One time I was flipping through the radio channels in Atlanta and I heard a brief snippet of some radio host:
"Honk if you love Star 94!" or some other radio station, I don't recall which. And then I heard a bunch of screaming girls, apparently on speaker phone, who had called into the show:
"AAAAAA - honk - AAAAA WOO honk HOO honk honk!!!!"
Ever since that night I have wondered what the people around the girls' car were thinking. Had I been around them, I probably would have had one of the following thoughts:
"I am going fast enough, idiot!"
"Are my lights on? Are they honking at me?"
"Same to you!!"
And I imagine that the drivers near the girls had similar reactions. But perhaps they were at a stoplight, then reactions would have been slightly different:
"I can't go - the light's red." Honk Honk!
"Do I know them or something?"
Pedestrians would have instinctively ducked and looked for the source. Stray dogs would have started barking and feral cats meowing, the inhabitants of the neighboring car would have looked over and, upon seeing a group of giggling girls, rolled their eyes and continued to wait for the light.
Communication between drivers can be very confusing. The most well-intentioned gesture can be misread and returned with anger, a simple goading honk can be misinterpreted as the honk of utter contempt and unleash a torrent of curses. I have a friend who was once flicked off by a nearby driver who had misunderstood my friend's passionate singing (with arm motions) as passionate screaming and finger-giving. It's dangerous to enjoy your music too much.
Other gestures can be misread too, especially when drivers are wearing sunglasses. Most people love to wave their arms around in meaningful ways while talking to other passengers. That's all well and good until the guy in the car next to you thinks you are waving and gesticulating at him. Then he thinks you are giving him the right of way, he zips in front of you, cutting you off, and you proceed to really wave and gesticulate at him. He does the same back, but he thinks you are happy. It is particularly confusing if you are talking to someone on speaker-phone, so any gestures are made to invisible people. I am normally inclined to think you are gesturing at me before I think you are gesturing to your brother who cannot see you and lives in Alaska.
Often these gesture mishaps result in honking mayhem. The neighborly driver has cut you off, and you are now angry. So you let off a string of honks - long, pregnant ones. Then he knows you are mad. Honking is easily interpreted. The quick two-honk duo is a sign that you need to go, having missed the change of the light. The long, full two-honk means, "You are an idiot," and is often responded to in kind. Longer strings of short honks are light-hearted hellos or demonstrative thoughts of the driver which have nothing to do with anyone else. A single, lengthy honk (for more than 3 seconds) means "Get out of my way fool!"
The only problem is that many cars have vastly inferior horns. Many sound like a mouse squeaking in the corner, trying to be heard in a room full of elephants. Good car horns are juicy, gargling, full, and deep. Large sedans often have the best of all. I used to drive a Buick LeSabre which had an exceptional horn, and I was sure to make use of it often.
All the gesturing and honking has made America's roadways an emotion-laden festering ground of anger. Sometimes even simple mistakes without any malice can result in unbelievable anger. One time I was riding with a friend in rush hour on a local highway. We needed to merge, so seeing a chance, we merged to our right. It just so happened that one lane further to the right contained a gentleman who wanted to merge left into the space we had just occupied. He basically merged at the same time we did and we ended up in front of him. He apparently read this merge as us cutting him off. So he managed to fly past us in the next lane over and remerged into our lane, right ahead of us. Then, in the middle of rush hour on an exceedingly busy highway, he stopped his car and got out (five lanes, mind you). With ire in his face, he walked back to our car, which was effectively blocked by his car ahead of us and traffic all around us, and began to pound on the driver-side window, screaming expletives and nonsensical blabber about us cutting him off. Luckily, we caught a gap in the lane to our right and sped away before anything worse happened. But really, neither of us was in the wrong; I think the no-longer-gentle man was probably affected by indigestion.
I once went to Charleston with a group of friends and our wonderful hosts took us out into the river and harbor in a boat. There were not many other boaters out, at least, we only passed by 10-15 other small boats in the course of 2-3 hours. But every time we came upon another boat, all the passengers waved to each other. We didn't know them, but we were united by boating-culture.
Recently I decided to take up this habit when I drove around the area in which I live. If I was anywhere near my apartment, I would wave to other drivers as they passed by (on two-lane roads, that is). I really enjoyed it; it brought cheer to my day. But people are crazy. I more often received the middle finger than a wave in return for my jollity.
I don't know why people are so disgruntled by friendliness. But one thing is sure, America's roads certainly need more friendliness and less disgruntlement.
Luxury vs. Necessity
In my March 31 post, "Do you want three shots or four?", I discussed the sense of entitlement assumed by many Americans. Basically, I said that the convenience of access to goods and services in America should not become an excuse for greediness.
I was listening to NPR the other day (you should all listen to NPR, it is amazing) and I heard a story that was very encouraging. They were interviewing a man from the Pew Research Center about a recent poll the Pew Center conducted. Apparently, the Pew Center has been asking Americans since 1973 what they consider to be luxuries and necessities. The poll focuses on things like cars, TVs, dishwashers, microwaves, and the like. From 1996-2006, Americans' perceptions of most of these items as a necessity steadily increased. By 2006, 91% of Americans thought a car was a necessity, 83% said the same of a clothes dryer, 70% for home air conditioning, 64% for a TV, 68% for a microwave, and 33% for cable or satellite TV service.
A few years ago, I probably would have said most of those things, with the exception of cable and a TV set, were necessities, particularly AC, a car, and a microwave. Living in Georgia, AC is a must have. It's either AC or death in the middle of the summer here, and I still believe that. But after living in England without a single one of the things listed above (and no dishwasher either!), I have revised my views a little. Whereas I felt that I needed my own car, I have realized that sharing a single car with my wife is really quite feasible, at least for now. We also do not have a microwave in our new apartment. It didn't come with one, and we hardly ever miss it. When I was in college, I used the microwave almost every day. I really didn't need to. We have decided that it's not worth it to spend the $30 it would cost us to buy a microwave - that is how little we need one. We only get the basic channels of TV, and it's great; we read more instead.
In short, I realized that many of the things I considered necessities were really luxuries, and some of them were luxuries that I really wouldn't miss if I didn't have them. Apparently, the recent economic troubles have caused many Americans to rethink this issue as well. Now, according to the poll, the percentages listed above have dramatically reduced. That is great! While the recession is not a good thing, I'm glad it has caused people to realize what is luxury and what is necessity. Some of the new percentages of people considering items as necessity are as follows:
Car - 88%
Clothes Dryer - 66%
Air Conditioning - 54%
TV set - 52%
Microwave - 47%
Cable or Satellite TV Service - 23%
I'm especially pleased that less than half of Americans think microwaves are necessities. Compared to the old 68%, the microwave percentage dropped 21% in three years! That is marvelous. Unfortunately, I know all the numbers will go right back up when the economy rebounds. Meanwhile, it is a good time to reflect on how good we have it in America, because in many places, all the items in the poll are luxuries. And while I'm not saying it is bad to own the things in the list, just because we can afford something doesn't mean it is necessary.
For a summary of the research mentioned, click here.
For the complete report, click here.
I was listening to NPR the other day (you should all listen to NPR, it is amazing) and I heard a story that was very encouraging. They were interviewing a man from the Pew Research Center about a recent poll the Pew Center conducted. Apparently, the Pew Center has been asking Americans since 1973 what they consider to be luxuries and necessities. The poll focuses on things like cars, TVs, dishwashers, microwaves, and the like. From 1996-2006, Americans' perceptions of most of these items as a necessity steadily increased. By 2006, 91% of Americans thought a car was a necessity, 83% said the same of a clothes dryer, 70% for home air conditioning, 64% for a TV, 68% for a microwave, and 33% for cable or satellite TV service.
A few years ago, I probably would have said most of those things, with the exception of cable and a TV set, were necessities, particularly AC, a car, and a microwave. Living in Georgia, AC is a must have. It's either AC or death in the middle of the summer here, and I still believe that. But after living in England without a single one of the things listed above (and no dishwasher either!), I have revised my views a little. Whereas I felt that I needed my own car, I have realized that sharing a single car with my wife is really quite feasible, at least for now. We also do not have a microwave in our new apartment. It didn't come with one, and we hardly ever miss it. When I was in college, I used the microwave almost every day. I really didn't need to. We have decided that it's not worth it to spend the $30 it would cost us to buy a microwave - that is how little we need one. We only get the basic channels of TV, and it's great; we read more instead.
In short, I realized that many of the things I considered necessities were really luxuries, and some of them were luxuries that I really wouldn't miss if I didn't have them. Apparently, the recent economic troubles have caused many Americans to rethink this issue as well. Now, according to the poll, the percentages listed above have dramatically reduced. That is great! While the recession is not a good thing, I'm glad it has caused people to realize what is luxury and what is necessity. Some of the new percentages of people considering items as necessity are as follows:
Car - 88%
Clothes Dryer - 66%
Air Conditioning - 54%
TV set - 52%
Microwave - 47%
Cable or Satellite TV Service - 23%
I'm especially pleased that less than half of Americans think microwaves are necessities. Compared to the old 68%, the microwave percentage dropped 21% in three years! That is marvelous. Unfortunately, I know all the numbers will go right back up when the economy rebounds. Meanwhile, it is a good time to reflect on how good we have it in America, because in many places, all the items in the poll are luxuries. And while I'm not saying it is bad to own the things in the list, just because we can afford something doesn't mean it is necessary.
For a summary of the research mentioned, click here.
For the complete report, click here.
Dragons
Commercials are an interesting part of our culture. Those of us who care nothing for the NFL (college rocks) still watch the Super Bowl just to see what Budweiser will come up with. In my opinion, the commercials are often better than the game. But sometimes you find a gem of an ad watching something other than the Super Bowl.
This happened for me not too long ago. I was innocently watching some nerdy program no doubt, when I was suddenly rapt by drama and excitement of the highest order. The Mac Daddy of all commercials had finally been produced.
Since the commercial is inexplicably absent from Youtube and the rest of the internet as far as I can tell, I will describe the commercial for you. It should not surprise you that the commercial is for Gerber Graduates, food for toddlers. They have always had splendid ads. (And they make food that looks cool, tastes awesome, and is nutritious to boot!)
Basically, a 2-3 year old fellow, who I shall refer to as Henry, has captured a dragon (his mom) and imprisoned her in a cage of couch cushions with little more than brute strength and a tin foil sword. But, alas, it is lunch time! How ever will Henry eat if he must guard a dangerous dragon?!?! Whatever will become of the fair peasants whom Henry guards?? The suspense is so intense!!! !! !
Henry has the perfect solution: "You're freeeee dragon! Fly! Fly! Fly! Fly!"
I never would have thought of it myself. But Henry knew his adversary, and he knew that the perfect way to eat lunch, was to free the dragon. It worked like a charm. Three year olds always know what to do.
The first time I saw the commercial, I had many reactions to it, all of them good. My gut reaction was laughter, of course, as it is quite comical. But then I realized that the little boy had done what I always wanted to do - he had purposefully released a dangerous creature, knowing its heart was good all along. He realized that dragons have feelings too and set it free to revel in its power and mystique. He was the quintessential knight, upright and just.
Now I'm sure the line was scripted, and I'm sure the shot that made it to TV was the 319th take (I can just imagine the producers: "Alright Henry, just hold that 'freeee' a little longer - and why don't you wave the sword around too? No, Henry, you cannot have another popsicle until you finish the commercial!"), but the line was right in sync with the ways of the young. It is just like them to have a keen insight into life at the perfect moment, or to ask the question you have always intended to ask but never did.
I identify with the little guy; I've always wanted to free the dragon but I'm afraid it will eat me. Now I know dragons just want to be free and fly. So next time I'll free the dragon.
I'll be eagerly awaiting the next development in food for toddlers.
For my favorite dragon, click here.
For some funny kid quotes, click here.
This happened for me not too long ago. I was innocently watching some nerdy program no doubt, when I was suddenly rapt by drama and excitement of the highest order. The Mac Daddy of all commercials had finally been produced.
Since the commercial is inexplicably absent from Youtube and the rest of the internet as far as I can tell, I will describe the commercial for you. It should not surprise you that the commercial is for Gerber Graduates, food for toddlers. They have always had splendid ads. (And they make food that looks cool, tastes awesome, and is nutritious to boot!)
Basically, a 2-3 year old fellow, who I shall refer to as Henry, has captured a dragon (his mom) and imprisoned her in a cage of couch cushions with little more than brute strength and a tin foil sword. But, alas, it is lunch time! How ever will Henry eat if he must guard a dangerous dragon?!?! Whatever will become of the fair peasants whom Henry guards?? The suspense is so intense!!! !! !
Henry has the perfect solution: "You're freeeee dragon! Fly! Fly! Fly! Fly!"
I never would have thought of it myself. But Henry knew his adversary, and he knew that the perfect way to eat lunch, was to free the dragon. It worked like a charm. Three year olds always know what to do.
The first time I saw the commercial, I had many reactions to it, all of them good. My gut reaction was laughter, of course, as it is quite comical. But then I realized that the little boy had done what I always wanted to do - he had purposefully released a dangerous creature, knowing its heart was good all along. He realized that dragons have feelings too and set it free to revel in its power and mystique. He was the quintessential knight, upright and just.
Now I'm sure the line was scripted, and I'm sure the shot that made it to TV was the 319th take (I can just imagine the producers: "Alright Henry, just hold that 'freeee' a little longer - and why don't you wave the sword around too? No, Henry, you cannot have another popsicle until you finish the commercial!"), but the line was right in sync with the ways of the young. It is just like them to have a keen insight into life at the perfect moment, or to ask the question you have always intended to ask but never did.
I identify with the little guy; I've always wanted to free the dragon but I'm afraid it will eat me. Now I know dragons just want to be free and fly. So next time I'll free the dragon.
I'll be eagerly awaiting the next development in food for toddlers.
For my favorite dragon, click here.
For some funny kid quotes, click here.
Merlyn knows best
On my bedside table sit a lamp, a clock, a coaster, and thirteen books. They cover a range of topics about which I often pontificate to my wife and other unwary listeners: medieval literature, evolution, language, theology, physics, writing, myth, the geological formation of fjords, and ocean floor cartography. The mound continuously grows as I visit bookstores or libraries, which, of course, I do regularly. Every night is a battle to decide which book I shall read, and it is truly stressing. Most of the time I cannot make up my mind, so I pick three or four books out of the heap and set them next to me on the bed. I hope to read each of them, but I invariably get hooked into whichever I choose first and neglect the others until the following night. But there is the special case of the short story which allows for greater flexibility. At the suggestion of my friend Paul (cheers Paul), I recently checked out a selection of mysteries by Isaac Asimov (Paul actually suggested some of his other works, but the library was fresh out). Not only are the mysteries entertaining, but their brevity also allows me multiple genres of entertainment in one night. Capital, I say.
The only problem is that in this edition, Asimov himself makes a few brief comments at the beginning of each mystery. As a prescript to the first story I read, he mentions how obvious the solution is - apparently I'm an idiot.
But the point is that bibliophiles like myself (and many of you, I dare say) can hop, skip, and jump from genre to genre with the gracious help of our local bookmongers and lenders. I haven't been around too long, but from what I can tell, the availability of books today is absolutely staggering compared to that of even thirty or forty years ago. The collections at the library are about what they have always been (except those of university libraries, which have greatly expanded due to the internet), but chain bookstores like Barnes & Noble and Borders have put thousands of additional options at the fingertips of the consumer. And if these still do not have the required volume, Amazon is sure to provide.
Unfortunately, along with the many wonderful books that this expansion makes accessible, mountains of worthless books are also strewn around us. Many books simply restate the ideas or plots of previous books, and I am actually fine with that to some extent. Each generation needs its own authors to recast the most important ideas in life, and that has always been the case. But aside from these, the refuse that populates bookshelves is almost comical. From the lexical pornography of the harlequin novel to the ten billionth Lord of the Rings copycat to the endless stream of self-help and fast-money pyramid scheme books to the infernal mindlessness of many modern works, good books are slowly being overtaken by commercialism. As a Christian, one of the other problems that irks me is the incessant flow of poorly written Christian metaphoric novels. This is one category that we could probably ignore for several generations before needing to recast it. But even worse is the conspicuous money grubbing of the authors of series like Left Behind, first intended as three books, then seven, and finally filling out at a whopping sixteen.
One cause for the multiplication of poorly written books is that publishers are afraid to reject the voice of the minority, even if the work is utterly terrible, for fear of being called racist. This problem is especially evident at the university level, where introductory literature classes are often full of books by minority authors regardless of the books' merits. Harold Bloom, noted Shakespeare critic, says it best in his book Genius:
"I was a sweeter person before our universities yielded to supposed social benignity and chose texts for teaching largely on the basis of the racial origin, gender, sexual orientation, and ethnic affiliations of the New Authors, past and present, whether or not they could write their way out of a paper bag."
So true.
The more subtle problem is that these days anyone can publish, even in nonfiction, whether or not the information contained in their books is true. So when Thomas Cahill, a supposedly reputable historian, publishes a book entitled How the Irish Saved Civilization, we are led to believe that the Irish really did save civilization. The book is right there in the history section along with Herodotus, Tacitus, the Beards, the Durants, and all the rest. But Cahill's facts are all mixed up, and in reality there is little evidence for his thesis that "without the mission of the Irish monks, who single-handedly refounded European civilization...the world that came after them would have been an entirely different one - a world without books." The Irish monks were not the only ones copying books, as he proposes. I'm quite certain we would still have books without the Irish monks. But to the unsuspecting reader, Cahill's premise may be believable.
Thus, the availability of books is both a blessing and a curse. It allows us to construct massive towers of diverse genre on our bedside tables, but it also clutters our bookstores, libraries, and educational establishments with rubbish. I have to conclude, though, that the benefits outweigh the detriments. I would rather have access to all the books I desire while having to winnow out the garbage than to be unable to learn as much as I please. And I suppose the task of separating the worthwhile from the worthless also educates. While tricky books like Cahill's still bother me, the pleasure of learning is too great to ignore.
T.H. White sums it up nicely via Merlyn, sage of Arthurian legend:
"The best thing for being sad is to learn something. That is the only thing that never fails....Learn why the world wags and what wags it. That is the only thing which the mind can never exhaust, never alienate, never be tortured by, never fear or distrust, and never dream of regretting. Learning is the thing for you."
The only problem is that in this edition, Asimov himself makes a few brief comments at the beginning of each mystery. As a prescript to the first story I read, he mentions how obvious the solution is - apparently I'm an idiot.
But the point is that bibliophiles like myself (and many of you, I dare say) can hop, skip, and jump from genre to genre with the gracious help of our local bookmongers and lenders. I haven't been around too long, but from what I can tell, the availability of books today is absolutely staggering compared to that of even thirty or forty years ago. The collections at the library are about what they have always been (except those of university libraries, which have greatly expanded due to the internet), but chain bookstores like Barnes & Noble and Borders have put thousands of additional options at the fingertips of the consumer. And if these still do not have the required volume, Amazon is sure to provide.
Unfortunately, along with the many wonderful books that this expansion makes accessible, mountains of worthless books are also strewn around us. Many books simply restate the ideas or plots of previous books, and I am actually fine with that to some extent. Each generation needs its own authors to recast the most important ideas in life, and that has always been the case. But aside from these, the refuse that populates bookshelves is almost comical. From the lexical pornography of the harlequin novel to the ten billionth Lord of the Rings copycat to the endless stream of self-help and fast-money pyramid scheme books to the infernal mindlessness of many modern works, good books are slowly being overtaken by commercialism. As a Christian, one of the other problems that irks me is the incessant flow of poorly written Christian metaphoric novels. This is one category that we could probably ignore for several generations before needing to recast it. But even worse is the conspicuous money grubbing of the authors of series like Left Behind, first intended as three books, then seven, and finally filling out at a whopping sixteen.
One cause for the multiplication of poorly written books is that publishers are afraid to reject the voice of the minority, even if the work is utterly terrible, for fear of being called racist. This problem is especially evident at the university level, where introductory literature classes are often full of books by minority authors regardless of the books' merits. Harold Bloom, noted Shakespeare critic, says it best in his book Genius:
"I was a sweeter person before our universities yielded to supposed social benignity and chose texts for teaching largely on the basis of the racial origin, gender, sexual orientation, and ethnic affiliations of the New Authors, past and present, whether or not they could write their way out of a paper bag."
So true.
The more subtle problem is that these days anyone can publish, even in nonfiction, whether or not the information contained in their books is true. So when Thomas Cahill, a supposedly reputable historian, publishes a book entitled How the Irish Saved Civilization, we are led to believe that the Irish really did save civilization. The book is right there in the history section along with Herodotus, Tacitus, the Beards, the Durants, and all the rest. But Cahill's facts are all mixed up, and in reality there is little evidence for his thesis that "without the mission of the Irish monks, who single-handedly refounded European civilization...the world that came after them would have been an entirely different one - a world without books." The Irish monks were not the only ones copying books, as he proposes. I'm quite certain we would still have books without the Irish monks. But to the unsuspecting reader, Cahill's premise may be believable.
Thus, the availability of books is both a blessing and a curse. It allows us to construct massive towers of diverse genre on our bedside tables, but it also clutters our bookstores, libraries, and educational establishments with rubbish. I have to conclude, though, that the benefits outweigh the detriments. I would rather have access to all the books I desire while having to winnow out the garbage than to be unable to learn as much as I please. And I suppose the task of separating the worthwhile from the worthless also educates. While tricky books like Cahill's still bother me, the pleasure of learning is too great to ignore.
T.H. White sums it up nicely via Merlyn, sage of Arthurian legend:
"The best thing for being sad is to learn something. That is the only thing that never fails....Learn why the world wags and what wags it. That is the only thing which the mind can never exhaust, never alienate, never be tortured by, never fear or distrust, and never dream of regretting. Learning is the thing for you."
Eight months in review
If you are new to the Survey, or even if you are a veteran, you may not have checked out some of the posts from the last eight months. So I thought I'd provide links to a few of the posts I find most enjoyable, new and old:
The Battle of Lechèque
Paranoia
He's a Regular
Books
Do you want three shots or four?
Cast your vote for your favorite in the box to the right!
The Battle of Lechèque
Paranoia
He's a Regular
Books
Do you want three shots or four?
Cast your vote for your favorite in the box to the right!
An Etymological Excursion
I find it comical how often preachers refer to dead languages. Don’t get me wrong, dead languages or great, and I plan to learn as many of them as I can before I die, but preachers like to use them unnecessarily. Once, for instance, I heard a sermon about abundant life, and the preacher decided to whip out the Greek:
“Abundant – in Greek the word literally means ‘abundant’”
Fascinating. This sort of thing happens all the time, unfortunately. While I love old languages, I think it would really be better of preachers avoided them, except on especially useful occasions.
Last night I was in Borders and decided it would be a good time to peruse the good ole etymological dictionary, just for fun. There were a few words I had been meaning to look up anyway. While I am not attempting to explain abundant life, I hope you enjoy some of the nuggets I found:
Wold – open country
This word, while rare in America, is common in England and has an interesting history. It ultimately comes from German wald, forest. England used to be covered in forests, so many places have the word wold in them to denote a forest. But the forests didn’t last forever. As England was deforested, the names for places did not always change, so many places that are labeled wold were previously forests but are now open country. This process occurred so many times that the meaning of wold now only retains the meaning of ‘open country.’
Naughty – disobedient, mischievous; older – evil, wicked
The word originates in Middle English from naught, that is, nothingness, void. Naughti originally meant needy or having nothing. The current meaning of disobedient or of ill repute probably came from the view that the poor were improper and mischievous.
As an interesting side note, medieval Christian thought was influenced strongly by theologians like St. Augustine, St. Thomas Aquinas, and Boethius, all of whom espoused the view that evil was essentially the absence of good. Then perhaps naught had a connotation of evil in the medieval mind since nothingness contains nothing, including anything good. So obviously nothingness would have a conspicuous absence of goodness and would therefore be evil. But I have no evidence for this meaning, just speculation of a potential influence.
Villain – a scoundrel
Villain is ultimately from Latin villanus, farmhand, someone who worked on a villa. Villein denoted someone belonging to a half-free group of peasants in the Middle Ages. Both meanings did connote roguery, probably because of class differences again.
Flavor – taste
From Latin flator, odor, aroma. I just found that interesting.
Ambrosia – food of the gods
Originally from ambrotos, immortal [a – not + brotos (from mrotos – mortal)]. This is a good example of semantic narrowing. Instead of just meaning immortal, ambrosia came to mean something more specific that was associated with the immortals. Another good example is meat, which used to mean simply ‘food’ but now means, well, ‘meat.’
Flamingo – pink bird that stands on one leg all the time
Stems from flamenco which comes from Dutch Vlaming, a native of Flanders. The bird is so called because its coloring was associated with the pinkish complexion of the Flemish or Dutch.
Fornicate – have sex outside of marriage
This one shows just how disparate original meanings can be. It comes from Latin fornix, arch, vault. It gained its current meaning because prostitutes in Rome often solicited under the arches of certain buildings.
Fiasco - complete failure
Again, strange things on this one. It comes from the Latin flasco, flask, and derives its meaning from an obscure allusion in Italian drama.
Fascist (apparently I like 'f' words) - an extremist right-wing psycho
Comes from Latin fascis, a bundle (of twigs or straw). In Roman days, a bundle of rods attached to an axe head was carried before magistrates as a symbol of authority and power. How that came to mean authority or power, I have no idea. Strange thing, culture.
I think that’s enough for now. I hope you have enjoyed our etymological excursion!
“Abundant – in Greek the word literally means ‘abundant’”
Fascinating. This sort of thing happens all the time, unfortunately. While I love old languages, I think it would really be better of preachers avoided them, except on especially useful occasions.
Last night I was in Borders and decided it would be a good time to peruse the good ole etymological dictionary, just for fun. There were a few words I had been meaning to look up anyway. While I am not attempting to explain abundant life, I hope you enjoy some of the nuggets I found:
Wold – open country
This word, while rare in America, is common in England and has an interesting history. It ultimately comes from German wald, forest. England used to be covered in forests, so many places have the word wold in them to denote a forest. But the forests didn’t last forever. As England was deforested, the names for places did not always change, so many places that are labeled wold were previously forests but are now open country. This process occurred so many times that the meaning of wold now only retains the meaning of ‘open country.’
Naughty – disobedient, mischievous; older – evil, wicked
The word originates in Middle English from naught, that is, nothingness, void. Naughti originally meant needy or having nothing. The current meaning of disobedient or of ill repute probably came from the view that the poor were improper and mischievous.
As an interesting side note, medieval Christian thought was influenced strongly by theologians like St. Augustine, St. Thomas Aquinas, and Boethius, all of whom espoused the view that evil was essentially the absence of good. Then perhaps naught had a connotation of evil in the medieval mind since nothingness contains nothing, including anything good. So obviously nothingness would have a conspicuous absence of goodness and would therefore be evil. But I have no evidence for this meaning, just speculation of a potential influence.
Villain – a scoundrel
Villain is ultimately from Latin villanus, farmhand, someone who worked on a villa. Villein denoted someone belonging to a half-free group of peasants in the Middle Ages. Both meanings did connote roguery, probably because of class differences again.
Flavor – taste
From Latin flator, odor, aroma. I just found that interesting.
Ambrosia – food of the gods
Originally from ambrotos, immortal [a – not + brotos (from mrotos – mortal)]. This is a good example of semantic narrowing. Instead of just meaning immortal, ambrosia came to mean something more specific that was associated with the immortals. Another good example is meat, which used to mean simply ‘food’ but now means, well, ‘meat.’
Flamingo – pink bird that stands on one leg all the time
Stems from flamenco which comes from Dutch Vlaming, a native of Flanders. The bird is so called because its coloring was associated with the pinkish complexion of the Flemish or Dutch.
Fornicate – have sex outside of marriage
This one shows just how disparate original meanings can be. It comes from Latin fornix, arch, vault. It gained its current meaning because prostitutes in Rome often solicited under the arches of certain buildings.
Fiasco - complete failure
Again, strange things on this one. It comes from the Latin flasco, flask, and derives its meaning from an obscure allusion in Italian drama.
Fascist (apparently I like 'f' words) - an extremist right-wing psycho
Comes from Latin fascis, a bundle (of twigs or straw). In Roman days, a bundle of rods attached to an axe head was carried before magistrates as a symbol of authority and power. How that came to mean authority or power, I have no idea. Strange thing, culture.
I think that’s enough for now. I hope you have enjoyed our etymological excursion!
Changes at the Survey
Hello all! As you may have noticed recently, the blog is changing. Unfortunately, I don't really know HTML, so the changes are slow. I have been wanting to update the format for some time now, so I have finally begun. It will probably take awhile to complete, but eventually I hope to make the blog more attractive and easier to read. I went ahead and switched to this current format because of the wider reading area (I was sick of that thin column on the old blog). But you will probably see more changes, perhaps complete format changes, in the weeks to come.
For now, please notice that the comments are now just under the heading of the article rather than at the end. So you can click on it and comment as usual. Also, notice the great new search bar in the upper right corner of the page. It actually works!! I'm really excited about that. So, for instance, if you type "defenestration," you will notice that I have mentioned the topic twice!
If you follow the blog but have not become one of my "followers," please take the time to become one by clicking the follow button in the right hand column a few boxes down. You will need a google email address to do this, I believe.
I am trying to focus my blog a little more from here on out. It has been extremely random, and while I do not plan to eliminate that, I plan to focus more on language, the arts, and culture. Most of my articles have perhaps vaguely fallen into these categories, but I will be more conscious about it henceforth. But trust me, there will still be plenty of ridiculous stories.
I hope you enjoy the blog, and I hope the changes will make it even more enjoyable.
Thanks to all you readers!
For now, please notice that the comments are now just under the heading of the article rather than at the end. So you can click on it and comment as usual. Also, notice the great new search bar in the upper right corner of the page. It actually works!! I'm really excited about that. So, for instance, if you type "defenestration," you will notice that I have mentioned the topic twice!
If you follow the blog but have not become one of my "followers," please take the time to become one by clicking the follow button in the right hand column a few boxes down. You will need a google email address to do this, I believe.
I am trying to focus my blog a little more from here on out. It has been extremely random, and while I do not plan to eliminate that, I plan to focus more on language, the arts, and culture. Most of my articles have perhaps vaguely fallen into these categories, but I will be more conscious about it henceforth. But trust me, there will still be plenty of ridiculous stories.
I hope you enjoy the blog, and I hope the changes will make it even more enjoyable.
Thanks to all you readers!
Five Steps to a Happy Life
Today my wife told me I should be a life coach. As it happens, I have many ideas about how to live well, so I figured I would have an evening as a life coach and share my insights with you. Here are my five foolproof freebies for feeling felicitous:
1. Eat your vegetables.
This is self-explanatory.
2. Judge a book by its cover.
If it has the toothy grin of the author plastered all over it, it's not worth reading. Take Joel Osteen, for example. This tip alone may make you so much happier that you will produce your own five step plan to happiness!
3. Know thy car.
There is something strangely pleasant about avoiding obstacles in the road without disturbing your passengers. But this is only possible when you know the precise location of all of your tires on the road. It is a little known fact that the phrase rendered "Know thyself" was mistranslated from Greek.
4. Make a home video based on Monty Python and the Holy Grail.
I did this with a friend in high school for an English project. We actually combined Monty Python with Hamlet and The Catcher in the Rye, and the results were astounding. Whenever I'm down, I recall the scene where Holden Caulfield (my friend) chops off the hand of Hamlet's ghost (yours truly) and Hamlet's ghost, who has a squirt bottle hidden up his sleeve, squirts Holden with torrents of red water. Voilà! Instant joy. (The hand he chopped off was a latex glove filled with red water. The explosion was legendary.)
5. Play Boggle.
Excavating words from the tangled jumble of letters on the Boggle board produces a feeling akin to that felt when discovering a treasure amidst the junk at a garage sale. Finding hidden treasures is good for your health and your happiness.
I hope these tips make you happy. Maybe I'll write a book....with my face all over it.
1. Eat your vegetables.
This is self-explanatory.
2. Judge a book by its cover.
If it has the toothy grin of the author plastered all over it, it's not worth reading. Take Joel Osteen, for example. This tip alone may make you so much happier that you will produce your own five step plan to happiness!
3. Know thy car.
There is something strangely pleasant about avoiding obstacles in the road without disturbing your passengers. But this is only possible when you know the precise location of all of your tires on the road. It is a little known fact that the phrase rendered "Know thyself" was mistranslated from Greek.
4. Make a home video based on Monty Python and the Holy Grail.
I did this with a friend in high school for an English project. We actually combined Monty Python with Hamlet and The Catcher in the Rye, and the results were astounding. Whenever I'm down, I recall the scene where Holden Caulfield (my friend) chops off the hand of Hamlet's ghost (yours truly) and Hamlet's ghost, who has a squirt bottle hidden up his sleeve, squirts Holden with torrents of red water. Voilà! Instant joy. (The hand he chopped off was a latex glove filled with red water. The explosion was legendary.)
5. Play Boggle.
Excavating words from the tangled jumble of letters on the Boggle board produces a feeling akin to that felt when discovering a treasure amidst the junk at a garage sale. Finding hidden treasures is good for your health and your happiness.
I hope these tips make you happy. Maybe I'll write a book....with my face all over it.
Baffling Basque
Humanity is naturally attracted to mystery, but we are not satisfied when a mystery remains unsolved. Imagine how all of those Brits would have felt if at the end of The Hound of the Baskervilles if, instead of discovering the culprit's hideaway, Holmes himself is killed by the hound and it continues to terrorize the moor for centuries to come. Or what if the folks from CSI stopped solving the crimes, perplexed at how smart those criminals are? I think they might lose one or two of their viewers. Then there are the perennial pleasers - aliens, bigfeet, that indomitable abominable snowman, and most recently, the Knights Templar and their secret treasure. All of these continue to fascinate the general public because they are still unsolved mysteries, but we are trying to solve them. And we especially like a mystery if someone can propose an answer that contradicts the general opinion. We will continue to propose answers until one is so completely unassailable that no one could possible dismiss it. Then the mystery loses its mystique, as have many natural phenomena that were mysteries to our forebears: fire, lightning, earthquakes, and the like. We know the facts, so they are no longer mystifying.
But there is still a ponderous quantity of mysteries out there, and I was rethrown into one this past weekend. We were up in Athens for a wedding, and as Ashley and I are wont to do with in our free time, we wanted to go to a bookstore after the rehearsal dinner on Friday. So we went first to our old haunt, Borders, but the whole shopping center had lost power due to a strong storm passing through. This, I believe, was a fortunate stroke of fate. Rather than turn in sans a bookstore perusal, we went to the slightly further afield Barnes and Noble. As we rummaged our way into the center of the store, I asked an employee what time the store closed. He replied that it closed at eleven, and I felt like I had seen the fellow somewhere before. But I continued on in my rummaging.
When what should I recall but that Lloyd, the amiable employee, was my linguistics teacher several years earlier. So I went back and verified this fact and we began to discuss our lives since we so sadly parted ways post-LING 2100. I told him how I had become very interested in toponyms in England (place names and their etymologies), which led us to the aforementioned mystery:
"Aha!" says he. "I recently read a very interesting article about a linguist who reanalyzed a bunch of European hydronyms (water names - rivers especially) as Basque, proposing that Basque was the original European language, the earliest language that was ever there."
"Mysterious?" you may be thinking. Let me explain why. With the exception of four languages in Europe (Finnish, Hungarian, Estonian, and Basque), all European tongues are classified as Indo-European. That is, a long time ago, some chaps who originated probably somewhere in the Middle East started spreading out, and now the languages that originated from that group are spoken from India to America. So Latin and its descendants) are Indo-European, as are Greek, Hindi, German, Persian, and English. Finnish and Estonian were transplants, carried with people groups from the Ural mountain region after the Indo-European languages were established in Europe. Hungarian was a similar transplant.
Basque, however, is unique. A small corner of northern Spain and southwestern France is home to the Basque people and has been for ages. But nobody knows where the Basque people came from, and the Basque language is completely unrelated to all other languages on Earth. There aren't many of these language isolates (as they are called), and Basque is the poster child of them all. So while we English speakers can trace our language first back to England then to the Frisian coast of Europe, then to Saxony, and from there all the way back to the Middle East, the history of the Basque language starts and ends in Basque country. For all we know it has always been there.
As a lover of language, I have always been intrigued by Basque. It was a mystery to me, just as Sherlock Holmes, and one for which I have always desired an answer. With all the complexity of modern scholarship, surely someone should be able to give a convincing explanation for this strange people and their language. I am not the first to by mystified - many throughout the ages have conjectured about the Basque origin. Some tried to establish connections to Armenia, North Africa, Siberia, and even Japan. Others have said the Basque are descended from Aitor, the only chap to survive the flood other than Noah and his family (though I had never heard of him). And of course some have claimed the Basque are the lost thirteenth tribe of Israel while others say they are the survivors of Atlantis.
So back to my discussion with my old linguistics teacher. I was of course interested when he told me about a new study, by a bona fide linguist, that may explain this ancient enigma. Hydronyms, particularly names of rivers, seem to be the most unchanging names in a landscape. For instance, when the Normans conquered England many words in English changed drastically, particularly in the legal realm. But the names of rivers were immutable. The conquering group had no reason to rename rivers; it was not practical or helpful. This has applied very steadily throughout history as conquering peoples replaced others in Europe. So the names of rivers and other bodies of water should reflect very ancient languages, probably the first languages to be established in the region.
The study my teacher spoke of attempted to show that Basque was the original language in Europe and that the invading Indo-European language simply squashed it until it was only extant in its current region. If this was true, then many rivers in Europe would still carry names given in Basque, or derivatives thereof. The author of the study, Theo Vennemann, then postulated many etymologies for hydronyms throughout western Europe, claiming to show that Basque had indeed been the first of all "European" languages, the original, an ancient foundation that Indo-European unfortunately obliterated.
I was very pleased by the idea - this seemed to be a intellectually satisfying theory. So the next day I began to search for the work to give it a read. I found it - it cost $300 and was 1000 pages long. So I found a review instead, published in the journal Lingua. It was a comprehensive and fairly written review, compiled by a large number of respected linguists. Unfortunately, in the 30 or 40 pages of the review, it became very obvious that Mr Vennemann was grasping at straws. A long time student of Basque, he, like many of us amateurs, desperately wanted the Basque mystery to be greater than it was, to be hiding a vast importance that we have yet to discover. Truth be told, the vast majority of the etymologies that formed the foundation of Vennemann's theory are deeply questionable, and the linguist academy still holds that all of the rivers in question have very probable roots in Indo-European language.
I also looked around online, and it seems that the review is in accord with most people's view on the matter. The evidence for Vennemann is untenable, simply wishful thinking. So Basque is still an unsolved mystery, an island in language and history. I'm sure one day it will be solved, but maybe not in my lifetime.
Like many others I'm sure, I have always loved a good conspiracy. It would be cool if the Knights Templar really had a vast hidden treasure or if someone found El Dorado or the Fountain of Youth. But no matter how enticing, we must assess the evidence of the claims. Many people seem to think the Da Vinci code is real, despite all the dozens of books with convincing evidence that it is a complete falsehood. It is just so exciting. Cover ups that stretch across millennia, fortunes untold, eternal youth!!
The reviewers of the Basque theory make something very clear: Vennemann's argument is seductive. It is very well written, convincingly argued, wonderfully appealing. But the facts are in opposition to the rhetoric. So which should we accept?
For now, we must reject Vennemann; we also must reject Dan Brown. And unfortunately we must reject National Treasure (alas!). Facts before rhetoric, evidence before conjecture, particularly when it comes to history.
So there you have it. We still don't know anything about Basque, but is certainly interesting. And while I cannot accept the theory that Basque was the first language in Europe (at least with the current evidence), I'm still holding out for the Atlantis theory.
But there is still a ponderous quantity of mysteries out there, and I was rethrown into one this past weekend. We were up in Athens for a wedding, and as Ashley and I are wont to do with in our free time, we wanted to go to a bookstore after the rehearsal dinner on Friday. So we went first to our old haunt, Borders, but the whole shopping center had lost power due to a strong storm passing through. This, I believe, was a fortunate stroke of fate. Rather than turn in sans a bookstore perusal, we went to the slightly further afield Barnes and Noble. As we rummaged our way into the center of the store, I asked an employee what time the store closed. He replied that it closed at eleven, and I felt like I had seen the fellow somewhere before. But I continued on in my rummaging.
When what should I recall but that Lloyd, the amiable employee, was my linguistics teacher several years earlier. So I went back and verified this fact and we began to discuss our lives since we so sadly parted ways post-LING 2100. I told him how I had become very interested in toponyms in England (place names and their etymologies), which led us to the aforementioned mystery:
"Aha!" says he. "I recently read a very interesting article about a linguist who reanalyzed a bunch of European hydronyms (water names - rivers especially) as Basque, proposing that Basque was the original European language, the earliest language that was ever there."
"Mysterious?" you may be thinking. Let me explain why. With the exception of four languages in Europe (Finnish, Hungarian, Estonian, and Basque), all European tongues are classified as Indo-European. That is, a long time ago, some chaps who originated probably somewhere in the Middle East started spreading out, and now the languages that originated from that group are spoken from India to America. So Latin and its descendants) are Indo-European, as are Greek, Hindi, German, Persian, and English. Finnish and Estonian were transplants, carried with people groups from the Ural mountain region after the Indo-European languages were established in Europe. Hungarian was a similar transplant.
Basque, however, is unique. A small corner of northern Spain and southwestern France is home to the Basque people and has been for ages. But nobody knows where the Basque people came from, and the Basque language is completely unrelated to all other languages on Earth. There aren't many of these language isolates (as they are called), and Basque is the poster child of them all. So while we English speakers can trace our language first back to England then to the Frisian coast of Europe, then to Saxony, and from there all the way back to the Middle East, the history of the Basque language starts and ends in Basque country. For all we know it has always been there.
As a lover of language, I have always been intrigued by Basque. It was a mystery to me, just as Sherlock Holmes, and one for which I have always desired an answer. With all the complexity of modern scholarship, surely someone should be able to give a convincing explanation for this strange people and their language. I am not the first to by mystified - many throughout the ages have conjectured about the Basque origin. Some tried to establish connections to Armenia, North Africa, Siberia, and even Japan. Others have said the Basque are descended from Aitor, the only chap to survive the flood other than Noah and his family (though I had never heard of him). And of course some have claimed the Basque are the lost thirteenth tribe of Israel while others say they are the survivors of Atlantis.
So back to my discussion with my old linguistics teacher. I was of course interested when he told me about a new study, by a bona fide linguist, that may explain this ancient enigma. Hydronyms, particularly names of rivers, seem to be the most unchanging names in a landscape. For instance, when the Normans conquered England many words in English changed drastically, particularly in the legal realm. But the names of rivers were immutable. The conquering group had no reason to rename rivers; it was not practical or helpful. This has applied very steadily throughout history as conquering peoples replaced others in Europe. So the names of rivers and other bodies of water should reflect very ancient languages, probably the first languages to be established in the region.
The study my teacher spoke of attempted to show that Basque was the original language in Europe and that the invading Indo-European language simply squashed it until it was only extant in its current region. If this was true, then many rivers in Europe would still carry names given in Basque, or derivatives thereof. The author of the study, Theo Vennemann, then postulated many etymologies for hydronyms throughout western Europe, claiming to show that Basque had indeed been the first of all "European" languages, the original, an ancient foundation that Indo-European unfortunately obliterated.
I was very pleased by the idea - this seemed to be a intellectually satisfying theory. So the next day I began to search for the work to give it a read. I found it - it cost $300 and was 1000 pages long. So I found a review instead, published in the journal Lingua. It was a comprehensive and fairly written review, compiled by a large number of respected linguists. Unfortunately, in the 30 or 40 pages of the review, it became very obvious that Mr Vennemann was grasping at straws. A long time student of Basque, he, like many of us amateurs, desperately wanted the Basque mystery to be greater than it was, to be hiding a vast importance that we have yet to discover. Truth be told, the vast majority of the etymologies that formed the foundation of Vennemann's theory are deeply questionable, and the linguist academy still holds that all of the rivers in question have very probable roots in Indo-European language.
I also looked around online, and it seems that the review is in accord with most people's view on the matter. The evidence for Vennemann is untenable, simply wishful thinking. So Basque is still an unsolved mystery, an island in language and history. I'm sure one day it will be solved, but maybe not in my lifetime.
Like many others I'm sure, I have always loved a good conspiracy. It would be cool if the Knights Templar really had a vast hidden treasure or if someone found El Dorado or the Fountain of Youth. But no matter how enticing, we must assess the evidence of the claims. Many people seem to think the Da Vinci code is real, despite all the dozens of books with convincing evidence that it is a complete falsehood. It is just so exciting. Cover ups that stretch across millennia, fortunes untold, eternal youth!!
The reviewers of the Basque theory make something very clear: Vennemann's argument is seductive. It is very well written, convincingly argued, wonderfully appealing. But the facts are in opposition to the rhetoric. So which should we accept?
For now, we must reject Vennemann; we also must reject Dan Brown. And unfortunately we must reject National Treasure (alas!). Facts before rhetoric, evidence before conjecture, particularly when it comes to history.
So there you have it. We still don't know anything about Basque, but is certainly interesting. And while I cannot accept the theory that Basque was the first language in Europe (at least with the current evidence), I'm still holding out for the Atlantis theory.
Soothing Pillows
The car is the sanctum sanctorum of the family, long-established with particular rules and habits, seeing the true nature of the family at its rawest. And more than the average traffic around town, road trips bring out the best and worst in everyone. The most frequent road trip in my youth was the semiannual trips to Ohio to visit our grandparents and cousins. For our family the fun began even before we entered the vehicle.
The morning of our trip was always hectic. We kids never got out of bed, even after numerous goadings from our father. Mom was never quite ready with her packing, even if she had stayed up half the night doing so. Then we had to cart all of our stuff down the stairs and out into the car. I always brought a completely full bookbag, stuffed with gameboys, a book or two, music galore, a magical dog leash, two globes (in case we got lost and I managed to misplace the first globe), a bunsen burner, a caterpillar larva, 18 potted plants, and the most recent edition of Brittanica Encyclopedia's letter L volume. I also brought a pillow.
Fitting my copious entertainment materials into the car was difficult as it was, but also finding room for my three siblings' equally burdensome loads was truly an art. We often completely filled our leg room with the piles. But really, what would I have done without my chrysanthemums once we arrived in Ohio? It's traumatic to think about the possibility.
It was a first come, first served game, to some extent. When we were all young and bendy, squeezing into tight corners was a possibility for all of us. So whoever got their stuff in the seat first got it. But as we strapping boys grew into strapping young men, it was difficult to ignore our cramped positions if we were in the back. My sister got the short end of the stick then and as the youngest boy, I often joined her. When I went outside, I knew the good seats were either already full, or that I would be ejected if I took them. So I would throw my goods into the back and return inside to wait for departure.
By this time we were already two hours late. We had intended to leave at 7:30 AM, or so my father had said; now it was 9:30. Looking back, I am skeptical that he ever anticipated a timely exit. It was so wonderfully marvelous, after all, to be late. Mom was still scurrying around upstairs getting her hair dryers and telling us to pack enough socks. I would then return to the living room and surround myself in couch. In such position I could quickly fall back asleep and be slightly late for the coming conscription of the kids to help carry Mom's bags down to the car.
Around 10:15 we would make it to the car as a family, only to discover that we had forgotten everything important. I had left my prized geraniums, Mom had left her green polka dotted socks, my brothers' headphones had both just mysteriously broken, and my sister needed the next Anne of Green Gables book. We also had to use the bathroom again for the 32nd time.
The great thing about all this waiting, at least for our Christmas trip, was that the pillows had lots of time to chill in the car. By the time we actually left, I could enjoy a delight that only came a few times a year and only for fifteen minutes each time. This, of course, was the joy of my cold pillow laying in my lap. Perhaps I am strange, but as an often over-warm person, the refreshing coolness of the pillow in my lap was akin to a cold drink in midsummer. It relaxed, revitalized, and removed me from the busy life of childhood. I was no longer worrying about what game I would play next, what character I would be in Mario Kart, or if I could avoid my vegetables at dinner. Though these were still urgent concerns, the pillow put them out of mind for just long enough to bring some peace. Then I had the rest of the car ride to dwell in that peace.
As a child, but even more as I grew older, the peaceful monotony of long car rides was like a trip to the spa for me. There were no obligations I had to fulfill, no duties I could perform even if I wanted. I was forced to just sit and deal with it, and given the pace of my life, I began to look forward to the car rides as intrinsically valuable, along with the destinations. The way the wind blotted out all minor noise in the soundscape was just right for an occupied silence, not the awkward blank silence of a dead room. In that kind of silence I could rest and think, ponder and question, wonder why I didn't do this more often.
If there is one thing that is conspicuously lacking from the lives of most people today, it is silence and reflection. The demands forced upon us by jobs, by ever-present means of communication, by the routine of life, occupy every waking minute. But in a world where hectic insanity is all too common, peace and rest is often just a small pause away. It could be a cup of coffee on the deck, a walk in the park, or a book in a comfortable chair. Whatever form it takes, a few moments of rest every day make a world of difference.
Now when I lie awake at night, I often search for the cool spots in my pillow, mostly because I'm warm, but also because they make me peaceful. After all of our early morning escapades, the pillow was initiation into a new mindset, a complete juxtaposition with the hurriedness of packing.
Don't stress. Find a good pillow.
The morning of our trip was always hectic. We kids never got out of bed, even after numerous goadings from our father. Mom was never quite ready with her packing, even if she had stayed up half the night doing so. Then we had to cart all of our stuff down the stairs and out into the car. I always brought a completely full bookbag, stuffed with gameboys, a book or two, music galore, a magical dog leash, two globes (in case we got lost and I managed to misplace the first globe), a bunsen burner, a caterpillar larva, 18 potted plants, and the most recent edition of Brittanica Encyclopedia's letter L volume. I also brought a pillow.
Fitting my copious entertainment materials into the car was difficult as it was, but also finding room for my three siblings' equally burdensome loads was truly an art. We often completely filled our leg room with the piles. But really, what would I have done without my chrysanthemums once we arrived in Ohio? It's traumatic to think about the possibility.
It was a first come, first served game, to some extent. When we were all young and bendy, squeezing into tight corners was a possibility for all of us. So whoever got their stuff in the seat first got it. But as we strapping boys grew into strapping young men, it was difficult to ignore our cramped positions if we were in the back. My sister got the short end of the stick then and as the youngest boy, I often joined her. When I went outside, I knew the good seats were either already full, or that I would be ejected if I took them. So I would throw my goods into the back and return inside to wait for departure.
By this time we were already two hours late. We had intended to leave at 7:30 AM, or so my father had said; now it was 9:30. Looking back, I am skeptical that he ever anticipated a timely exit. It was so wonderfully marvelous, after all, to be late. Mom was still scurrying around upstairs getting her hair dryers and telling us to pack enough socks. I would then return to the living room and surround myself in couch. In such position I could quickly fall back asleep and be slightly late for the coming conscription of the kids to help carry Mom's bags down to the car.
Around 10:15 we would make it to the car as a family, only to discover that we had forgotten everything important. I had left my prized geraniums, Mom had left her green polka dotted socks, my brothers' headphones had both just mysteriously broken, and my sister needed the next Anne of Green Gables book. We also had to use the bathroom again for the 32nd time.
The great thing about all this waiting, at least for our Christmas trip, was that the pillows had lots of time to chill in the car. By the time we actually left, I could enjoy a delight that only came a few times a year and only for fifteen minutes each time. This, of course, was the joy of my cold pillow laying in my lap. Perhaps I am strange, but as an often over-warm person, the refreshing coolness of the pillow in my lap was akin to a cold drink in midsummer. It relaxed, revitalized, and removed me from the busy life of childhood. I was no longer worrying about what game I would play next, what character I would be in Mario Kart, or if I could avoid my vegetables at dinner. Though these were still urgent concerns, the pillow put them out of mind for just long enough to bring some peace. Then I had the rest of the car ride to dwell in that peace.
As a child, but even more as I grew older, the peaceful monotony of long car rides was like a trip to the spa for me. There were no obligations I had to fulfill, no duties I could perform even if I wanted. I was forced to just sit and deal with it, and given the pace of my life, I began to look forward to the car rides as intrinsically valuable, along with the destinations. The way the wind blotted out all minor noise in the soundscape was just right for an occupied silence, not the awkward blank silence of a dead room. In that kind of silence I could rest and think, ponder and question, wonder why I didn't do this more often.
If there is one thing that is conspicuously lacking from the lives of most people today, it is silence and reflection. The demands forced upon us by jobs, by ever-present means of communication, by the routine of life, occupy every waking minute. But in a world where hectic insanity is all too common, peace and rest is often just a small pause away. It could be a cup of coffee on the deck, a walk in the park, or a book in a comfortable chair. Whatever form it takes, a few moments of rest every day make a world of difference.
Now when I lie awake at night, I often search for the cool spots in my pillow, mostly because I'm warm, but also because they make me peaceful. After all of our early morning escapades, the pillow was initiation into a new mindset, a complete juxtaposition with the hurriedness of packing.
Don't stress. Find a good pillow.
Adventures in Music
I hate getting up early. Few things in life will make me as cantankerous as an alarm in the wee hours of the morning. But sometimes early mornings are necessary. The way the economy is right now, I think I'd be willing to get up at three or four in order to get a job if I did not have one. Overseas trips are another good reason. My wife and I got up at 4:30 AM the day we moved back to the States. But apart from jobs and travel, the only other thing that would wake me early is something that makes everyone shiver with excitement: music theory.
There's nothing like some German augmented sixth chords bright and early. Yes, I subjected myself to four straight semesters of 8 AM classes my first two years of college just so I could learn how amazing Bach, Beethoven, and Wagner were. Strangely (in my opinion), music theory is to music what organic chemistry is to science - a weed-out class, the class many music students have the most. But I loved it, from basic voicing to serialism and everything in between. And as a business student, while I always received puzzled looks from my teachers on the first day of class, I enjoyed the complete incongruity between this subject and my other courses.
The only other subject that music theory resembles significantly is English. In particular, music theory constitutes a sort of framework for poetic analysis. Early on we learned the basics: scales, chords, modes, inversions - analogs of rhyme, meter, and diction in poetry. We then piled on limitations - the rules of counterpoint (which are quite extensive), chord progressions, periodic structure. These are like the rules of grammar. Then we started getting dangerous - modulations, chromaticism. Eventually we ended up junking the rules and going atonal. And just like in literature, interpretations ranged from feminist to chauvinist to Marxist to fascist to Freudian etc. And there were mysteries and ridiculous theories about some works. Nobody really knows the function of the Tristan chord. And at least one critic thinks the last movement of Beethoven's Ninth Symphony (the Ode to Joy) depicts a rape scene. (This was brought to our attention the day of a concert featuring Beethoven's Ninth - it scarred several students for life.)
In addition to the vast amounts of information gleaned and the new ideas glimpsed, music theory emitted a wonder beyond the walls of the classroom. That wonder was found in many places, like the breakfast group that always met in an act of solidarity before the early class. We would arrive at the dining hall in our pajamas, eyes glazed over from a lack of sleep, but just the sight of other comrades kindled a fire inside. The attendance policy for the class was strict, so we often had to wake each other up via cell phone or door-knocking to avoid any fatal absences. Though sometimes vague in my mind due to the early hour, the memories of our breakfasts are very fond, full of terrible jokes, ridiculous food combinations, and friendship.
Then there was the "lab" that was a corequisite with music theory: ear training (officially, aural skills). In this class we learned how to translate what we heard into notes on paper. It started easy, but by the end of our fourth semester it was no walk in the park. By that time the melodies we wrote down sounded like random noise, and in fact, they were. They would tell us the first note and then proceed to play eight measures of complete musical nonsense, and we had to figure out what they were playing or pay the price. The excessive homework and frustrating practice of these skills bound us all together. (We also had to sing a string of random notes - I forgot to mention that.) There's nothing like a little hardship to solidify friendship.
Some people thought I was crazy for subjecting myself to such torture, but of all the classes I took in college, the music theory classes were the best. I met some of my closest friends there and we survived together. It was not easy, and sometimes not very fun, but few good things in life are easy. I could point to many other courses at college that were easy but which profited me nothing, intellectually or personally. With music theory I gained friends, memories, and needed skills. I cannot begin to tell you how many times a Neapolitan sixth chord has saved my life.
Many college students plow through college in a single field, not bothering to test the fertile ground elsewhere. After the core classes, it's all business or all education or all history. It is easy to become sequestered in one place, never attempting something new, never diversifying. After college it is easy to ignore literature as a business person or science as an English teacher. But knowledge easily cuts across fields. To limit yourself to one arena is to limit your capacity for ingenuity and to lead a much duller life than necessary.
I believe we overstress the need to discover early what we want to do in a career. College students seldom know what they really want to spend the rest of their lives doing, but many parents do not seem to recognize this (my parents, gladly, were very understanding). I have heard many stories of parents having conniptions when their son or daughter decided to change majors, realizing that the "dream" of becoming a doctor belonged to their parents, not themselves.
While finding a worthwhile and enjoyable career is very important, this search should not eclipse and is not exclusive of the need to develop personally and explore the vast worlds of knowledge. The more comprehensive a student's understanding of the world, from science to philosophy to business to the arts, the more employable that student is anyway. Every employer loves a worker who can offer new perspective on an issue and not just repackage the same old prosaic formulas.
So take those music theory classes, that seminar on the philosophy of religion, or read a book outside your normal range. Maybe while you explore something new, you will unwittingly gain friends and memories too.
Books
Every time I walk through the doors, feelings of joy burst forth in my soul. The smell, the sound (or lack thereof), the sight of stack upon stack of paper-bound addiction. It's true: I'm hooked on books, to an occasionally unhealthy extent. I can thank my wife for spreading her affliction to me. After all, I never brought books to restaurants or even the dinner table as she did. Her mother says she became a much happier child as soon as she could read. So it appears the love of reading was in her genes from the get-go.
My relationship with books was much more complicated. If my memory serves me, I liked books quite a bit as a child - some highlights being The Diggingest Dog, Mr. Pine's Mixed Up Signs, Anne Likes Red (red, red, red), and Boom-De-Boom-De-Boom. All my teachers and my parents encouraged reading, of course, and I did a fair amount of it up through middle school. I vividly remember my first big chapter books - the Redwall series, by Brian Jacques - and how proud I was to make it all the way through them.
Near the end of middle school, though, I encountered a new idea that changed my attitude toward books. I discovered that some books and authors were considered to be "good" literature, while the rest were mere novels. I knew not who made this distinction, but I knew some books gave a lot more points on the Accelerated Reader list that others.
In eighth grade I made a very bad decision. We had to write five book reports or so over the course of the year, but we could reduce that number by doing reports on longer books. So naturally I chose the longest book on the list: The Brothers Karamazov by Dostoevsky. It was fantastically above my comprehension, but it meant I only had to do one other book report that year. Month after month I conquered small chunks, but for an eighth grader, it really was ridiculously boring. I did finally finish, after skipping about 100 pages in the middle when a priest basically gives a really long sermon.
So despite my leap-frogging, I was supremely pleased that I had read such a long book. Noting the impressed responses from teachers and friends, I basically stopped reading for fun from that point and started reading to impress. Throughout high school I seldom made time to read anything other than what I was assigned. But when I did read something outside of school, I chose based on how famous or gratuitously esoteric it was. The result was, of course, that I did not really enjoy reading because in most cases, I was either really not interested in the books or only moderately so. I figured, what was the point of reading something if it wasn't going to come up in discussion at some point? Alas! Such was my case.
Though I kept reading, I progressed very slowly through most books that I did not have to read for school. In college, it got worse, as I only took one English course (alas again!) and business courses are not exactly reading intensive. But, as luck would have it, just before a trip down to meet my wife-to-be's extended family, I picked up a copy of Beowulf from my future wife's bookcase. Beowulf changed my life. I had heard of it before, but it wasn't famous enough for me to give it any particular note. But its stirring drama, its defeatist heroism, its manly gore, and its "northernness" all appealed to me greatly. From then on, reading established itself as a mainstay in my life.
So first I proceeded through a vast array of Norse myth and saga, from Hrolf Kraki to the Volsungs to Heimskringla to the two Eddas and back again. That may not mean much to you, but to me it was inspiration. From there I started to branch out. First it was other mythic stories - Greek, Roman, Teutonic, Celtic. Then I realized medieval history might just be worth a look. Then I went to mystery then travel then science then back to fiction lit. It was amazing! Such was my change that after a year of vigorously reading everything that I found interesting, I actually regained interest in some of the literature I had previously only read because of its fame.
These days, as a converted bibliophile, I find my interests can be a bit too wide. And that's where the trouble begins. Now when I walk into a bookstore I am immediately tempted to buy three or four books...off the first table in the entryway. Then a few more off the next table and so on throughout the store. Before marriage I was much worse than I am now, though. Every time I walked into Borders I would leave with at least one book, more often two. You should know I walked into Borders almost once a week over the course of a year. My senior year of college, I remember once telling my then fiancée that we really needed to go to Borders one particular evening; I felt like we hadn't been there in ages. She then responded that we had just been there precisely one week, to the day, earlier.
Bargain books are my greatest downfall. I mean seriously, it's not every day you can get the complete Sherlock Holmes for six bucks or the complete Shakespeare or Poe for similar prices. Then there are the buy two get one free books. It's almost shameful to not buy a few. When I'm safe at home, away from the book-nicotine, I tell myself that Shakespeare and Holmes and all the rest will always be just six bucks, but reason seems to leave when I'm in the store. I have more than once almost bought books that my wife already owned.
Perhaps the biggest problem with my book addiction is that my tastes change very rapidly. I go through stages where I read absolutely nothing but travel books, then science books, then myth/saga, then language/linguistics, then medieval lit, and then back again. Each time I enter a new stage, my eye is absolutely fixated on those books in the bookstore. Let's take language, for instance. I own teach-yourself or normal textbooks for French, German, Latin, Hebrew, Serbo-Croatian, Romanian, and Italian. I own books written in French, German, Spanish, Portuguese, and Latin. But the only language other than English that I am proficient in is French (but to be fair, I do know a wee bit of Latin, and I can read Spanish semi-decently). But really, who hasn't wanted to learn Serbo-Croatian at some point? It was a very reasonable purchase.
Sometimes I buy a book out of compulsion and then don't touch it for years at a time, but this used to be a very good strategy. About two years ago I bought The Tipping Point by Malcolm Gladwell, something about psychology and whatnot. I had read portions of Blink (also by Gladwell) that were interesting, so I just picked up the other book in one of my minor sprees at Borders. It wasn't very interesting to me and after a year and a half of gathering dust, I took it back to Borders. With their (previously) wonderful return policy, they accepted the book, since it was still in the system and in excellent condition. So I got a free book that day! It was great. Too bad now you have to have a receipt and return the book within a month or something ridiculous. I apologize to all of you normal book-buyers; I know they changed that policy because of me.
CS Lewis once told some fellow in a letter that his book bill should be his most extravagant bill every month. Spare no expense on books. I heartily agree, but being married, there's the whole budget thing. So my wife and I, having only recently married our libraries, have a rule that we must read three books from our own library before buying a new book. It's really helping me. I have currently read one full book from our library since we instituted the rule.
Last week I bought a biology textbook off Amazon. It was just such a good deal! (And I'm on a science kick right now.)
Oh well.
My relationship with books was much more complicated. If my memory serves me, I liked books quite a bit as a child - some highlights being The Diggingest Dog, Mr. Pine's Mixed Up Signs, Anne Likes Red (red, red, red), and Boom-De-Boom-De-Boom. All my teachers and my parents encouraged reading, of course, and I did a fair amount of it up through middle school. I vividly remember my first big chapter books - the Redwall series, by Brian Jacques - and how proud I was to make it all the way through them.
Near the end of middle school, though, I encountered a new idea that changed my attitude toward books. I discovered that some books and authors were considered to be "good" literature, while the rest were mere novels. I knew not who made this distinction, but I knew some books gave a lot more points on the Accelerated Reader list that others.
In eighth grade I made a very bad decision. We had to write five book reports or so over the course of the year, but we could reduce that number by doing reports on longer books. So naturally I chose the longest book on the list: The Brothers Karamazov by Dostoevsky. It was fantastically above my comprehension, but it meant I only had to do one other book report that year. Month after month I conquered small chunks, but for an eighth grader, it really was ridiculously boring. I did finally finish, after skipping about 100 pages in the middle when a priest basically gives a really long sermon.
So despite my leap-frogging, I was supremely pleased that I had read such a long book. Noting the impressed responses from teachers and friends, I basically stopped reading for fun from that point and started reading to impress. Throughout high school I seldom made time to read anything other than what I was assigned. But when I did read something outside of school, I chose based on how famous or gratuitously esoteric it was. The result was, of course, that I did not really enjoy reading because in most cases, I was either really not interested in the books or only moderately so. I figured, what was the point of reading something if it wasn't going to come up in discussion at some point? Alas! Such was my case.
Though I kept reading, I progressed very slowly through most books that I did not have to read for school. In college, it got worse, as I only took one English course (alas again!) and business courses are not exactly reading intensive. But, as luck would have it, just before a trip down to meet my wife-to-be's extended family, I picked up a copy of Beowulf from my future wife's bookcase. Beowulf changed my life. I had heard of it before, but it wasn't famous enough for me to give it any particular note. But its stirring drama, its defeatist heroism, its manly gore, and its "northernness" all appealed to me greatly. From then on, reading established itself as a mainstay in my life.
So first I proceeded through a vast array of Norse myth and saga, from Hrolf Kraki to the Volsungs to Heimskringla to the two Eddas and back again. That may not mean much to you, but to me it was inspiration. From there I started to branch out. First it was other mythic stories - Greek, Roman, Teutonic, Celtic. Then I realized medieval history might just be worth a look. Then I went to mystery then travel then science then back to fiction lit. It was amazing! Such was my change that after a year of vigorously reading everything that I found interesting, I actually regained interest in some of the literature I had previously only read because of its fame.
These days, as a converted bibliophile, I find my interests can be a bit too wide. And that's where the trouble begins. Now when I walk into a bookstore I am immediately tempted to buy three or four books...off the first table in the entryway. Then a few more off the next table and so on throughout the store. Before marriage I was much worse than I am now, though. Every time I walked into Borders I would leave with at least one book, more often two. You should know I walked into Borders almost once a week over the course of a year. My senior year of college, I remember once telling my then fiancée that we really needed to go to Borders one particular evening; I felt like we hadn't been there in ages. She then responded that we had just been there precisely one week, to the day, earlier.
Bargain books are my greatest downfall. I mean seriously, it's not every day you can get the complete Sherlock Holmes for six bucks or the complete Shakespeare or Poe for similar prices. Then there are the buy two get one free books. It's almost shameful to not buy a few. When I'm safe at home, away from the book-nicotine, I tell myself that Shakespeare and Holmes and all the rest will always be just six bucks, but reason seems to leave when I'm in the store. I have more than once almost bought books that my wife already owned.
Perhaps the biggest problem with my book addiction is that my tastes change very rapidly. I go through stages where I read absolutely nothing but travel books, then science books, then myth/saga, then language/linguistics, then medieval lit, and then back again. Each time I enter a new stage, my eye is absolutely fixated on those books in the bookstore. Let's take language, for instance. I own teach-yourself or normal textbooks for French, German, Latin, Hebrew, Serbo-Croatian, Romanian, and Italian. I own books written in French, German, Spanish, Portuguese, and Latin. But the only language other than English that I am proficient in is French (but to be fair, I do know a wee bit of Latin, and I can read Spanish semi-decently). But really, who hasn't wanted to learn Serbo-Croatian at some point? It was a very reasonable purchase.
Sometimes I buy a book out of compulsion and then don't touch it for years at a time, but this used to be a very good strategy. About two years ago I bought The Tipping Point by Malcolm Gladwell, something about psychology and whatnot. I had read portions of Blink (also by Gladwell) that were interesting, so I just picked up the other book in one of my minor sprees at Borders. It wasn't very interesting to me and after a year and a half of gathering dust, I took it back to Borders. With their (previously) wonderful return policy, they accepted the book, since it was still in the system and in excellent condition. So I got a free book that day! It was great. Too bad now you have to have a receipt and return the book within a month or something ridiculous. I apologize to all of you normal book-buyers; I know they changed that policy because of me.
CS Lewis once told some fellow in a letter that his book bill should be his most extravagant bill every month. Spare no expense on books. I heartily agree, but being married, there's the whole budget thing. So my wife and I, having only recently married our libraries, have a rule that we must read three books from our own library before buying a new book. It's really helping me. I have currently read one full book from our library since we instituted the rule.
Last week I bought a biology textbook off Amazon. It was just such a good deal! (And I'm on a science kick right now.)
Oh well.
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