fun to say word. Too bad it's been hanging around with unsavory characters like book blurb writers. I guess its mother never told it you're known by the company you keep.
In the United States, we have standard time and daylight savings time. In Ireland, they use both times, called IST (either Irish Standard Time or Irish Summer Time). Wintertime is noted as Greenwich Mean Time, or GMT.
I think. Sources vary. It doesn't matter–I'm not going there in the winter anyway. Too wet and gray. Total ick. But it strikes me that summer time should be standard time.
It's been a busy week, what with Stars Wars Day and Cinco de Mayo, on which days we respectively get out our telescopes to watch Orion do battle with Ursus Major (my money is on Orion), and celebrate America's favorite white condiment by drinking margaritas until we get head-spinningly drunk, to the point where we almost can't celebrate any of the wonderful holidays that fall on May 6. I did make it up to celebrate No Diet Day with a couple of platefuls of crepes suzette, which did nothing to fix my hangover.
I really got up to celebrate Willie Mays' birthday. The
Say Hey kid turned 90. He was my favorite ballplayer, which means he was the best. He made the game exciting, and, like Steph Curry in basketball, when he was playing, he was always happy to the point of being celebratory. It was contagious.
And today is Mother's Day. For the cynical among us, it's another invasion of American pockets by crazed retailers, and designed to separate consumers from their money, on average $124 in 2019. I don't recall ever spending anything close to that, even when factoring in that I was spending old money that is now worth a lot more, consumer-spending wise.
Anyway, happy Mother's Day to all who are celebrating it (as mother or as child/grandchild [it's another stress inducer]). Remember: breakfast in bed is never a good idea unless you have a retinue of trained chamberlains.
We'll be having a moment of silence for those who may have lost mothers this past year, for whatever reason.
I have noticed that more and more websites and newsletters have been engaging in direct address within the body of the text. So the astrology webpage (I found a poem in a horoscope. It's off to the right) I consult will say
dear (astrological sign). A newsletter says
I was wondering if this is something I should do, to remind myself that I actually have readers, and to acknowledge and honor the role you, the reader, play in the development of this miscellany. So, which do you prefer?
Voting will be open until 6 pm on May 9.
A couple of years ago, I mentioned that after a PechaKuchaNight presentation, Malcolm Massey asked what my comic influences were. I rattled off a half-dozen or so (Mark Twain, Woody Allen, Garrison Keillor, Bill Cosby), and realized they were all on somebody's cancel culture list. I still think they're funny, and can't take back the influencing. Anyway, I realized the list didn't include some important, influencer folk–Robert Benchley, Mad magazine, Rita Rudner, Mel Brooks, Dave Barry.
For some reason, I was thinking about Malcolm's question again, and realized there are a couple of other people who can be added to the list, including Terry Pratchett, Stephen Wright, Chris Rock, Paula Poundstone and Aaron Sorkin (but inly when he was writing Sports Night). And of course, who can forget dear ol' dad? I could have held this post until it was closer to Father's Day, but I'm just going to do like my father taught me: keep repeating the joke until someone laughs or says,
I want a divorce.
Speaking of Stephen Wright, he wrote the single funniest line I know:
You can't have everything. Where would you put it?
This line is an example of a Paraprosdokian. You've probably seen it if you've ever visited the Acropolis. It's two structures to the left of the Parthenon.
The city just sent us a note saying they would be repaving the street sometime in the near future. They mailed the notification to
Loyal Postal Customer.
So many questions. What is a disloyal postal customer? How does one become a disloyal postal customer? And if I've just been posing as a loyal postal customer, but I'm not really loyal, will they still pave the street in front of my house?
Food Network wants us to know
What to Make with Chickpeas.
Just hook them up with dudepeas, and, left to their own devices, they will make baby peas.
Lumber mania is sweeping North America.
So how does a lumber mania manifest itself? Chain saw art? Caber tossing? Sniffing pine-scented car deodorants? Cledis and Bandit running a load of loblolly from the Texas Big Thicket to Georgia to win a bet?
Belgian farmer moves French border.
Downside: we'll probably end up with more endive.
All together now: Groaaaaan!
Well + Good: ‘I’m a Cardiologist, and This Is Why You Need To Stop Dry Scooping Your Pre-Workout Powder’.
This is something the medical community has been doing a lot recently: making ethical appeals, or appeals to personal authority. It's not based on science at all. It's a do-what-I-say-just-'cuz-I-can thing. I could as easily say, 'I'm a blogger, and this is why you need to stop mixing your pre-workout powder with water.' I suspect the cardiologist's statement has more weight, mostly because he took the time to capitalize the important words.
Many people are surprised that Bill Gates and his wife Melinda are separating after a 27-year marriage.
I'm old enough to remember when they got engaged, and the comments were more along the lines of
who told the geek about girls? and
does the geek know what to do with a girl?
The world is a better place for their presence, and I'm sure their good work will continue.We wish them all the best in their transition.
If you're going to miss an anniversary, miss it big time, I always say.
That's what I seem to have done with the hundredth anniversary of the invention of the hard-boiled hat, which was patented in 1919. Congratulations to Mr. Bullard, the inventor!
Everything else is window dressing.
My wife teaches at two elementary schools, neither of which have sports teams. They do have mascots, though. Both are animals: the Cougars and Koalas. If the students are supposed to acquire qualities from their spirit guide, one would be cute, cuddly, nocturnal and solitary; the other a predator, sleek, and also solitary.
High schools and colleges, as well as professional sports teams have a wider range of choices, including dipping into colors, stranger critters (spiders, fighting sand crabs) and adding people/occupations. Usually, the occupations chosen are meant to convey fierceness, bravery or strength.
So there are generals, colonels, knights, kings, miners, steelworkers, Trojans and Spartans. Oddly enough, some mascots represent people in illegal occupations, like pirates, raiders, and buccaneers. Others are losers (Trojans and pirates), or engaged in dicey occupations, like gladiators.
What's really odd is I can't think of any teams using a Roman as a mascot. They were big time winners.
In a way, avatars may be seen as personal mascots. I don't have one, and I'm not sure what I'd choose. Maybe that's why my life is so dissembled–no focus, no model to follow.
Earlier this week, I put out a hummingbird feeder, because we had once seen a hummingbird buzzing around a regular bird feeder we have in the front yard. We got a hummingbird feeder, mixed up some hummingbird elixir, and put it out. Nothing, for two or three migratory seasons. We took it down. I found it last week, and decided to give it another shot. So I filled it, put it out, and today were rewarded with our first view of a hummingbird. White throat, and gray feathers, which is like no hummingbird that hangs around here. I guess we'll have to keep watching.
We had our annual snacks for the Kentucky Derby rest yesterday. It snuck up on us this year, so I had to scramble for snacks. The race itself turned into the Academy Awards: big field of horses we didn't know ( not that we normally do), All told a less than satisfying experience.
Would it be evil if I hoped that in the current surge of COVID-19 cases in India the virus confined itself to the spam and phishing call centers?
I've mentioned Austin Kleon before. He's very creative, and inspires others (like me) to give it a try, too. His post of April 21 is noteworthy not only for its depth of thought, but for the breadth of references he makes. Well worth the time.
truly you have a dizzying intellect can be considered a compliment unless you've seen The Princess Bride, in which case you know it's not.
I'm not goofing off. I'm a magicicada rancher. We're getting into the busy season, and I'm fixing to be busier than a chaperone at a high-school prom. Figure this will be my last roundup, and I'll hand the ranch off to one of the kids. Pretty soon, I'll be out there gathering up husks, thinking of the glory years, back in aught-four, and who could forget 1987, when hospital emergency rooms in Ohio were flooded with record numbers of people with punctured eardrums?
that it's not
National Finish a Headline with an Ellipsis Week? You might not be able to tell if you were actually paying attention to the headlines here. There's no reason why you should be, but still...
I am a creature of habit, I'm afraid. Take breakfast. I have either yogurt with bran and a couple of drops of balsamic vinegar, or toast with cream cheese with a hint of jam. Coffee and pills round it off. The down side is the jam often slides off and lands on my shirt. That's not the best way to start the day.
Recently, I started putting the jam directly on the bread, and then adding the cream cheese. It works–now all I have to worry about is stray bits of cream cheese escaping the schmear, but so far, so good. I'm sure the same trick would work with peanut butter.
The sad thing is, it took me like 60 years or so to figure this out. The good news for you is I didn't call it a hack. I save hacking for tree limbs and other wayward pieces of shrubbery outside. Also, that I can break from routine, even at an advanced age. Old dogas and new tricks and all that.
Earth is wobbling, and it's probably our fault.
Why not? Everything else is our fault.
FYI: BGR began life called Boy Genius Report after repeated demonstrations that the writer was no such thing. Doesn't matter, but I'm trying to move useless clutter from my head to someplace else. So if you need filler, here's some.
from some ad site:
the US built a submarine that the world is afraid of.
Isn't that the idea?
Inc. magazine headline:
The 5 Biggest Mistakes That Make You Unlikeable, According to Ben Franklin.
Yes, that's right, he came back just to scold you.
We watched some of the Oscars last Sunday. The end of it was well past our bedtime, but even before then we had switched over to reruns of home repair shows. The last things I remember was Gayle King repeating
We're still on schedule, and the voiceover guy saying
yes Brad Pitt will show up soon.
I wouldn't blame Brad if he had bailed. The whole show was so... earnest. The announcers told us they were having fun. I didn't see much fun, only tension. Much like the music one of the pre-party hosts referenced that we weren't hearing.
Some differences were apparent. The long speeches were not interrupted. The social spacing and limited crowd size made things a lot less energetic. The stars were MIA (:thus the emphasis on Brad Pitt). They couldn't hide that the nominees for minor awards were in the cheap seats. There was much less panning of the crowd to pick out notables, even in the preliminary happy hour. In fact, I don't recall much random or casual camera scanning of attendees. There was much less emphasis on introducers. A lot of the hosts spent a lot of time saying how much fun everyone was having, but they showed very few people having fun. Even with a whole new crop of attendees, the whole aura of self-congratulation was still evident.
Apparently, the whole event was supposed to resemble the first Academy Awards, which was a dinner format where industry insiders gave each other awards. If that's true, it might be a symbolic moment to indicate a massive industry reset. The crowd was more inclusive, indicating the importance of minorities at the box office, as well emerging international audiences. Another moment showing that the the relationship of producers and how consumers receive product was changing, as well as the blurring of lines between what movies are and TV and things like You Tube actually are.
The industry has survived crises before–movie companies stripped of theaters; the Hays Commission; various wars; TV; and any movie starring Paulie Shore.
Interesting times we live in.
I didn't used to dream much. I would wake up at 5:00-5:30, and my muse would stick things in my head. I would mull them (fun fact: the Isle of Mull is the second largest island in the Inner Hebrides), develop them, and sometimes get a pretty good poem. Self-satisfied, I would fall back to sleep, and when I awoke again, I had a memory of having an idea about a poem.
I guess Gabriel (the muse) got annoyed with my cavalier treatment of his gifts, 'cuz now I mostly just dream, images on the edge of nightmare. The good news is that, like poems, they disappear from memory when I wake up.
I have a vague recollectIon of themes, like having to be two places and being late to both, with many roadblocks and misdirections thrown in. The dream I had last night was a little different. With a couple of other people, I was supposed to transfer CP/M AND MS-DOS games from 5 1/4 disks to well, I'm not sure. Maybe cloud storage, maybe memory sticks. Anyway, as far as I can tell, it didn't happen.
I am such a failure, even in my dreams.
While I was in that half-awake state, I wondered,
Do chicken eggs get fertilized before (like people) or after (like salmon) they leave the chicken?
Hey, I'm a city boy who went to a Catholic school with an inadequate STEAM curriculum (it had the math part down, but the rest was well, non-existent):. So I get to ask questions like that.
Don't judge me.
In case you went to a Catholic school with an inadequate STEAM curriculum, it's inside. Thanks to The Happy Chicken Coop for the info.
This past week, I got to sign up for my second COVID-19 vaccine shot. So then, I'll be all vaccinated up, and get to sit around the house watching the world go by, but won't have to wear a mask doing it! I'll still wear a mask outside, though. It's the safe thing. So, basically, it will be more of the same until the library opens up again.
I notice the states are generally doing what they think is suitable to balance safety and sanity. The
experts have generally been quiet about this, as the last running around waving their hands in the air event sort of fizzled out–the wave turned in to more of a ripple, and the states that were most egregious in thumbing their noses at the CDC warnings and had events like spring break were also the states that didn't have mass outbreaks. It was northern states.
Some doctors are now warning of a new, improved deadly strain of virus in India, but that seems to be generating the same response that all the other variants have. That is to say,
yawn or a shrug.
'ARF' is not just the sound of a dog barking, but the acronym for what showed up on the screen(Abort, Retry, Fail) when a MS-DOS program crashed.
Those three choices also provide a lot of insight into how programmers' minds work and why they didn't get many dates.
To learn, that is. At Lascaux, the earliest example of art, there are seven caves. The most famous is the Cave of the Bulls. The last cave is known as the Feline Diverticulum, or Cave of the Felines. It's the smallest and hardest to reach, as seems only appropriate for a hall honoring cats. Cats are the only ones who can easily access it, and may also explain where cats go when they disappear into thin (or thick) air.
I'm not going to tell Belle, the cat-in-residence, about my newfound knowledge. She already has an outsized view of her own importance, what with the whole Bastet and Li Shou things going on, and a long line of familiars on her mother's side of the family tree.
Besides, she probably already knows, and is lying on my lap wondering what took me so long to find out.
Bernie Madoff died a little while ago. I have no particular liking or antipathy toward the man, but he keeps generating such curious but truthful comments. The headline in Reuters is one such example:
Disgraced Ponzi scheme architect Bernie Madoff dies in prison at 82. Now, is the disgrace in running a Ponzi scheme, or is the disgrace in getting caught?
I'm also reminded of an exchange between two talking heads (I remember the exchange, not the names of the exchangees. Apologies–that's always been a problem). One said,
A 150-year sentence is a death sentence for a man his age. The other pointed out that a 150-year sentence would be a death sentence for a person of any age.
I mentioned a couple of weeks ago that one of the signs of a return to normalcy was an increase in incidents of mass murder. So far, we have counted 162 victims of random shootings. If that number holds steady, we will end the year with 486 deaths, as opposed to 446 mass shootings in 2020. So we're only slightly ahead of last year, although I'm not sure if
only is quite the right word in this context.
Local authorities are trying to figure out why there was a significant downturn in all forms of crime involving teenagers in 2020 throughout the Hampton Roads region.
I have no idea, but good news like this deserves recognition. A pat on the back, then, for all the yeuts who didn't commit crimes last year. You know who you are. Keep up the not bad work.
Like a kindly grandmother, the NYT tells us
Boba Tea Without Boba? Try Not To Panic.
Unlike the kindly grandmother, the NYT did not then make us some chamomile tea to calm us. But even with tea, we see an opportunity to use a bunch of those question marks that have been lying around doing nothing.
As in Boba???? Or
what the ??????????? is Boba?
Do you really need your period? appeared in Elle magazine.
Yes, of course I need my period! All of them! I can't rely only on question marks and exclamation points! Just look at all the periods I've used already! Why without periods the sentences would get all tangled up and I know from experience what it's like to try to untangle that mess!
Oh. Women's periods. Never mind.
John Gruber notes:
So seven people get blood clots after getting the J&J vaccine and we pull it, but eight people get killed by a crazed gun owner and it’s just another Friday in America. Makes sense.
The NWS, which I've called out before for not speaking English at taxpayer expense, slipped on Wednesday in a storm report, when they noted atmospheric activity
will be sufficient to erode inhibition across the region.
I can envision people running around outside, tearing off their masks, and standing three feet apart. The Devil's playground indeed.
ABC News wants us to know
'Godzilla' shark discovered in New Mexico gets formal name.
So there's a formal name, the informal name 'Godzilla,' and the name his wife gave him: 'Mr. I don't need directions Smith.'
The Guardian, one of those may not be maturity:
Ted Cruz threatens to burn John Boehner’s book over criticisms.
Fast Company asks the question,
A slew of new companies is finally addressing the estimated 6,000 women a day who enter perimenopause. What took so long?
1) We didn't know it was a thing. 2) We were waiting for a new dictionary to define what perimenopause is. 3) It was tough working our way through the 39 symptoms. 4) All of the above.
Additional, unasked for and probably useless information.
39 is not only the number of symptoms in perimenopause, but is also the number of lines in a sestina.
39 is not a prime number.
Jack Handey, of Deep Thoughts fame, published a short piece in the April 19 New Yorker. It is very funny. You should read it.
Actually, I'm going to make it easy for you. Here is a sample quotation:
He had a wicked sense of humor and would crack many jokes during his adventures–jokes that smart people would laugh at and stupid people wouldn't get. I mean how profound is that? It's always true!
Back to reading. As so often happens these days, my mind drifted while reading, in this case to adventure, the subject of the pieceMy mind didn't drift didn't drift very far, as I've been trying to keep it on a short leash. I'm tired of chasing it across dog parks and into traffic. What does adventure mean to me? I asked myself. (Since I was alone, there was nobody else around to answer. That's OK, since I usually find my answers to my own questions much more satisfying than other people's answers. The downside is there's the same number of
Let me get back to you on thats, which is disappointing.)
First, I decided I would have to decide what I meant by adventure. Turns out the the definition is related to age, and temperament. For example:
Of course, there are unpleasant and scary adventures, too. We don't have the time to cover those, and I'd hate to have to choose.
It's five days after the Ides of April. What–you didn't know that every month has an ides, which is just a fancy Roman way of saying middle? It's also three days after tax day in the United States, on which day most Americans don't actually pay any taxes, but rather tell the revenuers how much they've already overpaid in taxes and how much they would like back.
Todays's earworm is
One in a Million from the soundtrack to Miss Congeniality, not the fun one from Charlie Robison's Step Right Up, which is a shame.
I've mentioned before that we have a cat. For the most part, she is a pleasant enough cat, except when she decides 3 AM is playtime and our bed is the playground. Belle has reached that age where she has settled into certain routines, which means we (the humans) have also settled into certain (i.e., the same) routines.
One that intrigues me is the way she has to accompany us when we go, let's say, to the kitchen or bathroom. She makes sure we're actually going to stand, then has to be in the front of the parade, and proceeds slowly, befitting our advanced years I guess, guiding us to the destination, often stopping to rub her chin against a chair leg or door frame. If the human following tries to move more quickly, or pass her, she will bob and weave to stay in front and maintain the steady pace. If you tracked us from overhead, the path(s) would best be described as erratic, quixotic, or drunken. I realized there is a reason why there is no phrase like as the crow flies (denoting straight or direct) that involves cats. Unless the destination includes a food bowl or an invisible intruder at the front door, at which time our cat is a study in speed and economy of motion, cats just don't do straight lines.
I also realized that this is what my life has devolved into entering month fifteen of pandemic lockdown–following a cat, or worse, ruminating on following a cat.
And to think a year ago, I coulda been a contender.
Belle has a lush, thick, very soft coat of fur. Since it's spring, she's generating a lot of excess hair, and we've been combing her out more. She's on the smallish side, but I still think we already have enough hair to knit a small kitten.
Driver found with corpse on wrong side of highway. So many questions. And it got weirder, and may in fact have been a sad love story. Read here, and be sure to read the last sentence.
Teaser headline in Recode:
Do you need to keep testing after your COVID-19 vaccination?
Since I never got tested before my vaccine, for me, the answer is no. It pays to be consistent, I believe.
Their answer, of course, is testing is more important than ever. We will accept any positive answer, including a shrug-of-the-shoulders Why not?
For those of you who answered with any variation of
no, you have won a one-way ticket to your choice of Dumbtown or Stupidville.
And as should surprise absolutely nobody, it took approximately 2,250 words to say
yes, or roughly double our entire April 18 offering here in TomatoPlanet!!
Now, of course, you can try to judge a film all by itself as it measures up to some abstract criteria, such as how the film advances our understanding of the plight of a minority population, or how many times Curly gets poked in the eye by Moe or Larry.
Or you can ignore film altogether and compare movies to each other. It's much more fun. For example:
A Hard Day's Night v. Help!: Extra points to HDN for long shots of normal people. A plot line. Energy. Less studied banter and irrepressibility. Soundtrack includes
Ringo's Theme. Help!: color.
Star Trek Original series vs. itself: In a stunning reversal of what usually happens (see Oceans films, below), even-numbered films are better than odd-numbered films.
Ocean films (George Clooney): Odd-numbered films. Or maybe Oceans 12 was just that bad, to the point where even renumbering wouldn't help.
Also no help.
Did you know that if you insert a 'l' in 'even' in just the right place, spell check won't help. Ditto adding 'le'.
This is a post with two (wait, now three, darn it) openings. This is now the new (originally third) original opening.
Original first opening: My current reading includes Less (Winner of the Pulitzer Prize) by Andrew Sean Greer. I'm enjoying it very much. In it, he makes a reference to a
World Heritage Intangible.
Original second opening: When I was a kid, we used to play a game called Made You Look. The odd thing about the game was that only one player knew we were playing until we were in the game. The original player would say something like
Hey! There's Mrs. Wooson wearing a witch's hat! and invariably a head or two would swivel towards the Wooson house. Then the original player would yell mockingly,
Made You Look! Made you Look! Losers would usually try to deny that they had looked. Smarter players would on occasion point out something that was actually there, to establish credibility. Losers were deemed suckers or chumps, and as pointed out by Miss Sarah
Brown in Guys and Dolls, being a chump is never a good thing.
So when Greer made a reference to a
World Intangible item, I wondered briefly if he was playing Made You Look. Turns out he wasn't. In case you were wondering why you haven't heard of this, it might be because, of the thousands of items on the World Intangibles list, not one comes from the United States or Canada, at least that I could see.
Back to reading.
Proof of the existence of God: The number of teenagers that make it to adulthood.
Proof that God has a wicked sense of humor: Teenagers.
Inspired in part by the example of our Predecessor-President-in-Chief, fixing things by filing a lawsuit is hugely popular, to the point where in some jurisdictions' cases may not be heard for upwards of two years. Even when events render a suit moot (a word of the week in June 2018), as in the recent case regarding the departed Prez no longer being on Twitter so therefore say good-bye to suits about his blocking followers (who were probably all nasty), there are still thousands of cases brought every day, I'm betting at least one for every lawyer ad on TV.
It turns out the American system of jurisprudence is getting international help in being buried in lawsuits. Epic Games has been filing suits against Apple Inc. all across the globe because apparently Apple is keeping Epic from making hugely obscene amounts of money. In the case brought in Australia, the judge turned the case over to the American court hearing the case, and the American court will decide the case according to American law, and the decide by Australian law.
Maybe all the cases should be grouped into one, the same way they group class action suits. I'd suggest it, but it probably makes to much sense.
April 11 is in the sign of Aries. In history on this day, the Lama Deshin Shekpa visited the Ming Dynasty capital at Nanjing and was awarded the title of 'Great Treasure Prince of Dharma.' It's no big deal in the historical context, but 'Great Treasure Prince of Dharma' is a totally awesome title that I would accept any day. I wonder what the responsibilities are.
More prosaically, The Great Gatsby was published in 1925.
Maybe something notable will happen today. Maybe I'll assume the currently unoccupied position of Great Treasure Prince of Dharma. I'll grow into it.
From The Guardian:
Sharon Stone: cosmetic surgeon enlarged my breasts without consent.
My questions: How? Why?
For Christmas, my sister gave me a gift certificate to Goldbelly, which delivers foods from local restaurants by mail. We haven't pulled the trigger yet.
In the meanwhile, Goldbelly sends us regular newsletters touting different restaurants in their family. And they are not averse to touting certain foods associated with soon-approaching holidays. And there have been a bunch. Christmas. New Year's. Award shows. Super Bowl. Valentine's Day. Mardi Gras. March Madness. St. Patrick's Day. Easter. We've gotten e-mails for all of 'em.
But there are other events and newsmakers that provide inspiration. Take, for example, the recent spate of unprovoked attacks against Asian-Americans, heavily reported in the press. Abhorrent, despicable, cowardly.
Today's newsletter featured offerings from restaurants featuring various cuisines from Asia.
Now, for all I know, Goldbelly could have a schedule for newsletters that runs through the Second Coming, or at least the end of the year. So coincidence? Probably. But you still gotta wonder.
We have had to expand our news coverage to include other planets. It's just the kind of people we are. Smart. Charming. News You Need to Know. Cutting Edge, at least when the edge has dulled just the tiniest little bit.
Two items piqued our interest:
Odd rock found on Mars surface. It looks like this:
My first thought was it looked like some kid's abandoned Play-Doh. My second thought was it was left behind after some film crew wrapped a cheesy 50s style Martian science fiction film. Either way, it'd be quite the conversation starter on a coffee table.
Mars Helicopter preparing for first flight. This one I find a little perplexing. It was my general understanding that aircraft are held aloft by displacing air, or using loft generated by different air temperatures or air speeding up over curved surfaces to stay up. No matter the exact description, the operative word is air, of which, I have been led to believe, Mars has none. Maybe it's actually an anti-gravity device, which would be really cool. Whatever technology it uses to stays up, I hope it takes a selfie with the Mars rock, or even better, photobombs the Mars rock at a family gathering, like a wedding.
When George Carlin first broke into prominence, I can't say I was a fan. This is surprising, as George was a fan of playing with words, much as I am. I thought Al Sleet, his best known character, was weak at best, much like Johnny Carson's Art Fern. Too much mugging, and I wasn't quite sure where the social satire was. But then, I started to come around, probably under the influence of sketches like Stuff, Football and Baseball, and Euphemisms.
I don't know if George ever did anything with
stand, but I'm not going to look, because I'm having too much fun with it. If I am channeling George or somebody else, apologies. They probably did it better, anyway.
Certain elements of English prove problematic for non-native speakers. The way we show tenses, or that we have tenses at all. The order of adjectives. Plurals. Homonyms. Prepositions. Firm rules and soft rules. I before E, and actually most spelling. In general, show how undisciplined and unruly the language can be, especially when spoken in outlying areas of the Empire, like Australia and the United States.
Take, for example the word stand, which means
to support oneself on the feet in an erect position.<./q> Unless, of curse (yes, I know, a typo, but it seems appropriate, so I'm going to let it go), one refers to
an easel or device designed to support a book or other object, not to be confused with a newsstand or hot dog stand, or when used in the legal sense that someone has
a position in a legal case or court, or when attached to committee and it means permanent. Unless it is a large rock in a circle in England or Ireland.
Stand gets really interesting when it comes in contact with prepositions, as in standup, stand-in, standout, standby, standoff, stand about or stand-down.
No wonder English (or maybe Chinese) is the hardest language to learn. And yet, we somehow manage to juggle all of this in our heads, mostly. Which, considering all the day to day simple things we can't juggle, is a marvel.
For some reason, I was drawn to an article about the one song Kelly Clarkson wouldn't cover. I say for some reason, because I'm not a fan. Don't dislike, but I'm not rushing out to buy her latest, either.
Anyway, the song she won't cover is
Despacito. Somehow, that song slipped through the cracks–I must not have been paying enough attention to Latin club music in the summer of 2017, which is too bad because it's a great summer song–infectious, even. It will probably achieve earworm status sometime in the near future.
So off I go to iTunes to give it a listen for my allotted 90 seconds. As it plays, I notice there's a Mandarin version, which is interesting, but the real action is in ringtones, which features marimba, salsa, trap, guitar, violin, and a cover by Alvin and the Chipmunks. One really fun thing is that some of the ringtones start with Opening, the default ringtone on the iPhone. I love that sort of building creatively on things, with a little bit of humor.
If I bought ringtones, one of those would be on the list.
Except for Alvin. Like everything Chipmunk, that's a one-time listen.
prompted by the cartoon 1 and Done.
What would the world look like if, instead of Taco Tuesday, we had Taco Thursday?
And then, what if every day became a specific food day? Manicotti Monday. Taco Tuesday, Waffle Wednesday. Tortellini Thursday. And then I got to Friday, and realized the Catholic Church had beaten all of us to the concept with Fish Friday.
I will admit the current list is a little heavy on the carbs, but hey! You only live once, and I hear this may be it.
When I was growing up, it was buttered toast. If bread was cooked, it had butter on it. Sick? Buttered toast. Sunday brunch? Buttered toast alongside the scrambled eggs. The only exceptions were chipped beef on toast (if you were in the military, it was known there as
sh*t on a shingle, and frankly, it doesn't taste any better in its civilian incarnation) and french toast, which is a different food group altogether.
The other exception was toast covered in cream cheese and jam. Even though we would have jam on plain ol' buttered toast, there was something exotic about the cream cheese version. Maybe it was the rarity–Mom didn't give it to us very often. Or just the fact that it wasn't butter, or we were having it for lunch, sometimes as a sandwich. When you're eight, your definition of exotic is very different.
Well, now it's mumble-something years later, and toast with cream cheese (and sometimes a bit of jam) has become a regular on the breakfast menu. I think it's because cream cheese has less of something, like fat or carbs, than butter.
Doesn't matter. It's just not the same. Familiarity? I have to make it for myself? It's nourishment? Not sure, but I'll bet it has something to do with it not being Manicotti Monday.
Which, I know, makes no sense, but then, what does around here?
Today is Easter, the most solemn celebration of the year. The feast, and the events leading up to it, are the ultimate contradiction of human existence–life coming out of death. Something out of nothing.
But it happens all the time. Cycle of the seasons. All the imagery of birth, rebirth, and growth from all sorts of cultural and religious systems have gathered around the Easter season. Dyed eggs and chicks, easter bunnies, flowers, especially daffodils, tulips, lilies, hydrangeas–bulbs, further emphasizing the cyclical and regenerative nature of retreat and growth.
Spring and Easter are times of abundance. If you've lived with a maple tree in the yard, you know how many of those spinner seeds a mature tree can produce. With the warming air, it's a good time to be alive.
today's word: is actually a phrase. sylvan glen. I'm supposed to work this into my everyday conversation. I'm not seeing it, unless I plan on hanging around with poets today. Or maybe arborists. Or guys named Glen. Or Sylvan. In short, I'm going to spend the day alone, muttering
sylvan glen to myself.
Rockin' Around the Christmas Tree in the original Brenda Lee version. No, I don't know why. It's what's there. Have pity.
Whenever I think of commercial Christmas music, I think of
Have Yourself a Merry Little Christmas, the world's most ironic song, possibly the world's most ironic anything.
today's longitude and latitude: holding steady at 36° 51' 2" N / 76° 17' 9" W.
today in things natural: sunrise, 6:44; sunset 7:28; predicted high: 69°. That's all local. Your mileage may vary.
today in nasal passages: we are under a high alert for tree pollen, so continued blocked.
today in shaggy dog jokes: It's the last day of school for Miss Smith's 3rd grade class before Easter, and so she asks,
what do we celebrate on Easter? Hands shoot up all over the room. She calls on one little boy, who says
Easter is the day that we carve pumpkins and go trick or treating.
No, Billy, she says.
That's Halloween/q> She calls on Mary, who says, That's Christmas, Mike, Miss Smith says. By now, all the hands have gone down but Susie's, her star pupil. Miss Smith says,
Easter is the day we have a parade, eat hot dogs, and watch fireworks.
I'm sorry, Mary, but that's the Fourth of July. Hands start dropping. Miss Smith calls on Mike.
On Easter, we decorate a tree in the living room, and Santa comes down the chimney to leave presents for us.
yes, Susie? and Susie replies,
Easter is the day when Jesus rises out of His tomb. Miss Smith thinks
Finally! and is about to congratulate her but then Susie adds,
and if He sees His shadow, we'll have six more weeks of winter.
I saw this picture in yesterday's New York Times, and just had to share:
Those are quite the heels on them thar' ballet slippers. Mus' make it tough to do your peer o'ettes and grand jets (grand jeh tay), which the honchos at the Atlanta Ballet tells us is
a big jump from one foot to the other in which the working leg is brushed into the air and appears to have been thrown in them. Wonder if it's harder to do than yore bareback riding and calf throwing.
At the grocery store, people are still very good about wearing masks. I think it'd be nice if that became part of normal.
But otherwise, things are returning to what used to be considered normal. In spite of Dr. Fauci and the CDC continuing to hector people about masks and distancing, people are ignoring recommendations and the chidings, now that we're making progress on vaccinating people. Local news shows spend much less time on daily updates of new cases and new deaths related to the coronavirus. Now it's the number of vaccinations, delivered with the same and vigor as displayed during the later stages of a Jerry Lewis telethon (note to self: update reference). All we're missing is the thermometer. The CDC and Dr. F. are now left to approve what the American people have already decided for themselves is the right and safe thing to do. It's safe to travel. It's safe to gather. Kids in school don't have to maintain the same social distancing as adults. You don't have to scrub fruits and vegetables after you buy them.I mentioned last week that Tony the Traffic Dude has backups and accidents to report. Airlines are allowing passengers in the middle seats, and charging again for rebooking a flight. This past couple of weeks, there were three mass shootings, and almost a fourth in Virginia Beach. Fans are in the seats for sporting events. Kids are back in school. There have been far fewer Karen sightings.
There are probably a lot of reasons why this happened this way. It could be the legendary American antipathy to being told what to do. How many people do (dangerous) things just because someone told them not to? Or maybe there's some sort of signal that got sent, the same signal that bears get that tells them it's time to stop hibernating (we interrupt this charming narrative for a useless factoid: polar bears do not hibernate like black or grizzly bears). Maybe it was just the visuals. After a year of nobody wearing masks in ads, TV shows or movies, you sort of get the idea you don't have to, either.
Personally, I think it's because the CDC never got its act together, gained control of the narrative, or communicated effectively. Instructions were all over the map. I saw social distancing instructions ranging from three feet to twenty-four feet; how much to wash your hands, cell phones, and car door handles; and how many masks to wear. Too many experts were spouting nonsense, or contradicting each other. Graphics were infrequent, hard to find, or useless. Bar charts showing trends were popular for a while, but then disappeared. I think I saw one graphic showing the trajectory of a coronavirus from the mouth of an infected person when they're breathing normally, coughing, or sneezing. Do you know how long coronavirus lives outside of the human body? Neither do I.
If a marketing team for a consumer products company put out this quality of work as a presentation to investors, the company would be looking for anew marketing team. And investors.
Fauci and the CDC claimed to be
all about the science, but they lied. They were anything but. Instead of treating us as intelligent people capable of making intelligent decisions based on the science, and making information easily accessible, they treated us as children, demanding that we behave and do as they say. In rhetoric, it's called an ethical appeal, or an appeal the the known good character of the speaker. Logical appeals (appeals to the head) were few and far between.
No science, fragmentary proofs, contradictions. At the same time in the past few weeks as the CDC was waving it hands in the air lamenting that travel and spring break and opening up in Florida and Texas was causing an increase in cases, news broadcasts showed maps of the growth of COVID–in Maine and North Dakota. Almost all state increases were above the Mason-Dixon line, in states that weren't opening up, or hosting spring break, or doing all the things that were making the CDC-ites so crazy.
And that's when they lost us. Or at least me, a nice guy who was waiting to be convinced by the science.
That was the plan along, to keep everyone in a state of confusion.
Why, it seems like just yesterday that I was prattling on about St. Patrick's Day and Pi Day and suddenly it's the end of the month. It probably helps that the days are longer, generally warmer, and I can nap in a chair in the back yard. The importance of good napping, especially in the sunlight, is something that I cannot overstress. In fact, I should probably be doing it now, except of course I have to write this introductory piece. If a tone of resentment creeps in, or some typos, well, I have an editor to fire.
I'll probably find him in my chair in the backyard.
When I was a kid, we were enmeshed in rules and had lots of opportunities to be sinners and/or criminals. Growing up Catholic, sinning, even if just venial sins (although we didn't call it that, we had already been set up for severity of crimes–misdemeanors and felonies) was much worse than criminal activity. First, there were so many things that were put in the sin bucket, including not folding your hands correctly on the desk in school (hands should be folded, with right thumb over left and the wrist crease resting exactly on the edge of the desk, a position that should be assumed whenever hands were not being raised to ask/answer a question, wrapped around a pencil or crayon, or folded in prayer, a prime example of what we later referred to as sister-says theology), through real sins like eating meat on Friday, breaking one of the Ten Commandments, and on through a nearly infinite list of things that were sins or could lead to sin (guilt by association), whether by omission or commission.
Some of our more spirited discussions in religion class revolved around martyrdom or sin, especially after we had reached the age of reason, or reasoning. We were able to tell as early as fifth grade the students who were destined to be lawyers. I remember one discussion concerning stealing. We wondered if stealing was really a sin if you stole bread and other food for a poor family if they were starving and had no food and you had no money (the greater good argument). I think the store owner got involved somehow. We also wondered how much money a person would have to steal to move the crime from a venial to a mortal sin. I think we arrived at $75 (in 1961 dollars) as the tipping point.
This line of thinking is still alive, as seen in this March 19th headline from USA Today:
Do Catholics need to abstain from meat on Fridays in Lent when it's a feast day? (March Madness: it's not just for basketball anymore.)
Now stealing is both a crime and a sin, as are a lot of things. If you listened to our parents (and the nuns), anything that was sinful was also illegal, although if you missed Mass on Sunday you only got called into the principal's office, not slapped in handcuffs. Guess which was worse.
But we were surprised on a regular basis, like when we found out that smoking marijuana was not a sin. It was a crime, and you'd have to be pretty stupid to smoke grass, but being stupid is neither a sin nor a crime. Neither was smoking cigarettes a crime or sin (Dad smoked two packs a day, so good thing for him), but taking one from the pack your grandfather left on the coffee table was (at least it was a small venial sin, as a cigarette cost about 2/3 of a cent), and probably disobedience, as the folks probably said at some point not to do it.
So why was sinning worse than criminal activity? That's easy. You can break the law, but you have to be caught and tried. Jail is immediate, but you get out sometime. The odds are in your favor, especially if you have a good lawyer. If you sin, God knows, and God doesn't forget (unless you repent of your sins and go to confession, at which point the sin disappears behind a heavenly cloud [or somewhere]). And punishment, although delayed, lasts forever. Much like the times you were called into the principal's office.
I guess the moral of the story is, although we think of kid stuff is frivolous, it's very important when you're a kid. Also you remember it forever. Maybe that's the eternal punishment–we just thought it was fire.
Lots of non-Catholics wonder what goes on in confession (now reconciliation). Frank O'Connor lifts the curtain on the practice (sort of$#41; in his short story
First Confession. It provides a lift to any day no matter your belief system.
According to The Information, Apple is trying to cut back on leaks of details of future products. How does it know this? It said on Wednesday that it obtained an internal document from Apple which outlined changes being made to its factory security guidelines for every manufacturing partner.
Once again, Elon Musk has done the impossible, The Independent discovered. Elon Musk has proof aliens don’t exist.
I bet the aliens told him to say that.
I've been working my way through the Tao Te Ching, a classic of classic Eastern philosophy. The passages are short, so I read one a day as a sort of springboard to meditation, thinking deep thoughts, or just letting the mists of pseudo-thought flow over me (aside: today is National Bad Fingers Day [not to be confused with National Mush-Fingers Day, which happens on Thursdays], during which my fingers forget everything I ever knew about using a keyboard, and by extension, standard spelling in English. I mention all this because in the non-parenthetical part of this sentence, I originally typed mints of time, not mists. That would be O.K. if they are those little chocolate-covered mints, but not pleasant if they're those round pinwheel mints. Now back to our original train of thought.).
The Tao offers a guide for contented living and achieving wisdom, and the way to get there is through self-effacement. But every now and again, Lao-Tsu throws a spanner in the works, as the Brits like to say, with thoughts like this:
When one recognizes the presence of Tao he understands where to stop. A strange thought, at least for Western ears, as the whole focus or point in our way of living seems to be to keep pushing. No stopping. No where to stop or when to stop. Something to think about, thus bringing us back to the beginning.
And for those of you who are reading this week's post right from the beginning, and are fearing for my immortal Catholic soul by reading heathenish texts, the general approach (self-effacement, self-abnegation) is very similar to that found in The Imitation of Christ, by Thomas à Kempis, beloved by my dear sainted mother, so I'm good, in both senses of the word.
Yes, I've said it before, thinking is a behavior I try to discourage, and I lead by example as best I can, but there is one exception. I am generally lousy at multitasking (spoiler alert: everybody is. Those who claim otherwise are a) fooling themselves and b&41; doing many things badly at the same time) but I have always been good in one area: thinking deep thoughts while staring out of a window. (I have recently, as my more advanced years sprint past me [no creeping up here!] developed a talent for walking and farting, but that's a different story). I can hear naysayers saying,
nay, that's called daydreaming, not multitasking, but I'll have you know I don't need any steenkin' weendow to daydream. I don't even need day!
Proof? I was just schlumped here (someplace between sitting up and lying down, a position enforced by the cat) and noticed that the oak tree across the street has swelling buds, the stage before the tree leafs out and drops enough pollen to coat a container ship a half-inch deep, a sign that spring is upon us. At the same time, I can see three other trees with branches still bare, a reminder that winter is still with us, reinforced by the two women who walked by bundled up against cold but stopped to look at the daffodils in the front yard. In deep-thought state, I reflected on the endless cycle of the seasons. I was also was reminded of the oak tree across the street that was cut down a couple of years ago, a reflection on the cycle of life being interrupted, a junction of the linear (birth to death) and the circular (cycle of the season). Not only profound, but geometric.
See? That's not daydreaming, that's multitasking. Daydreaming is an aimless drift, most often into future, alternate universes, rearranging this world, or no place. Multitasking, at least the way I practice it, is about recollection. There's a difference. Lot of recollection going on here.
This morning, Tony the Traffic Dude reported a back-up at the Hampton Roads Bridge Tunnel, as well as three accidents causing difficulties. This is high on my list of ways you know the world is getting closer to what we used to think was normal.
Somehow, when I was a technical writer for a civil-engineering construction company, I ended up on a newsletter mailing list from a company that sells sheet piles (if you don't know already, you don't need to know). Why it's coming to my home email address and why I haven't gotten off the list are two questions that I can't answer.
Anyway, this month's featured article is
Frequently Asked Questions on Driving Vinyl Sheet Piles. Apparently that is a thing, one that I'm having trouble wrapping my head around. I never thought I would see that combination of words in that order.
If you were wondering, there are four questions that are frequently asked, none worth repeating here.
MacRumors reports that Apple is preparing to launch a new iPad mini with a larger screen, supposedly about 8". There are people who do not think bigger is better, so why?
You miss the target audience, and at some point it stops being mini. Does it then become
the tablet formerly known as mini?
This is a very slow week. The weather has been seasonal, except for a wind storm that came through at night and caused no damage, my wife has settled into school and I have settled into my old, pre-pandemic routine which is actually my pandemic routine, except for for my wife taking up the dining room for her classroom. The entry of spring passed unremarked, as did St. Patrick's Day, which had mostly become an external holiday (i.e., watched it on TV, and we didn't even have that this year.). Ditto for the one-year anniversary of the COVID-19 disruption. Anyway, slim pickings, not to be confused with Slim Pickens, a great character actor best remembered for riding the bomb down in Dr. Strangelove.
Inc. magazine proclaims:
You're Having Conversations All Wrong, Harvard Research Shows. Here's How to Do It Right.
I'm an introvert. If I'm having conversations, it's wrong.
What to do if you're worried about drinking too much alcohol.
Have you considered stopping? Or select another beverage.
Walmart is hiring a favorite designer of Lady Gaga to boost its fashion cred.
Walmart has fashion cred? And the guy that designed the meat dress is going to improve it.
Asian woman, 75, beats back man who punched her in San Francisco: ‘I am amazed by her bravery’
I thought that was sorta the main point in The Joy Luck Club: don't tick off a Chinese granny.
CNN tells us:
Mexican dust found in Colorado blizzard.
It's all because of Biden's lax security on the southern border.
New York Times Cooking has released its first cookbook, something called No-Recipe Recipes.
I cook, and I have a lot of cookbooks and recipes, ranging from a reproduction of a colonial cookbook (measurements include
knobs), my Mom's primary cookbook (sort of the definition of home cooking for me. Hint: if you use modern recipes and want that taste, replace butter with shortening), and modern compendiums of world cooking (world cooking=contains ingredients that I can neither pronounce, nor that I have in my pantry).
My first thought was
Who is going to buy that? After all, don't we buy cookbooks to have new things to cook? And to find out combinations of ingredients?
But then, I realized that there are three, maybe four kinds of cooks. I'm making up the names.
crust rulersto make sure crust are the desired thickness and evenness. They have instant read thermometers. In short, they avail themselves of the mantle of engineers, using all the tools that engineers can design for them.
So who are the cooks who will potentially buy this book. If anyone, I think they will be coming from group two. Other than that, I can't say. Probably not three, as they have to be thoroughly familiar with ingredients and proportions before venturing out without a recipe.
Where do I fit into all this? I like to have the comfort of a recipe, but I will deviate from it if I need to make an ingredient substitution or have so something that I think will go nicely into the dish. So I guess I'm a little bit of 1 and 2, but mostly 3, without all the precision.
I wrote a poem about cooking that sort of fits. It's over on the right.
So it's PI Day. The only thing I like about
no e Pi Day, is that it is never accurate– mathematicians keep adding numbers to the end. For people who pride themselves (without justification) on their accuracy and precision, this must be breaking them up.
It breaks me up, too, but in a different way.
In the Roman Catholic tradition, there are things called octaves–eight days when a major holiday is celebrated. The most notable are Christmas and Easter. I think we should declare an octave for St. Patrick's Day, too. I'm starting today, and carrying through to next Sunday. You are welcome to follow along.
Beethoven's 5th Symphony.
Honest. The local classical music station was playing it the other day. I guess it stuck.
Great music does.
One of my wife's Facebook friends rick-rolled her, but the destination song was MacArthur Park.
You were warned.
Amazon's publishing houses refuse to sell e-books to public libraries.
Some representative of Amanda Gorman (or her publisher) is demanding that the translators (into Catalan and Dutch) of her inaugural poem be young, black activist women.
I notice we aren't putting the same constraints on readers or, more particularly, buyers.
Last week, I may have suggested I would present a piece this week on pandemic theater.
Well, I either lied or was just too darn ambitious. P.T. is going to have to get put in the future delivery category. In the meanwhile, please accept this small token as a promissory note of sorts.
I used to talk about cooking and share recipes on this website. Alas, the page went away, but I still like to cook and bake. While cruising through one of my cookbooks, I bumped into this recipe. I'm guessing it's along the lines of Mock Apple Pie. I had a eeeww! moment, but it's basically a spiced custard pie. Enjoy.
>>Piecrust (top and bottom)
>>2 tablespoons all-purpose flour, plus more for surface
>>2 tablespoons unsalted butter
>>1/2 cup light-brown sugar
>>1/2 teaspoon ground cinnamon
>>1/2 teaspoon ground ginger
>>1/6 teaspoon freshly grated nutmeg (hint: don't make yourself crazy. This used to be called a pinch. Yes, it's going to vary in size depending upon who's doing the pinching. Learn to live with imprecision.)
>>1/4 teaspoon salt
>>2 tablespoons apple cider vinegar
>>1 cup plus 1 teaspoon water, divided
>>3 large eggs, divided
>>1 tablespoon turbinado sugar or sanding sugar
Step 1: Roll out 1 disk of dough into a 12-inch round on a lightly floured surface. Fit into a 9-inch pie plate, and trim edge of dough to rim. Roll out remaining disk of dough to a 12-inch round. Transfer to a parchment-lined baking sheet, and refrigerate, along with dough in pie plate, until firm, about 1 hour.
Step 2: Preheat oven to 350°F. Melt butter in a bowl set over a saucepan of simmering water; remove from heat. Whisk in brown sugar, flour, spices, salt, vinegar, and 1 cup water. Lightly beat 2 eggs, and whisk into mixture. Return bowl to pan of simmering water, and cook, stirring often, until mixture is thick enough to coat the back of a spoon, 10 to 12 minutes. Remove from heat, and let cool to room temperature, about 20 minutes, stirring occasionally.
Step 3: Pour filling into crust, and place top crust over filling. Trim excess, leaving a 1/2-inch overhang. Fold under bottom crust. Press to seal, and crimp as desired. Beat remaining egg with remaining teaspoon water; brush top of pie with egg wash, and sprinkle with turbinado sugar. Use a sharp knife to slash 6 vents radiating out from center of pie. Bake pie until golden and surface has puffed, about 45 minutes. Let cool on a wire rack 45 minutes. Serve slightly warm with ice cream.
Do not be misled by demented mathematicians claiming that this is
Pi Day. Well. it is 3.14, the starting three numbers of the measurement of the circumference of a circle to its diameter, but it is not Pie Day, or January 23, when we celebrate all crusts filled with tasty things.
As a suitable compromise, I will accept having this bogus
Pi Day serve as a reminder to eat pie, especially if you missed January 23. It's never too late! Welcome back!
...is that, once you put two or more together, they require so much more baggage to be clearly understood. Things like context. Voice. Tone. Point of view. The speaker. Mood. Body language. Preceding or following language. Without a full exploration and knowledge of all these things, we can't determine what the speaker really meant.
It gets worse when words are captured and pinned to a page like an unfortunate butterfly (I can hear you saying,
Where did that come from? or
Poor butterfly). And when the capturing is done by journalists, it just gets worse, because the only contextualizing words they are allowed to use are
(s)he said. Humor, wit, irony, stupidity, pandering, introspection are all cast aside like last season's trendy bluejeans under the bootjacked heel of a particularly dull-witted, unimaginative representative of the fifth estate.
Take, for example, the following statement:
Where questions of self-sacrifice are concerned, men are infinitely beyond [women]. This is a
cue the outrage kind of statement. I can hear the moral righteousness gaining a full head of steam, loud enough to drown out the chirping of birds outside my window reveling in the first truly pleasant day we've experienced this year. Sexist claptrap, foisted upon us by a male-dominated society. How could someone propagate a distorted world view such as this in the 21st Century?
Well, would it help to know:
The play? The Importance of Being Earnest, by Oscar Wilde.
So–take one line of a satirical, intentionally light comedy out of context. Add
she said. Wonder why people think you're pushing fake news, even though Gwendolen
And a related question. What happens if you attribute the words to Oscar Wilde instead of to his character? Is this an accurate representation of his beliefs?
Ah, words. A wonderful thing.
Oh what a tangled web we weave/When first we practice to deceive, as Walter Scott says. It might be even worse when we try to tell it straight. Or maybe we should cite the character in Marmion who said it. See how complicated it gets?
And yes, that was Walter Scott, not Shakespeare.
...but as someone who cares. If you don't have children, grandchildren or great-grandchildren under the age of four or so, you probably don't know that something called cocomelonhas replaced Barney the purple dinosaur and Baby Shark in the hearts, ears and every brain molecule of the toddlerareti. And of every adult who comes within ten feet of the toddler and a streaming device.
It's not a terminal disease, but I expect that, like Barney, it will decrease the I.Q. of any infected adult by fifteen points, brain cells that will not be regained until after the child's adolescence, at which time you don't care anymore.
Timing is everything, it seems. One year ago, the local school district was planning an ordered retreat, when the governor threw a hand grenade into the middle of everything and turned it into a rout. Teachers were allowed back into the school for one hour to pick up class materials and any electronics they'd need at home for remote learning. The same thing happened at the beginning of this year.
Well, the school year is finally starting, for in-person learning. This week, my wife finally made it into her second school, which in some ways is more organized. The principal gave her a
back to school pack (which has been sitting around since the beginning of the year) which included masks, wipes, gloves, and a lovely book on distance learning.
I'm sure there's some very useful information in it.
My daily horoscopeon Friday noted that
Mixing work with pleasure is not always successful. Alas, Gov. Cuomo is a Sagittarius, not a Libra, but that seems to be generally applicable across signs. Would that he had heeded it.
Well, the good news is it didn't rain. The bad news is it's cold. Plus, all the problems are low level nonsense, like gnats flying around your head on a warm sunny day. Not enough to need action, just annoying. This is an interesting mix, but what you should be seeing is an in-depth expose of the whole COVID-19 mess on its first anniversary. Except I couldn't pull together the graphics in time. Also I had had trouble finding the statistics to make the charts. Expect that next week.
Consider yourself warned.
One of the local weatherpeople, who is apparently unclear on the concept, announced that next Sunday,
we will have an hour more daylight than on Saturday.
I despair for America.
Sometimes in comedy shows, writers display a character's fussy, obsessive-compulsive desire for order by having them wear specific underwear or pajamas on a particular day of the week. They never explain how they navigate laundry day, when Tuesday is in the wash and it's Tuesday. The O/C can't have an extra pair of Tuesdays because then there would be uneven wear, and they can't have that, can they?
Anyway, I've slowly become like that, except with coffee mugs and shoes. No, I'm not obsessing, and I'm not becoming like my parents (my parents never had any compulsive habits like that, and besides, I'm getting into the land where great-grandparents live, so allow me my little
whimsies). Besides, I only have six mugs and six pairs of shoes. If I was going to obsess properly, I'd need one more of each.
Let's do shoes first. If you count slippers, I have seven pairs of footwear, but they don't count, as they aren't shoes, and I can't wear them outside, not that I'm going outside much anymore, what with COVID-19 and that whole great-grandfather thing going on, and even though I don't go outside doesn't mean I might not want to go outside, and I want to be ready just in case I do. It's the same reason I carry my wallet and keys all the time, even though I really only need them once, maybe twice a week. Plus, that way I know where they are. They get lost so quickly if they aren't in the same place. When I wore glasses, I always put them on the nightstand, even if I had to walk through a few rooms to put them there. This is not obsessive/compulsive behavior. Have you ever tried to find your glasses when you're not wearing your glasses?
I don't have assigned days– I just try to make sure each pair gets worn once a week. But that means I have to wear one pair of shoes twice, and besides, sometimes (sometimes=almost every week) I lose track of the shoes I've worn already.
Mugs are a slightly different matter. I have coffee each morning, and there is an assigned order to the mugs.p
I am a professional. Do not try this at home.My boss Laura gave this to me when I started my first nonacademic job.
sayings by Mark Twainmug. Mark Twain is my favorite author, and it has a wide bottom, which makes it less prone to tipping over. A fine mug
'i' before 'e' except fora list of words where 'e' precedes 'i', concluding with
weird. It's not that I forget who gave it to me, I didn't go to the party because I was sick, and the gift card got detached by the time the mug made it home.
That leaves Saturday bereft of mug. I had a Saturday mug once, a lovely Alamo mug that we bought at the Alamo gift shop on our second trip to San Antonio. I really liked the thumb rest on the top of the handle. Alas, it got chipped in cleaning, and has been repurposed to hold brushes and watercolor pencils. Important brushes and pencils, but still not seen once a week.
So I can hear you saying,
John, surely you must have other mugs you can use for Saturdays! Get a grip! It's only a mug! First, let me thank you for your heartfelt concern for my mug gap. Yes, there are other mugs (for example, a second Cafe du Monde mug), but there is always something not-quite-right about them. There are of course the physical flaws (too small, small bases, difficult to hold, just plug-ugly), but the main flaw is there are no memories attached to them, or worse, ambivalent memories (the MacTemps mug from when I transitioning from Act 2 to Act 3 of my life). I'll use them, but it's under duress.
In the meanwhile, the search continues of the perfect Saturday mug, hampered by the fact that I'm not going anywhere where I can find a mug to which I can attach memories.
From Fox News:
Man asks woman to refund the cost of food, drinks after relationship goes nowhere.
Let's see, that was two Happy Meals and one all-you-can-eat buffet at Pancake Paradise.
The Conspiracy Theorist is understandably suspicious of the recent announcements by Dr. Seuss Enterprises regarding the suspension of publication of six of Dr. Seuss' books. The only one the C.T. is familiar with is And to Think that I Saw It on Mulberry Street, and then only by title. Supposedly, this suspension of publication is due to racist images in the book. Cue the usual outrage.
Here's what the Conspiracy Theorist believes. Dr. Seuss Enterprises noticed that sales of Dr. Suess books were slumping, particularly those six titles in particular. They noticed that a public school district had said those six books included racist images and were suspending use. Dr. Seuss enterprises announces cessation of publication of the six books (which the C.T. believes were going to get delisted anyway (delisting is a technical term that means
we aren't going to print this book anymore, usually is due to poor sales). Someone at DSE had a bright idea, and announced the six books were being suspended due to
content problems. Cue the outrage, cue the discussions, cue the sales and renewed interest.
Mark Twain knew that better than anybody.
Why Nigeria is a global leader in Bitcoin trade.
The prince and the former oil minister have such good deals. Tough to say no.
For the most part, I do the initial draft of blog postings on an ipad. Sometimes I use a bluetooth keyboard, but that's unwieldy when the cat is in my lap, which is pretty much all the time in the morning (lap=anything between my sternum and knees). So I hold the ipad and tap on a piece of glass. I use a text editor, which lets me type text without worryong about fancy and a cluttered screen. It's the type of program favored by programmers, bloggers and price conscious writers.
There are tradeoffs, of course. There are features I like. You can choose a font and size of type. It works with cloud storage. It has left and right navigation buttons. It accesses the spell check, and has a word count.
However. Blog postings are in a format called html, which uses special
tags to provide
punctuation and formatting. To put in those quotation marks above, I typed <p>punctuation</p>, which is fine on a regular keyboard, but to get to the greater and less than signs on the ipad, I have to dig down through three layers of keyboards to insert them. I use them a lot, for example to show italics, bold, quotation marks, and start and stop paragraphs. It's getting annoying. Also, the program can't open .html files. There are workarounds, but .html files are text files. You would think a sophisticated program like this would be able to handle this kind of thing.
So I decided to to try another cheap (free) program. All the keys I need are on the first keyboard, and it can open .html type files, but there's no spell check, I can't adjust font size. Bummer.
In short everything I like about program a is not available in program b.
Like I always say, life's a beach. Well, not always. But enough.
Now that the impeachment is over, Super Bowl is done, the weather is sort of normal, and COVID-19 is receding, at least enough to let schools reopen, the little stories and headlines I enjoy so much can come out from behind the pieces of furniture and the nooks and crannies where they've been hiding.
greige: for those of you who speak Pantone, it's 16-1109 TCX Greige. For HEX speakers, #978979. For those of you who speak visual, it looks like this:
Put greige at the top of your
need to know list, as it is the hot interior design color right now. It's so new and fresh that my spell check flags it. Plus, it's just a fun word to say, and lends itself to fun games like Substitution:
The Color Greige,
The Bridge over the River Greige,
For Whom the Greige Tolls,
Greige Eggs and Ham,
Catcher in the Greige,
Star Wars: The Phantom Greige.
Also, it also breaks the i before e rule, which is cool. Also a little weird.
Reuters tells us
Second time lucky? Stonehenge first erected in Wales, archaeologists say.
Apparently the people who constructed Stonehenge moved (at least some of) the stones from a site in Wales known as Waun Maun to the Salisbury Plain.
This will just raise up (pun intended) the whole
how did they do that? discussion again. Me, I'm going with
Merlin did it.
I read the article. What I found interesting is that the descendants of the Welsh uprooters also later removed a timber circle they had constructed near Stonehenge, with archeologists unsure where they went with all those giant timbers. The Welsh who built and then moved the Pressli stones also disappeared. Very curious and also worth a followup.
I'm supposed to say something vaguely amusing here. I asked the Conspiracy Theorist for help. He suggested that the Welsh circle was foreclosed upon. The builders were evicted, and since the bank couldn't find a buyer at that spot, moved the whole thing to a more central location where it became the center of a new religious/entertainment complex, like the Ark Encounter.
So where did these mysterious builders go? My guess is their astro-nomical/logical calculations showed them the end times were near, so they went to a mountaintop in Oregon to wait.
It all makes perfect sense.
Headline in Yahoo:
How to Wear Your Ankle Boots This Spring: A Visual Guide.
Sorry. In lieu of pictures, we will be providing all-text directions.
a) on your feet.
b) soles/heels on the bottom.
c) toes go in first.
IHOP cancels National Pancake Day. I thought that required at least a presidential executive order.
I was filling out a survey for Fast Company magazine when I came upon a unique question:
What is your current gender? I've never been asked that before. They had male, female, transgender, prefer not to say. I'm sorry they didn't have categories like between genders, not sure, or formerly. Some of those might be more accurate.
And really, does it matter what gender I am when reading your magazine? The rag might be better informed if it asked if I was an angry white male, perpetual progressive, timid back of the theater sitter, addicted to cat videos, a propeller-head with a tangential touch on reality, or currently painting the kitchen greige.
The Guardian tells us:
'Unique' petrified tree up to 20m years old found intact in Lesbos.
That's a whole lotta rings to count.
A while back, my wife gave me a comfy fleece pullover. I've worn it enough that it's time for a washing. So I checked the tag in the bottom hem. It's in French and some Far Eastern language. I had better luck with the tag in the collar. It's in English, but looking glass English–I'm going to need a mirror to read it.
Have you ever noticed that almost all of the drug stores designed as drug stores have their entryways on the corner of the building? Some even have aisles aligned on the diagonal. Not settling to the mind when you walk in the store. It also begs the question why. Is there some sort of benefit to the relationship that accrues only to pharmacies?
By 1999, Texas had a) established competitive markets for retail energy and b) deregulated everything except the placement of transmission lines. This last was a major lynchpin in Enron's business plan and vision of the future, and the company provided significant guidance for Texas when it set up the system.
Enron didn't have much if anything to do with the failure of the electric production system, but the second-coldest days in Houston were about a decade before, so you think someone would have remembered.
I don't think they quite thought about this happening.
What do you plan for when you're building something? Is it the midpoint of projected use, (say traffic at 1 pm, or an average of the day), lowest use or peak use (3 am and 5 pm rush hour, respectively). Do you build to meet current needs or to meet inevitable higher demand in the future? How about weather extremes (roads buckle in really hot weather, or multiple thaw freeze cycles? At what temperature is it cheaper to let it buckle and repair, or suspend service)? Do you plan for 30 year extremes? 100 year extremes? 5 year? Any?
Planners don't get enough credit, but always get blame.
A headline in a blog I follow stated
500,000 Lives Lost.
No, a half-million people died. It was not before their time. Everybody dies.
The lives were lost only if we did not capture the deceaseds' stories, or if they were blocked from making the contributions they could and should have made. Many (I hope most if not all) of the lives lost weren't–those lives were captured and will be treasured. Some are lost because they never found their way, or never shared or developed the gifts they received. Every day, hundreds and thousands of people die from drug overdoses, car crashes, guns, and disease. Over 660,000 die from heart disease each year. But we don't talk about loss. Just because the 500,000 died from a new disease doesn't mean they were lost. That happened long before they shuffle[d] off this mortal coil.
I think the loss comes in that so many of the people died without having at least a chance to see loved ones to say goodbye, to gain closure. I know–following my logical train, you could say the same about any sudden death, as from car crashes, suicide, or gun violence. I could say that maybe they said I love you before they left the house, but maybe it's just a reminder to say I love you and be reconciled to those you love every chance you get. It helps with the coulda shoulda for those left behind.
All is not lost, then.
Another week of cold and rain, with one unexpected and very welcome warm and sunny day. Also a
holiday, not that there was anything different I could see. Of course, if you don't get out of the house, you don't see much.
There's been a lot of it this week. I'm always amazed at the number of truly funny people out there.
The worst part of the week for Ted was being put on standby for the trip back to Houston.
In a general observation, I've often wondered what value politicians add when they tour a disaster zone. It mostly seems to be a photo op, with the politician standing next to a guy in a hard hat as they point and stare at something just off camera. There's absolutely nothing they can do there besides get in the way. Now if the picture showed them carrying a chain saw on day three, we've got something. For all his faults, Donald Trump at least spent time in Puerto Rico distributing paper towels.
Still, I have a couple of questions questions:
Headline in the Saturday New York Times:
When will Travel Return?. For some of us, especially if we're going to Cancun, it's already begun.
A writer is the type of person who, when somebody gets their tongue stuck to a flagpole, asks
How did it taste?
Love Power, by Lorenzo St. Dubois, from The Producers.
Double whammy: music and lyrics!
Nancy Pelosi has proposed a 9-11 style commission to investigate the events leading up to and occurring on January 6.
If it is modeled on 9-11, the commission will take nearly two years to produce a report; have three chairmen in its first month; be badly underfunded; have the sitting President and Vice President and immediate past president and vice president testify in private and not under oath; and face charges of conflicts of interest.
And remember the
politics definition of commission:
a body of distinguished citizens who are assembled to make it appear that we're doing something while in fact allowing us to maintain the status quo and pass the buck to a future generation. The commission will produce a long, mostly unreadable report that will provide inconclusive summaries; if there are action points, they will be ignored, and will occur when we've all moved on from the original incident.Nothing to see here, move along.
It's Tuesday. An interesting imposed blast back to the past, in the days when mastodons roamed the great prairies and there was no cable or internet. The cable company is making upgrades to the equipment that takes everything–phone, cable, internet– off line, and so we can't get to the outside world. No news, no mail, no funny cat of the day, no weather. How can I find out what it's doing outside besides looking out the window? I need corroboration!
Everything cable-wise is supposed to be back to normal by noon. I will keep a detailed journal, which I am sure will rival Robinson Crusoe in detail and popularity, but without Friday to clutter up the plot line.
Maybe we can get Tom Hanks to play me.
Update: Everything seems to be back on line, with a surprise outage around 4:30 in the afternoon. There is no discernible difference in quality, but at least we had a day with no
telemarketers trying to get us to renew a car repair warranty that does not exist on a car that probably doesn't exist, or at least hasn't in our lives since about 2013.
I've been reading a lot about semi-colons recently (OK, one article and one chapter of a book, and I only read part of the article because I already ingested the information it provided a long time ago).
Neither piece mentioned what I always thought was the defining moment in the life of the semicolon, when typesetters, tired of getting colons and semi-colons confused (which in turn affected their salary), simply stopped setting semicolons, which in turn affected its use. Now we have this little thing that nobody knows how to use, except for the internet harpies of exactitude who will be more than happy to tell you when you're doing it wrong.
All that got me thinking about the generally sorry state of language (actually it's not sorry at all it's very exciting out there with new languages being invented all the time, sort of written pidgins, but terms of the contract allowing me to brag about having a Ph.D. in English require me to tut-tut about the sorry state of affairs vis-a-vis standard written English and at least make it look like I'm making an effort to stick to the rules of proper English, and about which I've been warned a number of times and will probably be warned about this parenthetical, even though it's grammatical and makes as much sense as the rest of the post). The written language we have was an attempt to represent spoken language. Punctuation was a relatively late addition. Many medieval manuscripts have no punctuation at all. Spelling was (and is) erratic, as the six known variants of the 16th century playwright Willm Shukspeer's name indicates), to say nothing of orthographic perplexities like though and tough.
But that has little to do with punctuation in general and the semicolon in particular. The problem is that much punctuation was developed about the same time as the printing press, or soon after. At any rate, things that made sense or were needed then aren't now, but new needs arise that aren't met by available punctuation. Sometimes someone will make an attempt to meet a need, as with the
interrobang. It's apparently a real word since the spell check didn't flag it, and it has its own website but I dare you to find it on a keyboard. No positioning, no use. There are some other things I'd like to see that would be useful to readers:
they said.This is very limiting, and even can make a story incorrect or make the subject out to be a jerk. I think some emoji could be put to good use here, like the laughing face and the emojit face and the angry face.
Anyway, emoji are a good example of what's going on in real world English, as is /are abbreviations and whatever it is the youth of America are using on Instagram and Tik-Tok these days. Everything except the semicolon, which is apparently verboten in online circles, as is the ellipsis. Maybe they can be pressed into use for the list above.
One other thing I hope gets a look-see and canonical incorporation into standard English is an area where I'm pioneering, replacing the apostrophe
k in contractions. First, it would end some of the confusion with the apostrophe in possessives (see? Another example to too many needs, not enough punctuation marks). Why k? Well, itks not a tricky question, as anyone who has typed on a keypad with autocorrect turned off can testify. AmIrightorwhat?
The AARP's new newsletter announces a new program that wants me to
wake up and dance! Starts next week at, um, 11:00 east coast time. While on the one hand I fully support that as the proper order to do things, I'm not sure of he conjunction of time and activity is recognizing a new reality, or if they think it's going to take me 4.5 hours to get ready.
IKEA and the future of living.
Yes, living has a future. and Ikea's probably a part of it. Next problem.
On a review of a new book:
The murky fate of Roman Britain’s lost ninth legion.
It's 1,900 years later. They're all dead. Nothing murky about it at all.
How it happened might be a better question.
Police discover first cannabis farm in London financial district.
I'm guessing they just weren't looking hard enough.
MIT researchers devised a way to allow spinach plants to send emails.
I'd be OK with email from carrots. But email from spinach is just another way of saying 'spam.' To be fair (to spinach), I've received some email that didn't live up to what I expect are the standards spinach has for email.
'It has never been tougher to be a young person,' Bear Grylls says.
I think a hard look at any decade before oh, say, 1920, might disprove that, even if you discount diseases (presuming of course you lived through them).
From the Guardian:
Smuggler found with nearly 1,000 cacti and succulents strapped to her body.
Someone is either a real fan of prickly pears, or a glutton for punishment.
I'm supposed to be asking the questions here, but New York magazine got there first, leaving me to answer them:
America Saw a Historic Rise in Murders in 2020. Why? 'Cuz 'Murricans be crazy, dude. 'Murricans be crazy.
Headline in Bloomberg:
Warren Buffet's Berkshire Reveals Three New Secret Buys.
But if you reveal them, they aren't secret anymore. So where are we here?
Vacuolar tauopathy (VT) is a newly discovered form of dementia caused by an extremely rare genetic mutation. It's so rare, in fact, that it has been confirmed in only four people in the world—three in one family.
For the whole article, link to Free Think.
What should be society's response? Do we try to find the causes and a cure? What kind of resources do we put toward it, and at what priority? How much do we care about a family of three? Do we find out how it's transmitted? Or do we say, without cruelty,
A passage touting that a
Magic number has been stretched out by physicists makes the claim that this is important
because discrepancies between standard-model predictions and experimental observations may provide evidence of new physics.
Frankly, I was just getting used to the physics we have. Hearing this evokes the same response I have in hearing there's a new Rob Schneider movie coming out.
Today, of course, is Valentine's Day, named after a third-century Roman martyr who became associated with courtly love. He is also the patron saint of epilepsy.
I have absolutely no basis for saying this, but I suspect this will be a hard Valentine's Day, especially for those who have been locked up with the sweetie and kids for the year. Strained relations probably can't be totally repaired with a box of chocolate and flowers. And what about all those kids and the little candy hearts and tiny Valentine's day cards they used to give out at school (if they even do that any more).
I notice that TV has been quiet about V-Day this year, except for the Hallmark Channel, where two holidays exist simultaneously in its head–Christmas and Valentine's Day. But other places that would normally have advice for those practicing courtly love would occupied with the pandemic, impeachment and lousy weather. Seems to be a giant
Well, we don't treat our readers like that here at TomatoPlanet!! Happy Valentine's Day to you all!. We even got you a gift. You can pick up your custom T-shirt in the lower right hand corner of the home page.
Once we get done with Valentine's Day, we crash headlong into Presidents' Day, which my computer calendar informs me is a
Last I checked, Presidents' Day is a US Federal holiday. So unless calendar people are counting the United States as a region, which is odd. in and of itself.
I mentioned a couple of weeks ago how I was enjoying reading one of my Christmas gifts, a brightly striped scarf.
Of course I don't read scarves. Besides, I didn't get one for Christmas this year. Besides, I thought it was time to update my old strange looks classic, after buying something like a scarf and telling the clerk,
no, you don't have to wrap it–I'll eat it here. But that top sentence makes as much sense as what I was going to write after the comma, Grammar for a Full Life. The usual response upon hearing that I'm enjoying a grammar book is
English majors are weird. Why, yes, we are. Thank you for noticing.
Earlier today, I read a post from Suzanne about events leading up to the passing of her mother earlier this year. Then this afternoon I tucked into the last chapter of Grammar, where I found a discussion of dying, and dementia, and language. Weinstein, in passing, comments In the end, of course–not just for my colleague with dementia, but for each of us–all distinctions vanish, unless there is an afterlife.
Well, that put a full end stop to my reading (that's a period to you amateurs), since I'm absolutely no good at multi-tasking, and reading and heavy smoke-coming-out-of-your-ears thinking is multi-tasking of the highest order.
I find the thought of not being able to read, to think, to communicate to be the scariest of futures. I would rather have to be helped to go to the bathroom than lose control of the functions going on above the neck. Of course, both fates probably await me.
So anyway, I'm thinking about dementia, that all distinctions vanish, and that we lose control of our thoughts, recognition and expression.
Unless you believe in an afterlife. Unless you believe in an afterlife. I figured that comment was just an offhand nod to Weinstein's (presumed) Jewish beliefs, but then I had the cosmos-shaking revelation. My usual view of the afterlife is the standard Christian heaven and hell dichotomy, the presumption that I will be climbing stairs, but once I get to heaven, I'll be met with more of the same, what I have here, only more so, with angels, God, music and lots of white added. But we're still in control, at least of our own life. There is still free will, the power to say yes or no, and cede control and power only by choice. We still have choice in our desires, and likes. If I don't like Shakespeare here, I don't have to like him in heaven, either, although I may be forced to sit through interminable performance of Coriolanus in hell.
But what if it's not a continuation? We don't know what's going on over on the other side. What if heaven (OK, the whole of afterlife) is a total lack of control and order, where we're not in control of anything? nothing there looks like anything we're familiar with. In this view, dementia becomes a preparation for the afterlife, a slipping into the next world, a preparation for the new order, a transition from this one? A test drive, if you will, or a learner's permit for living in a world with no rules, no boundaries, or a totally different set of parameters. If we are to believe physicists (and I can see no reason why we should, when they keep spouting their wacky theories about the nature of the universe), then the universe is playing by a whole different set of rules than we are in our finitude here on Earth. Just investigate what they have to say about dark matter,or, even better, string theory.
Enough for now. Too many cosmic forces and beams bouncing around. Besides, it's getting harder to see the screen with all the smoke in the room.
I've mentioned before that Dwight Davis' voice is the first one I hear in the morning (unless you count the cat). He's the morning jock with a soothing voice who plays appropriate music for the time of day, unlike his vacation replacements who favor ominous pieces by John Cage or anything by Alexander Borodin, and feel they have to tell us everything they know about the recording they just played or are about to play, or both.
One of the things I like is that, in spite of his starting his work day at 5 AM (I'm told), he is not a morning person, as he demonstrated this morning. A song came to an end, there was maybe ten seconds of dead air (so little I thought there was just a soft passage or fade at the end of the piece of music). Then Dwight came back and brightly announced he had dashed out of the studio to get coffee, but then managed to lock himself out of the studio.
That's the problem. There are certain things you need coffee for, including making and getting coffee.
And it's alright, Dwight. We understand., sympathize, empathize. Pick which one you like best.
If you dislike Prince Igor as much as I do, you will no doubt be dismayed to hear that Borodin died before he completed it. Who knows what pain we would have suffered had he finished it off.
The weatherpeople are pushing their luck. On the one hand, they're trying to convince us that a week of highs in the mid-40s are
normal (real normal is 50), that it is going to snow again on Sunday morning (giving them a whole week to talk about snow when we all know it's not going to happen), and that they know what they're talking about.
On the other hand, we only have to listen to sportscasters talk about the Super Bowl for oh, until it snows again here. C'mon, snow!
Hal Holbrook, the actor known for amazingly accurate portrayal of Mark Twain, dies at 95.
I saw Holbrook portray Twain in Houston, in a 3,000 seat theater. While I already loved Twain, his performance cemented the relationship. I especially liked Grandfather's Old Ram, a classic shaggy dog story. Or should I say shaggy sheep?
No, I shouldn't.
Pro-Trump Lawyer Lin Wood Fired by Covington Catholic Grad Nicholas Sandmann.
No, we don't.
Astronomers just found the oldest supermassive black hole yet. This is not a good look for astronomers, missing an old, huge black hole all this time. It's sort of like geographers announcing discovery of largest Great Lake north of Michigan.
And, since it's not visiting anytime soon, it's getting a '0' on the Do we care? scale.
for this headline:
Texas Uber Eats Driver and Mother of 3 Killed While Dropping Off Food Delivery. It took three reads, which is two too many, to read this headline.
CNN asks the hard question:
Why do wombats poop cubes?
It's different. I don't think I like it.
If Mary held bogus conservative values.
It's different. It's not good. I think we should outlaw it.
Exciting news: the new phone has a speech-to-text feature for voicemail, so I can read messages instead of listening to them.
The not-so-exciting news? Nobody phones anymore, except telemarketers, who don't leave messages. I've gotten to use the feature twice in the months I've owned it.
Moral: Every silver lining has a gray cloud around it.
When I was in high school (all-male Catholic) there were annual shoe fashions. One year it was desert boots. Another, wellingtons (a waxy dark-brown ankle boot with a raised welt around the edge, not the British muck boots). One year, wing tips. The sartorially correct wore these with white crew socks, and of course the school-required dress shirt, tie, suit or sport coat dress pants.
Style does not imply attractive, as my cohorts proved, and runway designers prove every year.
I hit only one of the fashion statements–the wing tips. Black, little indentations, waxy laces that refused to stay tied. They were hard to polish. It was a challenge to get the polish into all the little holes and then to get it out and make them shine. As needed, I replaced the heels, and maybe once the soles. These were shoes made the way shoes used to be: heavy, built for the long haul.
The wing tips were nice enough (although I don't think I've ever owned another pair), but the shoes I lusted after were the desert boots. But I never had a pair.
Then, about ten years ago, I saw them on sale in a Clark's store. I thought about them, but, even on sale, they were still more than I usually pay for shoes. My wife said, if I wanted them, I should get them, so I did. They were beautiful. The salesman gave me some care instructions, which I ignored. I wore them everywhere, including, based on tiny spots still on the suede, to paint my office.
They're tough. Last year, a lace broke. I was finally able to get replacements on the internet (another adventure in the failings of the American retail system tht I had to a pair of shoelaces sent by mail). Like Ralphie's Red Ryder, they are the best gift ever.
One of my shoe criteria is that the shoes be light, and when I bought the desert boots, they were feathers. This morning, though, when I picked them up, they were much heavier than I remember. I find this puzzling, as the heels and soles are worn down, and so they should weigh even less. But someplace along the way, they've been picking up weighty essences of some sort.
Which, now that I think about it, I don't want to think about.
But I still wear them–discolored, stained, heavier, run down at the heels, still the faves. In fashion after all these years.
When I got the wing tips, there was a whole ritual. You'd go into a shoe store, take a sniff (shoestores had a unique smell&341; look at shoes, maybe take a shoe off the display something that you liked or wanted. Someplace in these preliminaries, a clerk would attach himself to you (and it was always a him). When you sat down, the clerk would sit on a low stool with an angled footrest in front, the shoes you wore in were removed, and the clerk would check the size.
Then came the fun part. The clerk would produce a foot measuring device, a long, heavy metal gizmo with knobs, cups and sliders. The clerk would place your foot in on one, make sure your heel was firmly settled in the cup, and then adjust sliders in front and on the sides. He would ask if that was comfortable, your mom would say you were still growing and to leave room. After the second foot was measured, the clerk would ask about styles and color, and then go into a mysterious room behind a curtain. When he emerged, he would be carrying three or four shoe boxes, which he would put on the floor, and the start the ritual of preparing for the try-on– removing the paper from the toe, lacing the shoe, putting it on your foot (using a shoehorn, tying the shoes, pressing on the toe of the shoe to see where the human toe was, and pressing both sides of the shoe to check width. If the assessment was satisfactory, you would then walk around the store for thirty seconds to see how they feel (like thirty seconds could tell you anything).
Selection made, the clerk would escort you to the cash register, and then return to clean up the mess and put everything back behind the curtain.
But there was one last treat. When you got home and unboxed the shoes, you'd find a store-branded metal shoe horn that had been unobtrusively slipped into the box. Someplace, I still have a
The National metal shoehorn in a drawer. I wish I had it this morning when, for whatever reason, I was struggling to get my shoes on.
Anyway, there is no way to get that ritual and experience online.
Random aside. That foot measuring thing is known as The Brannock Device®. I mentIon this only because usually companies try to protect their brand names (photocopy instead of Xerox, tissue paper instead of Kleenex). Here, though, they almost lament that people don't know (or use) the proper name of their product.
Suggested motto: The Brannock Device®. Ask for it by name.
One place the ritual experience survives is in tonsorial palaces, aka haircutting places, aka barbers. I was reminded of this when I was getting a haircut the other day (my motto: a haircut every six months whether I need it or not).
I'm sorry to announce they no longer use those little paper strips they put on before fastening the cloth around your neck. But otherwise the ritual was good–flapping of the cloth, fluffing of the hair, asking how you want it cut standard joke: shorter), much scissor noise, and so on.
Until it came time for the ceremonial viewing of the back of the head. Apparently my stylist had misplaced her mirror. So I didn't get the semi-annual look at the back of my head. Now, I don't care what the back of my head looks like. I never see it. If people form an (adverse) impression of me based on how hairs look on my neck, so be it.
But the break in the ritual distracted me enough so I forgot to ask the barber to trim the hair on/in my ears, the fastest growing hair anyplace on my body.
My motto (which I do not follow): It's heck growing old. Don't do it if you can.
The big story is the weather. There's some white stuff outside. The weather people have been predicting it for weeks (story below). I guess it's good. If it wasn't for weather, there'd be no news at all. I hear that there's a big storm predicted for the northeast a couple of days from now. That might keep Phil in his hole for the second. I'll take it. I'm looking forward to spring.
Sometime in early January crazed weatherfolk began predicting snow for that week. On Monday. It was coming on Thursday. On Tuesday, Friday. On Wednesday, Saturday. On Saturday, the flapping faces pretended they hadn't said anything at all about snow. On Monday, they started again. And then again. If we had a quarter inch of snow for each minute they spent predicting it, single story houses would have disappeared.
Well, darned if it didn't finally work. It snowed last night. While it didn't impress me, there was enough snow to have school called off. That itself isn't exceptional, but the local school district is still all virtual learning.
This is what terrorized the village:
So, if you're a breathlessly bloviating prognosticator (remember these are professionals. Do not try this at home.), what do you do? You double down. Now the prediction is we're going to have snow on Sunday. And Tuesday.
I hope it doesn't snow–it'll just make the precipitation people impossible to live with. Which, frankly, is tough enough now. So much time wasted waiting for something to happen when I could have been learning Urdu or doing something useful.
Normally I try to keep the worlds of TomatoPlanet!! and Facebook separate (fear of 'worlds colliding' and all that). But I'm going to make an exception, because TomatoPlanet!! is the land of the absurd, and I may have put together four absurd words over there that deserve to be here, too.
One of my more activist friends was publicizing a conservation effort involving forests. We are supposed to importune our Delegates in Richmond to improve conservation efforts by letting them know
I stand for trees.
I brake for trees. Even I'm not sure what it means.
Sometimes it's a livable moment: Somebody to Love, by the Jefferson Airplane.
President Biden pledges to convert the 645,000 vehicle Federal fleet to electric vehicles.
If you want to make money on this: the government is going to need at least 645,000 charging stations, probably more since some vehicles, like long-haul mail trucks, will need multiple chargers. Add in the wiring and other infrastructure to get electricity to the chargers, and things like portable batteries to charge cars that unexpectedly die, you're talking some good pocket change.
Why do you think your soaps labelled Fresh should smell like a florist's dumpster that hasn't been emptied in a week?
Why is it the only thing your soaps won't wash out is the stench your product leaves in already-worn clothes?
Why do you think that we want to smell like a florist's dumpster? Or is this your way of supporting social distancing?
The house across the street has a mail slot next to the front door. Ever since I was a kid, I thought that was the coolest thing ever. We didn't have a mailbox or mail slot. Our mail was put in a milkbox, a square passthrough that in itself was pretty cool, although I didn't think so at the time.
Anyway, I'm still waiting to live in a house with a mail slot.
For some reason, People magazine thinks I want to know
What stars from Geraldo Rivera to Chrissy Teigen are saying about Trump's second impeachment.
No. Just no.
First, a warning: I am probably not the best person to write a piece about gifts–giving or receivIng. I'm told I'm very hard to gift. I don't have good responses when asked what I need or want. Still, here we are.
I've been posting poems on Facebook for nearly a year now. One of the Christmas series poems mentioned returning gifts, which prompted one of my readers to comment about how disrespectful, despicable, and just plain not nice the practice is.
I thought her response odd, considering how a) a fictional narrator can't do gifting or returning or re-gifting, and b) the poem that she was taking me to task for was itself a gift, unless you consider the minute or two spent reading a form of payment. Is criticizing a form of return?
But it did get me thinking about the whole complicated dynamic of giving gifts, starting with why we give gifts (in general and in specific), through the response and ultimate disposition of the gift. As I go into detail, I'm sure I'm going to miss stuff. Like I said, it's complicated.
A lot of the dynamic is captured in the movie A Christmas Story. Two gifts stand out: Aunt Clara's bunny pajamas, and the Red Ryder. Ralphie didn't like the pajamas, they weren't right for him, but he was expected to thank Aunt Clara for them and wear them at least when she came to visit. For Aunt Clara, they may have been a labor of love, been a reflection of what she thought Ralphie was, or may have been a last-minute what do I get the ungrateful little bugger this year? Ralphie's needs and happiness were probably the last thing on Aunt Clara's mind, so should we be surprised when Ralphie is less than grateful (although at some point she probably did think Ralphie will like that)? Do we favor intent or happiness in determining the success of the gift transaction? And what did Ralphie get his aunt? I bet it was dusting powder. I gave away a lot of dusting powder when I was a kid. Soap, too.
We still have the problem of what to do with the bunny pajamas in Ralphie's closet. They can stay there, taking up space, worn only while they still fit and Aunt Clara visits.
(Totally random aside: Why is pajamas plural? No one says go put on your pajama. Even the diminutive 'jammies' is plural. I thought maybe because there are two pieces [tops and bottoms] but they're plural too. End of aside.)
Or they can be to someone who can use them, although I struggle to think of who that might be. They could be altered for Randy, but that would be double humiliation: ugly and demeaning hand-me-downs.
what was Aunt Clara thinking? could be a factor. People give gifts because they have to, because it's something they know the recipient wants or needs, or because the gift signifies our vision of what the recipient's life is or what the giver thinks it could/should be. I have a niece who used to give us things like fondue pots and margarita trees. They were very nice gifts, but I can only surmise that my niece pictured us traveling in exotic, jetting-setting circles. That, or she wanted to be invited over for margaritas and fondue. Whatever the image, it was very different than the life we were leading.
Aspirational gifts tell the recipient what we would like them to be. So the gift of a doctor's kit to a child might be saying we want a doctor in the family, and you've been selected. I have no idea what Aunt Clara's gift was suggesting to Ralphie.
On the other hand, the Red Ryder is a real gift. It is given in understanding (Ralphie's dad, by way of explanation, says
he had one as a kid), without thought of potential danger or harm. It has a certain impracticality–socks are not good gifts. And Ralphie worked for the rifle–writing the essay, putting ads in his mom's magazine, visiting Santa.
And the real tell, older Ralphie announcing it was still the best gift ever. That doesn't happen often. Usually, gifts have a greatness shelf life.
There is one universally awful gift–the
a gift has been made in your name to the donor's favorite charity. Bonus awful points if the donation was made to a charity/cause you actively don't support.
So anyway, to get back to the original question. I think re-gifting is OK, as long as you think the gift is something the new recipient will truly like and maybe even treasure.
Sorry for taking up your time. I'm betting that after reading this, the whole gift-giving mess is no clearer for you. I know it's not for me.
The Love Theme from Mystery Science Theater 3000.
I write poetry. Some of it is good, most not.
I watched the Inaugural, and heard
The Hill We Climb. I imagine my reaction was sort of like Tom Brady's and Aaron Roger's on seeing Patrick Mahomes and Josh Allen coming up in the next wave of great quarterbacks–a mix of envy, anger, respect and joy. Except, of course, poetry is not a competitive sport. And I am not Tom Brady or Aaron Rogers. And poets get paid peanuts. Otherwise, the analogy holds.
Hooray for poets.
There are a few passages in Scripture that intrigue me, because they're just dropped in, with no follow up, The giants in Genesis. Joshua making the sun (and moon) stand still. The story of Gamaliel the Pharisee from the Acts of the Apostles, as follows:
Gamaliel, a teacher of the law held in honor by all the people, stood up and gave orders to put the men outside for a little while. And he said to them, 'Men of Israel, take care what you are about to do with these men. For before these days Theudas rose up, claiming to be somebody, and a number of men, about four hundred, joined him. He was killed, and all who followed him were dispersed and came to nothing. After him Judas the Galilean rose up in the days of the census and drew away some of the people after him. He too perished, and all who followed him were scattered. So in the present case I tell you, keep away from these men and let them alone, for if this plan or this undertaking is of man, it will fail; but if it is of God, you will not be able to overthrow them.
For people of a certain bent and training, God is the greatest designer, engineer, etc. the world has ever seen, and man is his greatest accomplishment. Some go so far as to say perfect.
Well, I'm not going to go that far.
After having used a late-model male chassis for nearly three-quarters of a century, I agree it's a pretty good design, but certain things weren't completely thought out, to wit:
A headline in 9to5Mac announced that Apple was extending the free trial period for Apple TV+ to July 2021. I thought,
Gee, that's a long time! We might consider signing up for that! Until I realized that this is already 2021.
Buzzfeed News tells us,
The Man Arrested At An Inauguration Checkpoint With A Gun And Ammo Says It Was A 'Mistake ' And That He's A Security Guard.
From the Washington Post:
Misinformation plummeted by 73 percent the week after Twitter banned Trump.
World's Oldest Orangutan Euthanized at Oregon Zoo at Age 61: 'She Inspired Generations.' I have to ask because this headline comes from People magazine.
OK, the normal I would like to return to is a normal that includes civility, less screaming, owning our own actions, maturity, and a world-class infrastructure that can produce, distribute and dispense whatever we need on a short turnaround schedule, from toilet paper to vaccines. It's embarrassing, considering how far we've fallen from oh, say, 1943, when we were able to complete three Liberty ships and build 84,853 aircraft (or 232 airplanes) a day. If we want to be a world leader, we have to start acting like one, and do things the rest of the world wants to emulate. Getting the vaccine distributed might be a start.
Q: I'm 37. My microwave has a special Kids Menu with buttons for hot dog, pizza, oatmeal, and baby food. Can I use the kids menu if I'm preparing food for myself?
A: If you have received proper training from a kid, yes.
Q: Ca I let my baby use the baby food button without supervision?
A: If your baby can reach the button, open the door, take the lid off the baby food jar, put it in the microwave, cook the food, and take the food out of the microwave, your baby can do anything it wants, including driving a car.
In the Catholic Church, there are major saints, minor saints, and all the rest, whose existence, presence, and motivation in our lives we recognize on November 1st–All Saints Day, which is a holy day of obligation.
I'm going to treat Martin Luther King Day as an All Saints Day. In addition to King, I will also be thinking of all the people who have worked towards equality, up to and including giving their lives in the pursuit of justice and freedom (even though they may not have been aware that's what they were doing), as well as as well as the people who worked diligently for the cause. We should remember all these people as we honor the memory of Dr. King on January 18.
I'm sure it was just a coincidence (even though we all know there is no such thing as coincidence) that I've been reading Carl Sandburg's Chicago Poems, and came upon two that seem relevant in the current times: I Am The People, The Mob and Government. Carl could be a little cynical at times, although some think of him as a realist in the tradition of Edward Hopper and Theodore Dreiser.
Another Sandburg poem, Gypsy contains these parade-stopping lines:
Snatch off the gag from thy mouth, child, / And be free to keep silence.
Funny how we forget that freedom of speech has a corollary: freedom to remain silent. Not explicitly protected by the Bill of Rights, but I'm sure strongly encouraged by the Founding Fathers.
Followed by these:
Tell no man anything for no man listens, / Yet hold thy lips ready to speak.
Not only was Jeremiah a bullfrog, he was a good friend of mine.
My primary reading this week has been a Christmas gift from my wife, Grammar for a Full Life by Lawrence Weinstein, whose primary thesis is awareness of and modifying language and structures can serve a means to modify life and our approach to it. He uses examples from his own life, including one from his grammar school principal, which influenced his whole approach to life, one that pretty much boxed out creative or spontaneous activity.
So the question is: What one comment made by a parent, teacher, relative, or other authority figure, set you (consciously or unconsciously) on the way you approach life? It's not so much a you should be a [insert specific career], but along the lines of
Johnny is very detail-oriented, or
Jenny is very artistic, so Johnny becomes an actuary, accountant, research scientist or engineer and Jenny becomes a designer, teacher, or singer.
I'm enjoying the book, not only because I enjoy reading about words and language, but also because the author is so passionate about the subject, and posits that the way a person speaks and writes says something about personality and approach to life.
Chapter 2 (where I am now. I'm reading slowly). discusses active and passive voice, with discussion of transitive and intransitive verbs.
Weinstein has a chapter on imperatives, which reminded me of my favorite paragraph in a writing textbook. It comes from Donald Murray's Write to Learn, 2nd ed. It starts Chapter 5. In its entirety:
Wait. Don't write yet. So many rules broken. A one word sentence. Two imperative sentences. A four word paragraph. And the very idea that a teacher would write a sentence that tells students to not write, well, breathtaking.
Speaking of rules, how many did I break in that last paragraph?
Which also reminds me of a section from Joseph Williams' Style: Ten Lessons in Clarity and Grace. (1st ed.). He makes a distinction between RULES, Rules, and rules. A RULE is nonstandard English, never broken by a native speaker, unless the speaker/writer wants to look stupid. An example would be a double subject, like
These rules they be good for you, A Rule (also called an optional rule, is something that complements the RULES. Think of a sentence that starts with a conjunction, splits the infinite, and ends with a preposition. All optional, all ignored, but the source of much angst amongst the grammatically prudish. A rule is a convenient convention that isn't a rule at all They're sort of like what we used to call
Sister Says Theology in Catholic school. Williams also refers to them as folklore, RULES broken: 0. Grammar mavens irked: all of them.
More from About Grammar as it inspires me.
Vanity Fair lets us know, in its own inimitable way, that
Ivanka Trump reportedly won't attend Biden's Inaugural &340;after maybe not being invited in the first place?) I can hear the discussions at the Inaugural Committee now.
Did you invite her?
Of course not.
Maybe she's coming as somebody's plus one.
No, Hunter's already told us who his plus one is, and she ain't it.
Do you think she got a gag invitation, like from one of those places that will put your face on a Time Magazine Man of the Year cover? (chuckles all around).
Actually, invitations have nothing to do with it. I'm betting Daddy changed her curfew time. Maybe Mike Pence's, too, but Mike's being rebellious.
Unnamed female (hereinafter referred to as
she) will no longer be coming 'round the mountain. She will instead be availing herself of regularly scheduled flights into local airports, and consequently going over the mountain.
The six white horses have been placed in a rescue facility with lovely pastures and paddocks, and are being well cared for.
My wife was watching The Great British Baking Show in the other room. One of the contestants was running out of time in a particular challenge, and one of the hosts (Mel Giedroyc) noted she was over-multitasking, trying to commit blending, stirring, measuring and baking at the same time.
It was then that I realized that there are different levels of activity in participles. You can be baking, but in reality you're doing nothing to further the process. Baking is a sort of umbrella term, under which you perform a lot of other things. Baking, i the narrow sense of
in the oven is not as taxing as stirring, or example.
Funny language, English. Especially when you hear it spoken on TGBBS.
Frankly, I'm not. I just found out I'm cisgender. All this time, I thought I was a guy, and If you want to get technical, heterosexual.
Next, I'll probably find out that I'm heterodox.
And I also just found out, listening to the latest episode of
Where's all the vaccine? that I'm also in Group 1b because I'm over 64 and comorbid. Here all this time I thought I was very cheerful and upbeat.
Princes kept the view all along the watchtower. This was right after the joker told the thief that there must be a way out.
I'm sure the joker was kidding. After all, the princes were keeping the view, and probably watching, too. All avenues of escape were cut off. But then, that's the joker's job, isn't it?
Well, that was an interesting week. The weatherpersons spent the entire week telling us how it was going to snow on Friday and/or Saturday morning. Large blocks of wasted time. See the
Saturday morning Poem, below, for a longer reaction. And There was the gafuffle in Washington. I'm still trying to figure out what the goals were. There would be no overthrow, no Trump continuation., not even an extended discussion. Based on the way some of the people were dressed, it looked like either street theater or a bus going to a Renaissance Festival lost its way.
Not in my lifetime.
Why radicchio is the ingredient we need right now.
Headline in Fansided:
The real reason [the Chicago Bears] lost to the Green Bay Packers.
From an article in The Guardian about a fugitive found in a tree in a swamp in Western Australia:
Faust said he stripped to his underwear and handed Voskresensky his shorts and a beer as the trio made their way back to Darwin. 'He looked like he needed a beer, although he was in a bad way,' Faust said.
We have the usual kinds of noise in our neighborhood. Lawn mowers. Trucks. Minor construction. Recently, though, it seems to have been pretty quiet, enough so we can hear birds and things. Today is different. In the middle distance, we can hear chain saws, generators, and all sorts of mechanical devices. I don't know if I'm drawing an unreal line, or if somebody said,
it's the new year. Let's get back to work.
2021: the year of sick but tidy.
It's the fifth anniversary of David Bowie's death. Speaking of, I saw a couple of
the year in dead people tributes. Maybe it's just me, but a lot of famous (and semi-famous) people, especially Hollywood types and musicians shuffled off their mortal coils in 2020.
The Conspiracy Theorist saw a headline from People magazine:
Ivanka Trump Mistakenly Tags Meat Loaf in Photo of Her Dad.
No mistake about it at all, the Conspiracy Theorist believes. He posits that the mistakes made in tweets and other messages by the Trump family and other officials are actually code for other activities.
MeatLoaf instructed the faithful to march to the Capitol after Dad's speech and try to gain entry.
Covfefe was a notice to international hackers to start working to infiltrate U.S. Government financial institutions, like the Department of Commerce.
More Hillsong pastors resign as Justin Bieber confirms he's left the church.
I don't know if the headline writer is implying a false causality, but if true, we may be witnessing either the end times or the second coming.
Or it's just Vanity Fair's known penchant for name-dropping and claiming celebrities are responsible for everything.
O.K., I said I wasn't going to do New Year's resolutions. This is a resolution that coincides with a new year. Also, it will stay in effect only so long as it seems useful.
To wit: I will no longer pay attention to the forest. I am going to pay attention to a few trees–a sapling or two and a mature tree, and make sure they're doing well.
Other resolutions, short and sweet.
clever hack(or synonyms like clever, ingenious, brilliant, or genius). Don't read about or do hacks.
I thought about it for about two seconds, but I am not going to swear like an Englishman. Too much research.
Reading is like fertilizer for my life.
I was getting coffee this morning, and reached to get my favorite Sunday mug. My sister gave it to me back in 1984 or so. It's handmade, got a peasant shape, and a nice color combination, As I started to pour coffee, I also thought about the other mug that she gave me at the same time, but which broke less than a year after she sent it (an encounter with a one-year-old).
This is an old mug, I thought,
But then, I realized that, as pottery goes, well, it's not really all that old. Archeologists are finding much older pottery all the time. They get really excited when they dig up pottery, even if it's only shards. They can tell, just by shape, decoration, type of clay used and the amount of pottery, how old it is, what it was used for, where it was made and how big the site was, to piece together a story of the people who lived there.
Then I realized that potters are really story-tellers, and history makers. Some other remarkable things about pottery are that archeologists find it almost everywhere. Very few civilizations didn't make pottery (Eskimo and hunter-gatherer civilizations come to mind).
Another thought: Broken pottery is as useful to archeologists as a complete piece. So the mug I tossed over 35 years ago is as useful to them as the mug I was holding (unless, of course, they're planning on drinking coffee.
A final, totally random thought. When archeologists excavate, they mostly find things of the earth–pottery, glass, metal, and stone. They don't find as much wood, paper, skins, animal parts or other organic materials (this conclusion is based on totally random watching of shows about archeological digs)
Mother Earth takes care of her own, it seems.
Also, I have to start pouring and drinking coffee faster. That's a lot of thought for so early in the morning.
I may be wrong about doing this, but I have not been practicing social distancing with my invisible friend.
At least, I don't think I have.
I've used the name TomatoPlanet!! for this collection for probably 15 years, and I've been mulling changing the name, which I do when I get bored. A few possible candidates, but with problems. First candidate: RunningonEmpty.com. Short, descriptive, accurate. Problem: it's already taken. Candidate number two: RunningwithTypewriters.com Pros: Available, quirky. Problems: I already have a quirky website name. Half this stuff couldn't be done with a typewriter, and none of it is. We'll leave it to Tom Hanks, who already has the strangely obsessive relationship with typewriters market sewn up. The third entry: If_Steve_Martin_Wasnt_Talented_This_Is_What_He_Would_Produce.com Problems: Steve Martin's flotilla of highly paid legal beagles won't look kindly at unapproved use of Steve Martin's name. And really, who is going to take the time to type www.ifstevemartinwasnttalentedthisiswhathewouldproduce.com? It looks like the name of a friggin' Welsh town. Upside: Accurate, unless you believe there is no way Steve Martin could sink to this level of dreck, even after a full frontal lobotomy.
TomatoPlanet!! it is, then.
At the end of December, McDonald's began advertising the McRib sandwich as
the most important sandwich of the year.
And that, my friends, is the grand finale for 2020. First, that it would have an important sandwich. Second, that it would be the McRib.
It's been a long time since I've had a destination,
must watch TV show. On January 3 (AKA today), BBC America will begin a six-part series based on Terry Pratchett's wildly popular Discworld series. I've read maybe 30 of the 41 novels (OK, I can hear you asking,
if these are so popular and so good, why haven't you read them all? Two reasons: a)since the pandemic killed the libraries, and maimed in-person retail, my sources have dried up. 2) frankly, I've sort of lost track of which books I haven't read). and so I'm looking forward to this series, which will be featuring one of my favorite characters.
However, as always, I have one worry. I have a mental picture of the characters that inhabit this world. What if these people are nothing like the people who live in my head?
I've been posting a lot (it seems) of call-response pieces. Call out a headline, don't read the article, make a supposedly humorous comment. It's cheap, easy and I don't have to leave the house.
I should probably give credit to my literary progenitors. There are many, but credit should definitely be given to the folks behind Texas Monthly's Bum Steer Awards. Fun for all, heartier laughs if you've done time in Texas.
Hallmark Movies in search of: a)small European countries with a photogenic castle and handsome, unmarried prince who speaks impeccable English. Ideal candidates should be unknown to American audiences and not used as a setting for a Hallmark movie before. b) small to medium sized towns with charming central cores that have not had their Christmas festival/show )chorale already organized to perfection by hot-shot career-driven designer who came home for the holidays. Will consider local bakery/bookstore owner sin place of designer. Prefer town with Black mayor. c)Condo/Resort developer looking for quaint, charming town as site for a project that will destroy the charm of the town. Prefer company with tough, no-nonsense CEO with a soft heart.
Just a reminder: all Hallmark movies are some variation of The Wizard of Oz or a Mickey Rooney/Judy Garland film.
The Food Network suggests
3 Things You Need to Make in Your Instant Pot First.
My iPhone has started identifying suspicious calls as
scam likely. I think that would be a great name for a character in a story. I just don't know if it would be a hero, a villain, or a sidekick. For some reason, I think genre fiction would work best, either science fiction or a western.
Test Admin would be a good name, too.
We upgraded phones, and so the hunt is on for the on-off switch, which moves from model to model and device to device. Great fun.
I haven't thought about these in a long time. I do now because I suspect that this end-of-year into new year we'll be hearing a lot of
I hope this year things are better/get back to normal kind of thing, said in a way that indicates hope is bestowed by some sort of power out there somewhere.
It's not. Believing, hoping and loving are all susceptible to modification, or more simply, you have it in your power to alter faith, hope and love. They're active verbs. Someplace along the way, for example, non-believers made a conscious decision to not believe, if not in God, then something, like the Buffalo Bills winning the Super Bowl. But then people began to believe, and some of the believers worked to get the right coaches and players.
So faith, hope and love all work together, but more importantly, it's in our power to bring them to life.
Might be a good thing to remember in the new year.
Famous (or semi-famous) people can't just die anymore. Their death has to be connected to some life marker, usually something in the relatively near future.
So-and-so died three days before her 53rd birthday. Yeah, so? Yeah,
Bob was nominated for more Higgldy-Piggeldy awards than anybody else, but he
died 363 days before his 93rd birthday, with no explanation of whether this future event was important to Bob or whomever. What did they do, and even more importantly, what were they planning on doing/accomplishing and now won't that might have been important to them–or us? That's what I want to know. There's always something that you can draw a line to. Make the line something significant.
I lived in Houston in the mid-seventies, when the Houston Oilers were truly bad. They had some good players, but something was perpetually going wrong. It was always easy to get tickets for Oilers games. Then I moved away, and the Oilers got better, to the point where they were arguably the second-best team in the NFL.
Unfortunately, the best team was the Pittsburgh Steelers, who were in the same conference as the Oilers and blocked the way to the Super Bowl. Great rivalry, great football, but the Oilers never made it to the Super Bowl.
I sincerely hope (there's that word again) the same thing doesn't happen to the Bills with the Kansas City Chiefs.
Happy New Year!
Yeah! Same to you. You can't imagine how happy I am to put 2020 in the rear view mirror. (Looks around.) Does anything seem different to you?
(Looks around.) No, not really. Wait. All the leaves finally fell off that tree.
That happened last year. In November, I think.
Oh. It seems colder than at this time last year.
A little, maybe.
Make any New Year's resolutions?
The usual–diet, exercise, talk to myself less, or if I keep talking, listen less. You?
(chuckles.) Sounds about right. No, no resolutions. Woulda broken them by now anyway, so I don't even try anymore.
(A pause.) Well, I guess I'll be heading back inside. The mask is beginning to itch.
Yep, mine too. Good talking to you. Happy New Year!
There's a bird somewhere nearby screaming
You're pretty, You're pretty over end over. It may be one of those things like on the TV ghost shows where the investigators claim the grating sound they heard is the purported ghost saying
Be sure to drink your Ovaltine, and I'm just reading into it. Also, I have to remember that many people are hearing this. Plus the over and over and over aspect is beginning to get on my nerves, and do I want to accept compliments from an annoying creature?
Ah, heck. It's been a bad year. I'll take it. Thank you, bird.
(Courtesy of Gil Scott-Heron.)
Four letter words or four syllable words won't make you a poet/It will only magnify how shallow you are and let everybody know it.
This will be a light week for comments, as my brain has been occupied by visions of flour, sugar, butter and eggs that come together so beauteously as to win the gingerbread house competition in a Hallmark Channel Christmas movie, even though none of them are housers, and only one is gingerbread.
There's generally universal agreement that 2020 was the mist sucky year in memory. That would be a more compelling statistic if we could remember much before 2017. However, as we're about to put the year behind us, I've noticed some stuff that, if only for a moment, we could be thankful for.
For me, the year in thanks breaks into two parts: January through, oh, mid-November, and from then to now.
we're all in this together,or that
we're in difficult (or unprecedented) times,or all the other cliches that got spewed out. I think most Americans have figured out that the correct responses are
No we're notand
they always are and we already knew that.In November, politicians and their lawyers brought their comedy
Agame to the table, but thankfully faded slowly into irrelevance.
guy insisting on not wearing a mask,but they, too, seem to have mostly faded with the summer heat.
But there are solid year-long good news stories, too. Like food banks always seem to respond to people in need, no matter how stretched they are. Or nurses and hospital staffs who complain about being stretched to the breaking point, but still show up to do the job. Ditto all the essential workers who were invisible in February, but now have some visibility. I hope all that recognition continues. And finally, no matter how much some people will say we have to get back to normal, they're not well. The old normal was not a good healthy place.
The BBC reports that a
mysterious monolith made out of gingerbread appeared in Corona Heights Park in the US city of San Francisco on Christmas Day.
I read the article and was rewarded with this finale:
the city's Recreation and Parks Department's General Manager, Phil Ginsburg, told Californian news company KQED: 'We will leave it up until the cookie crumbles.'
I wonder if they found the remains of a yet unseen Hallmark Christmas movie? Also, kudos to Phil for bringing his best Dad-joke file to the party.
A Boeing 737 Max was being moved from storage to deployment in Montreal. It took off, but mechanical/instrumentation difficulties forced the pilots to abort the trip. In Tucson. Not encouraging, or a good look.
Last week (?) I wrote about how surprise should be added to the inevitabilities of death and taxes. well, I forgot one–software (especially system) upgrades. The are two rules governing their behavior. They will appear, demanding to be installed, when you least want them to. When they are installed, They will break something, usually once you've learned to rely upon your customization, and once you've learned to live without the customization, whatever you did will mysteriously reappear of its own accord.
I didn't think about it much at the time, but my wife pointed out that she hadn't seen It's a Wonderful Life on TV anywhere (it finally showed up on Christmas night). I didn't recall any showings of he original Miracle on 34th Street, either. We had to make do with two marathon days of A Christmas story and multiple showings of White Christmas.
According to The New York Post:
Keith Richards gets cockroach named after him for 77th birthday.
The Keith Richards roach was given its own guitar. As opposed to the
The Keith Richards guitar was given its own roach, which happened many times during performances, I'm sure.
I also wonder what they have planned for Keith's 80th birthday.
OK, so maybe a few comments.
This is probably one of those
you're doing it wrong things, which I detest, but we are encouraged to take cat naps, which are normally thought of as being short.
Our cat has been napping in my lap for over four hours, and will wake up only when I push her off my lap, which will annoy her no end. So if you're going to catnap, do it right!
The BBC has its own specialist disinformation reporter. I wonder if that means that now that the
adults have latched onto disinformation, if the cool kids will have to do something else.
The Week, a time for anticipation. A large percentage of the population will be braving the elements and CDC warnings and travel over the river and through the woods. Weathermen anticipate snow. What will Santa be putting in my stocking? Will it be coal? And if so, where did Santa find coal? Some parts of the anticipation will be anticipating snow. A subset of that, like me, who know too much stuff, will be wondering if Santa brings anthracite or bituminous. Another segment wonders what coal is. and finally, Trump supporters wonder if Santa will bring Donald Trump 7,500,000 votes that were erased by fraud and by Hugo Chavez and Fidel Castro.
Don't forget December 21 marks the reappearance of the Christmas Star. Right after sunset in the southwest is the best viewing time. It's also good of the sky is clear. If you want the best view, though, you're going to have to go to the Southern Hemisphere. Don't forget a swimsuit. It's summer there.
Pantone announced their Color of the Year. Actually, it's two–Illuminating and Ultimate Gray.
Pantone has a lot of reasons and research behind the choices, as well as having aspirational goals for the effect the colors will have. But you gotta wonder sometimes. Laurie Pressman, a VP at the Pantone Color Institute, said this about the Ultimate choice:
We have to acknowledge that gray has been around forever. It's sort of like Labrador Retrievers–always one of the most popular dogs, but never a winner of the AKC's Westminster Dog Show.
BTW, for you webweavers out there, the new colors in hex are #F8D948 and #939597. However, Pantone colors don't make good background colors, as I found out to my chagrin in, you guessed it, 2020.
Many people are shocked and horrified that the divisions in America are so deep.
It's always been like that, frankly, and nicely encapsulated by Shirley Jackson's
Thanks to Garrison Keillor for the story around the publication.
Just when I thought 2020 was going to go out with all the nastiness that it showed throughout the year, it goes and does something like this, as seen on the camellia bush in the back yard.
Gardeners tell me that camellias aren't necessarily all that strange this time of year, but that narcissus are, like these in the front yard.
From NBC News.
Former Israeli space security chief says extraterrestrials exist, and Trump knows about it. A 'galactic federation' has been waiting for humans to 'reach a stage where we will understand... what space and spaceships are,' Haim Eshed said.
'Galactic federation,' huh? We don't 'understand space and spaceships,' huh? So I guess that would make us pre-Klingon. Not good news. Their ships are so icky looking.
We can do better.
The reason Trump hasn't said anything about knowing this is his team is scouting locations for the Trump/Galactic Federation Casino and Golf Resort, with ample parking for spaceships. These are aliens that Trump likes!
Anyway, it proves what I've been saying all along–if there's intelligent life out there, they're most likely smart enough to not contact us.
If you write, you have to read. If you've begun writing something you've spent your life up to this point avoiding (oh, let's say poetry), you read more poetry. So, in this hypothetical, you probably read some authors that you like, and who influence the way you write poetry, say, folks like Walt Whitman, Carl Sandburg, Charles Bukowski, Mary Oliver, Billy Collins, and Gil Scott-Heron.
Start Two: Being a writer can be hard, seeing as there are so many things to write, each with its own standards of excellence, and these change over time. Some require self-revelation (a current fashion in poetry); others promote a complete absence of self (as in technical writing). One universal across all forms (with the possible exception of some boilerplate text) is
thou shalt not lift a particular collection of words in a particular order from somebody else, unless you want to give credit to the originator.
So imagine my shock/grief when I was reading Gil Scott-Heron's poem
Coming from a Broken Home, and encountered these lines:
She could take hers and outdo yours,/or take yours and outdo hers./
she may not have been in a class by herself,/ but it sho' didn't take long to call the roll.
Now, they're not bad lines. In fact, I like them a lot, particularly when I first heard them, attributed to Bum Phillips, the one-of-a-kind football coach of the Houston Oilers in the early '80s. Bum was known for catchy turns of phrase. I don't know who copied who, or if they both copied someone else, but I do know (his'n/your'n) can be tracked to 1960. On the (class by himself) the first citation I chased down is from Bum, in 1979. Gil's poem was first published in 1990. So I dunno. Enough sadness to go around.
We were listening to NBC News a few nights ago (
listening to: background noise and flickering images to accompany dinner, some of which surface into the frontal cortex, where they are are usually discarded quickly). When the broadcast was over, I realized that, for the the first time in living memory,
Donald Trump was not mentioned in any context for an entire newscast.
This may not be a big deal, as I am a charter member of the short attention span theater. Of course, lots of sports shows are willing to point out that
xxx is the first player since 2019 to achieve this feat. Which deserves either a golf clap or a yawn. It's like Jim Thorpe or Abraham Lincoln was involved somehow.
Already the middle of the month, and it's just going to get more frantic. Packages must be mailed now. Which means things must be wrapped now, bought now, selected now. That's my Christmas Eve routine–I don't appreciate having it pushed forward.
I'm thinking it's time for us to emulate the Brits and the Canadians, who have Boxing Day on Dec. 26. But let's do our new holiday right–have a
reception of the Christmas gifts day, maybe around the beginning of February. I know we have a lot of holidays then (MLK Day, Valentine's Day, Presidents' Day&341; but what better time of year to have an extra holiday than in the middle of winter? Maybe we could roll restocking and buying of the live Christmas tree to that day, too. I'll be darned if I'm going to be forced to rush out and buy a tree on December 1.
It's an interesting concept to push the Christmas season back as well as forward. I'm sure retailers won't complain.
The Big Think reports
A new study shows our planet is much closer to the supermassive black hole at the galaxy's center than previously estimated. 2,000 light years closer, in fact. They don't tell us how how close we are now. The 20-year study also says Earth (and presumably the entire solar system) is moving faster–about 16,000 mph faster.
Good news for those with a need for speed.
For many people, travel over the holidays has become a Christmas tradition. Airports and highways are crowded as millions of Americans travel home, metaphorically over rivers and through woods, or jet off to warmer climes sometimes to visit an aged parent in a Florida or Arizona senior city, or sometimes to get to Cabo or Vegas to dislax themselves.
It's nice to see old traditions being continued. After all, travel around the celebration of the birth of Jesus is the only thing we know that the Holy Family did, first from Nazareth to Bethlehem, and then from Bethlehem to Egypt. All the other stuff is just pasted on.
I have no explanation for Thanksgiving travel, though.
slight severe storm risk for this area: A shortwave trough over the Mid-South will amplify and become negatively tilted as it reaches the Lower Mid-Atlantic Coast towards 12Z/Saturday.
Before you laugh, remember you're paying for this stuff.
I just saw one of Buzzfeed's lists of things that you do that show you're adult (AKA old). I hit a bunch of them, but one was interesting, about the adjusted value of a hundred-dollar bill.
That didn't particularly interest me, but I started thinking back (which is much more predictable than thinking forward). In my lifetime (let's just say it started sometime in the Truman administration), I have possessed perhaps three $100 bills. The money wall gives me $20s, and so for me that's the high end of the American currency system. If I recall, I was able to use one to actually buy something, but the other two I had to deposit in the bank to make them usable. So if you're looking for a drug dealer or money launderer, I'm probably not your guy.
Whenever police conduct a raid, they list the things taken, and it almost always includes a large sum of money. Two questions: what exactly is a large sum of money? Right now, I'm carrying a sum approaching $100, and I think that's a lot of money. And two: why is having a large sum of money at hand a sign of criminal activity? I thought that was the way America worked. Have a dream. Work hard. Get rich. Have lots of money. Run for President.
Maybe the large sum is all in $100 bills, and, like me, the cops never saw any growing up, and figure they had to be acquired through nefarious means. Or maybe all the cash is in wrappers marked
Mike the Money Launderer or
Doris the Drug Dealer.
It's amazing how easy it is to be a lawbreaker. Pretty much every time I get in a car, I'm going to speed. Not much–five miles an hour, but still...
Every Thursday, the city where I live collects the trash, and insists that for them to do the job, I must put the trash cans at the curb between 6 pm Wednesday and 7 am Thursday. I have had weeks where the trash was put on the curb as late as 9:30 am.
This life of crime is very exciting. I wonder what I should try next. Maybe walking in the street, and walking with traffic instead of against traffic.
Then I'll rob a bank, and take only $100 bills.
I've been noticing a lot of webpages are screwing up grammar and word choices, especially homonyms (words that sound the same but are spelled differently and mean diifferent things. Today's group is sight, site, cite.
What, you want more? Greedy buggers.
Snowfall is a depressing sightqualifies.
Sometimes, the only things that are remotely palatable on TV are ghost shows. Sad commentary on the time we're watching TV, I guess. Anyway, there are three things that intrigue me.
How do old ghosts, like from say the Civil War or 17th Century, manipulate new technology? How does a ghost from 1650 know how to make a flashlight turn on and off, speak through a radio or make a TV or ceiling fixture go crazy? I'm surprised a ghost hasn't reformatted a hard drive yet.
can you...? Lots of shows have investigators who ask the ghost to answer a question, or manipulate an object–a light, a door, or perform some activity–bake a cake, sing a song. Why would the ghost want to do that? I mean, what's in it for them?
professional human response. Actually, if they like a laugh, the ghosts will comply. There's nothing funnier than when one of these
professionals gets the response they requested, and then runs off screaming like a child.
It used to be that someone who won a lot of money immediately acquired a lot of unknown relatives and people with sad stories to tell, the goal being to separate the winner from some of his winnings. But you had to be a big, famous winner.
Nowadays, we all get to share in that tradition, as unknown relatives are replaced by telephone scammers. I got maybe a dozen calls yesterday, none of which were answered or left messages, but I bet they were going to tell me there was a problem with my Amazon account or my Apple device had experienced a security breach.
A while back, I talked about businesses impacted by the pandemic. One industry I forgot to :mention was convention centers. I imagine they're getting hit pretty hard by group meeting restrictions. Of course, many if not most of those convention centers were funded by taxpayer bonds, and I'm sure many of the contracts have clauses making the operators whole if certain goals aren't met, so we're probably on the hook for that, too. I say probably because
economic development and
transparency are never uttered in proximity to one another, proximity in this case meaning
in the same state.
It's December. I mention that because in the flurry of post-election blues, continued covidity, endless Black Friday, and a not-really-Thanksgiving, you may have missed it. One day blends into another.
Today is the feast of St. Nicholas, a third-century bishop of Myra who somehow morphed into Santa Claus. He was reputed to give gifts secretly, but that's still a stretch to fat guy, beard, red suit, North Pole and sitting in a mall. Nick is the patron saint of sailors, merchants, archers, repentant thieves, prostitutes, children, brewers, pawnbrokers, unmarried people, and students. Personally, I don't have any special celebrations planned, but you would hope in that list of motley folk, somebody will.
So why am I always #2? I'm more popular–no one ever says
You're full of #1. Does #1 have an emoji? Well, yes, but I dare you to tell me what it is without looking it up. I'm much more socially responsible. Do you ever hear of a guy walking casually up to a tree in the woods to take a dump? or off the end of a dock? No! Have there been entire episodes of South Park dedicated to pee? Don't be silly! Does #1 give you quality time alone to think deep thoughts or read a good book? Never! It's all about do, zip, and go.
Even though I have a majorly recognized brand presence, just once, I'd like to be #1. Thank you.
I think this is a positive sign. NBC News reports
rapper quit his music career to start a cat rescue. The rapper TrapKing thinks it's a good career move, too.
In another NBC News report, that monolith in Utah has disappeared and been replaced by a small stone pyramid and rock cairn. One visitor examined the original structure and showed it was more curved than straight, not at all like the monolith in 2001: A Space Odyssey, not what earlier pictures would lead us to believe. Also, informed speculation calculates the original might have been there over five years without being noticed, which means the suspected original prankster is off the hook.
I'm not sure if I am disappointed or delighted that the trickstery continues. But if all the above is true, I admire the dedication and fortitude of whoever could have left it there that long without saying anything, and not just getting discouraged and removing it.
We are supposedly living in a
Golden Age of television. If so, they forgot to tell our cable provider. Constant ghosts, Nazis, cooking contests, people fixing houses, alien abductions, strange creatures, archeology, and what all, all the same. There is no new programming, just renaming and repackaging and reshowing. It's trash TV at its finest.
You can tell they're running out of ideas, so they're cross-pollinating, injecting aliens into ghost stories, mashing up architecture and Nazis, bigfoot and engineering and cooking shows and auctions with, well, everything.
Still, it's got limitations. I'm here to help, with some outside the box thinking. To wit:
hot chick.There's a fresh challenge from a different alien race each week. And you don't want to see what happens when a bachelor is voted off the island and into his partner's digestive system!
The Computer Chronicles continues. Last week, the program I used to upload files to the internet server broke. This week, Dropbox has started eating files, including a number of poems for a class assignment, and (drumroll, please) snippets and tidits I was collecting for your delight and delectation. So if this is shorter than you might anticipate, well, that's the reason.
If you happen to look up at the moon on November 30, you will be looking at a full moon variously known as the Cold Moon, Frost Moon, Winter Moon, Beaver Moon, Oak Moon, Moon Before Yule, Child Moon, Kartik Purnima, Karthika Deepam and Tazaungdaing Festival Moon, and Ill Poya.
There's supposed to be an 80% eclipse then also, but nobody wants to tell me where on earth we can see it, which is OK, since it's supposed to happen around 4:00 in the hey of hem, so I'm not seeing it anyway, even if it was happening in my backyard.
The New York Times has a nice report on a metal slab that appeared in the rock canyons of Utah earlier this month. Nobody has taken credit for it, or knows how long it's been there.
The picture in the Times shows the monolith in Utah with another picture showing a similar sculpture in a gallery in Manhattan. I think it looks a lot better in the desert.
The suspected artist said something in 2002 about putting his art pieces in remote natural places. Unfortunately, he died in 2011, so we'll never know if he got around to it..
According to authorities, and artist needs permission to place art on federal lands, so the sculpture is illegal. If that's true, that's the kind of regulation that should be repealed, not the stuff about clean air or continuing to protect birds or workplace safety.
From the U.S. Sun:
Trump ‘furious’ at Rudy Giuliani, Sidney Powell and legal team ‘fools that are making him look bad’ in election battle Now, I thought Trump was able to, and did, everything on his own, and didn't need help with anything. Strikes me that's the case here.
TomatoPlanet!! has been in existence (with a couple of name changes) since about 2003. It reflects the interests of its author/creator, John McCarthy. The sole purpose of Tomato Planet!! is to provide an outlet for my attempts at being creative. At various times, these interests have included writing (always writing–fiction, poetry, speculative essays, and humorous writing), coding (html and css) taking pictures, cooking, and cartooning. As interests waned (camera broke and was never replaced, cooking became more functional and simpler), pages devoted to these activities were phased out, to the point where TP!! was a single page. A lot of the writing and subject matter had a limited shelf life, and so instead of archiving it in an accessible fashion, it was just taken off-line and parked in the shed.
Some people missed things, and I put some things back. Most pages have been updated (Stories is a work in progress). Miscellany, which actually has a long history (one of the predecessors of TomatoPlanet!! was called McCarthy Miscellany.), has been rethought, and should be getting more love this year.
All work is based on observation of the world around me.
Serious writing, the poetry and stories take a different approach to capturing these observations. Cartoons and speculative essays take very little seriously, reflecting the world. If you look long enough, you realize that the orbital pattern is random ellipses, not perfectly round. I try to capture the absurdity of that. Not all the way to dark absurdity like Camus and Sartre, or even like Samuel Beckett–I sort of pull up in the land of Douglas Adams and Joseph Heller. I should be so lucky as to write half as well.
If you view the world through absurdist-colored glasses, you will enjoy some of the material here. If you're not an absurdist, well, you haven't been paying attention.