Yesterday I did some laundry. I don’t usually pay attention to washing instructions, so I only did one load in warm water. My opinion is that if I can’t wash it in warm water with everything else (barring the first washing), I shouldn’t own it anyway. There are a few notable exceptions: suits, straw hats, and my ceremonial Nova Scotian garb for New Year’s celebrations. But apart from these, all clothing is subject to my warm water regulation.
Thus, yesterday I loaded all my dirty clothes into the washing machine for a pleasantly warm dousing, and I specifically noted that I had included three khaki colored socks, of slightly varying décor, but all purchased in the same package from Kohls. “Three?” you may ask. I will get to that infuriating detail momentarily, but I want first to tell you of other infuriating incidents first to adequately whet your rage.
I was just minding my business, doing my husbandly duty of contributing to domestic cleanliness, when what should arise but my socks decide to go on strike. I had already put them into the machine, but they were clogging the agitator with their foul limbs. They simply refused to be washed. In reality I knew they were plotting much worse than a mere wash-strike. I told them that we were not in France, so striking was strictly stricken from their options. At this they took off, as I had anticipated was their goal.
Once out the laundry room door, they split up, making it much more difficult for me to gather them in for punishment. One went for the door, another into the kitchen, and the third toward the living room. I chased the one heading for the door, lest he should escape permanently, and managed to beat him down with a strategically placed broom that I keep in the entryway for such urgent events. War-weary and tied into a knot to prevent further escapades, I restored sock number one to the laundry.
The other two managed to evade me, taking advantage of my struggle with the first sock to hide themselves appropriately. That is how I managed to start with three socks in the laundry and only take one sock out of the dryer.
So can you guess why I started with three socks in the first place? Yep – a previous battle.
Sometimes the socks are more covert, preferring surreptitious escapes to open strikes. This is probably what occurs more often in your household. My socks are much more rebellious than most, probably because I did not discipline them enough in their childhood. The more conscientious (and clever) socks will take off somewhere between the time you close the lid to your laundry machine and the time you remove the clothes from your dryer. They know our human kind too well. It is all a part of the plan for their humans to say, “Oh I must have dropped one of my socks when I was changing at the gym” or “Bobby, did you take your brother’s socks again?” They want us to blame ourselves, or worse, blame each other. The more enmity there is in a house, the more likely the malevolent footwear will have a chance to fly the coop. Reputable sources tell me that certain recent wars in central Asia revolved around supposedly “stolen” socks.
The evil footies are not always able to escape the household entirely, though. That is why we are prone to find them in the most surprising places: packed into a DVD case in a drawer, hanging from a screw behind the garbage disposal under the sink, immersed in water in the toilet tank, stuffed inside the hollow of a doorknob, nailed to the bottom of the kitchen table, covering Auntie May’s face on page 312 of the family photo album, or, strangest of all, sitting unnoticed in the back of the sock drawer under all those green socks that you never wear.
I recently took an inventory of my socks to see if I needed to hire some guards and build a watchtower. I had 7 unmatched white socks with low heels, 3 sans-partner white socks with higher heels, 5 singular khakis, 19 pair-less blues, and a lonely polka-dotted sock with Mickey Mouse on it. I have never owned Mickey Mouse socks! It’s beginning to make me wonder if there is more to the sock mystery than I previously thought.
But while they anger and confuse me, socks are dear friends of mine. They kept me warm in England; they provided unending ammo for childhood wars when snowballs were not available; and they keep me on my toes….hehe.
Really, though, they help prevent gangrene and are known to have curing effects on all sorts of maladies including, but not limited to, strep throat, ear infections, hair loss, arthritis, overgrown left elbows, and that creeping feeling of ants being all over you. Plus, whenever you find a sock that has hidden itself away in some unexpected place, you get to shout, “Hey honey! I found that chartreuse sock that I have missed so much for the last thirteen years! Let’s go to that really expensive steak restaurant that I love so much tonight in celebration.” And do you honestly think she is going to turn you down on that? I think not.
This of course explains that well-known phrase: “Steaks abound when socks are found.”
For this very reason, I must now go and find a long-lost sock. Wish me luck!
Christmas in June
Here it is, June 23; it is only possible to get two days further away from Christmas (in an absolute value sort of way), but I am nonetheless listening to Christmas music. In fact, I generally listen to Christmas music at least once a week throughout the year. Some call me crazy; others call me inspired; most call me Jonathan.
Regardless of what you call me, it is safe to say that my taste in Christmas music is eclectic. I have a suspiciously large collection of Christmas music in foreign tongues: Russian, Gaelic, Latin, German, French, Italian, Spanish. I have always found these songs are my favorites, but I am often alone on that account. A few years ago I tried to play my Latin music on Christmas day at my family’s house, but I was almost instantly vetoed. I guess most people don’t appreciate "In Dulci Jubilo;" "Veni, Veni Emmanuel;" and "Volare" as much as I do. (Okay, so "Volare" isn’t Latin or Christmas, but it’s still a great song.)
Part of the reason I am so fond of foreign Christmas music is that many of them are exceedingly old. And the older the song, the more likely it is melancholy and haunting. Most Christmas songs are peppy and upbeat, and I like those songs just fine, but the songs that really touch me are those more akin to "O Come, O Come Emmanuel" with their darker moods and mysteriously foreboding wonder. Other traditional carols from Europe like "The Coventry Carol," "Don Oiche Ud I Mbeithel" (Gaelic), "Maria durch ein Dornwald ging" (German), and "Szczo to Za Prediwo" (Polish) all carry this same tone. These songs, among others, are representative of a side of Christmas we often neglect.
In many ways Christmas is both a mystery and an unfortunate necessity. Obviously the birth of Jesus was a joyful event. There were angels singing, shepherds praising, and much general jubilation. But we often forget that Jesus himself said his purpose on Earth was to die. And he was doing this because humanity had messed everything up. So Christmas is joyful because God sent Jesus to save us, but it is also profoundly sorrowful. He would not have needed to come if it weren’t for our failings; he would not have needed to die. Jesus’ birth was the first physical step toward his unjust death. Hence the magus’ gift of myrrh, an ointment for embalming the dead.
Beyond its gloom, the birth of Jesus is also a mystery to the Christian. He was both God and man; he was born of a virgin. It’s all quite paradoxical. In this way the Catholic church is right to classify the incarnation of Jesus as a “mystery” of faith.
So I see the melancholy songs of Christmas as an important reminder of the nature of Christ’s birth, but I also enjoy these songs for a different reason. They invoke some of the most vivid memories of my life. England, to me, will always be encapsulated in the gloomy Gaelic Christmas song that I listened to umpteen times on the train to and from a Medieval Christmas Fair in Ludlow. My wife and I had just decided that we would be moving back to Atlanta after a brief stay in Oxford, and my emotions were conflicting. The move was necessary but sad, which is probably why the opposing moods of a darkling Christmas song hit the spot. The oft-forgotten disparities of Christ’s birth are common enough in our lives: the bittersweet release of a child to college, marriage, and beyond; leaving a place you love; seeking closure for the death of a loved one. I wanted more than anything to stay in England, to do all those things I had envisioned in my mind before arriving, to make better friends, to really know the place. So as we left Ludlow, snow-covered hills gently flowing by, the mournful notes of Christmas were the perfect summation of my emotions.
Life is no simple matter. Every joy has a corresponding sorrow; every life ends in death. Christmas often brings with it a naïve belief that all sorrow can be covered with gifts. But the true Christmas is much more complicated. It is joyful and foreboding, simple but mysterious. In reality, Christmas is life in a nutshell, and sometimes that is easier to see in a heat wave in June than in the snowy shopping frenzies of December.
Regardless of what you call me, it is safe to say that my taste in Christmas music is eclectic. I have a suspiciously large collection of Christmas music in foreign tongues: Russian, Gaelic, Latin, German, French, Italian, Spanish. I have always found these songs are my favorites, but I am often alone on that account. A few years ago I tried to play my Latin music on Christmas day at my family’s house, but I was almost instantly vetoed. I guess most people don’t appreciate "In Dulci Jubilo;" "Veni, Veni Emmanuel;" and "Volare" as much as I do. (Okay, so "Volare" isn’t Latin or Christmas, but it’s still a great song.)
Part of the reason I am so fond of foreign Christmas music is that many of them are exceedingly old. And the older the song, the more likely it is melancholy and haunting. Most Christmas songs are peppy and upbeat, and I like those songs just fine, but the songs that really touch me are those more akin to "O Come, O Come Emmanuel" with their darker moods and mysteriously foreboding wonder. Other traditional carols from Europe like "The Coventry Carol," "Don Oiche Ud I Mbeithel" (Gaelic), "Maria durch ein Dornwald ging" (German), and "Szczo to Za Prediwo" (Polish) all carry this same tone. These songs, among others, are representative of a side of Christmas we often neglect.
In many ways Christmas is both a mystery and an unfortunate necessity. Obviously the birth of Jesus was a joyful event. There were angels singing, shepherds praising, and much general jubilation. But we often forget that Jesus himself said his purpose on Earth was to die. And he was doing this because humanity had messed everything up. So Christmas is joyful because God sent Jesus to save us, but it is also profoundly sorrowful. He would not have needed to come if it weren’t for our failings; he would not have needed to die. Jesus’ birth was the first physical step toward his unjust death. Hence the magus’ gift of myrrh, an ointment for embalming the dead.
Beyond its gloom, the birth of Jesus is also a mystery to the Christian. He was both God and man; he was born of a virgin. It’s all quite paradoxical. In this way the Catholic church is right to classify the incarnation of Jesus as a “mystery” of faith.
So I see the melancholy songs of Christmas as an important reminder of the nature of Christ’s birth, but I also enjoy these songs for a different reason. They invoke some of the most vivid memories of my life. England, to me, will always be encapsulated in the gloomy Gaelic Christmas song that I listened to umpteen times on the train to and from a Medieval Christmas Fair in Ludlow. My wife and I had just decided that we would be moving back to Atlanta after a brief stay in Oxford, and my emotions were conflicting. The move was necessary but sad, which is probably why the opposing moods of a darkling Christmas song hit the spot. The oft-forgotten disparities of Christ’s birth are common enough in our lives: the bittersweet release of a child to college, marriage, and beyond; leaving a place you love; seeking closure for the death of a loved one. I wanted more than anything to stay in England, to do all those things I had envisioned in my mind before arriving, to make better friends, to really know the place. So as we left Ludlow, snow-covered hills gently flowing by, the mournful notes of Christmas were the perfect summation of my emotions.
Life is no simple matter. Every joy has a corresponding sorrow; every life ends in death. Christmas often brings with it a naïve belief that all sorrow can be covered with gifts. But the true Christmas is much more complicated. It is joyful and foreboding, simple but mysterious. In reality, Christmas is life in a nutshell, and sometimes that is easier to see in a heat wave in June than in the snowy shopping frenzies of December.
New Blog - Evolving Thought
I have started another blog, this one about the creation/evolution debate. Check it out at Evolving Thought.
Perspective
Gaining perspective is a lifelong endeavor. I probably only see life in two-dimensions right now, compared to the view enjoyed by my elders. But occasionally my perspective is expanded by an experience, a book, a piece of music, an article, or a keen insight. Recently, my 2D world has taken on a variety of new shades and hues, pushing towards the reality of three dimensions. I don’t know if I’m quite there yet, but I have progressed.
England obviously opened my eyes to the concept of living with less and to being more environmentally conscious. I always knew there were other, equally good, or perhaps better, ways of living than the American way I had known since childhood, but I never imagined I would adopt any of those foreign principles. But they made sense – what could I do but accept them? I imagine that these amendments to my way of life will slowly accumulate with time.
Experience aside, a few books have profoundly impacted the way I view the world. A long series of books, articles, and discussions over the years have completely transformed how I view the relationship between God and science, particularly regarding creation and evolution, both of which I believe occurred, which obviously requires that I interpret the book of Genesis figuratively. Why it is so difficult for many to even consider the possibility that Genesis is figurative, I know not.
But that could easily, and probably will, fill a later blog. Right now, I want to discuss a few other books that have revealed the foreign world to me in a powerful way. Most recently, I finished reading The Kite Runner, by Khaled Hosseini, just a few weeks ago. Further back, I read Balkan Ghosts, by Robert Kaplan, and portions of Black Lamb and Grey Falcon, by Rebecca West. All of these books helped me to see, for the first time, the alternate reality of places that I only knew as war zones. One book is fiction, the others are non-fiction, but they all revealed the humanity of war torn regions.
Balkan Ghosts and Black Lamb and Grey Falcon are both about the Balkans. Many people don’t even really know where the Balkans are. I could probably have only named one country from the region before I read Balkan Ghosts, and I probably would have labeled several other countries as “Balkan” which really are not. When Bosnia and Serbia and all those names came up, I immediately thought of Milosevic, and that was all I could think of. Murder, rape, genocide. And while war and strife has certainly been long-lasting in the Balkans, so have love, friendship, loyalty, hope, joy, and daily life. Some critics of Kaplan say his book is too defeatist, implying that peace is never possible in the region because of the deep-seated ethnic hatred, and while that may be a good critique, the book nonetheless opened my eyes to the beauty and mystery of the region.
Investigating further, I read portions of Black Lamb and Grey Falcon, the definitive travel book about the region, and perhaps the first true travelogue. Written in the late 1930s, this book more completely brought to light the Balkans known by those who lived there. There was certainly much grief and frustration, but there was also much pride and love. Most Americans do not travel to places like Bosnia or Serbia because they seem dangerous, and they are, to some extent. But they are probably more dangerous because we flaunt our wealth in the face of their relative poverty; we are easy targets. In Oxford I had the pleasure of meeting several students from the Balkans and many others who had traveled through the region. They all agreed: it was one of the most charming, beautiful, and fascinating places they had ever visited.
When I read The Kite Runner recently, this same idea was again intensely present. The Afghanistan portrayed prior to the Russian invasion and then later under Taliban rule was deeply moving and a complete surprise. I knew that the Taliban were ruthless and that the country was impoverished, but I had no idea that the country had ever been anything but that, even for a small group of people. The narrator, who grew up in a privileged neighborhood, was certainly not the normal Afghan, but the portrayal of the freedom there, most notably of religion, and the relative liberalism compared to the rule of the Soviets and Taliban, were utterly strange to me. I had to completely rethink the image I had of Afghanistan. No longer was it simply the impoverished, religiously intolerant, backward country of the Taliban; now it was a country once headed on a good path which met a disastrous fate at the hands of the Soviets and the conniving Taliban. How sad to think of where it was before the invasion and to where it has fallen now! It is a great tragedy; a tragedy which I previously blamed on the Afghans themselves. No people is completely innocent of its country’s descent into violence, but the Afghans have been abused and exploited. Most of them have only suffered while small groups of power-hungry villains lay waste to the country.
It is clear to me that many of my views of the world have egregiously lacked perspective. The more I learn, the more I discover my own error. Especially when it comes to understanding the foreign world, I no longer trust my preconceptions. I used to list both Afghanistan and the Balkans as places I had no desire to visit, ever. Now, they are both on the list.
England obviously opened my eyes to the concept of living with less and to being more environmentally conscious. I always knew there were other, equally good, or perhaps better, ways of living than the American way I had known since childhood, but I never imagined I would adopt any of those foreign principles. But they made sense – what could I do but accept them? I imagine that these amendments to my way of life will slowly accumulate with time.
Experience aside, a few books have profoundly impacted the way I view the world. A long series of books, articles, and discussions over the years have completely transformed how I view the relationship between God and science, particularly regarding creation and evolution, both of which I believe occurred, which obviously requires that I interpret the book of Genesis figuratively. Why it is so difficult for many to even consider the possibility that Genesis is figurative, I know not.
But that could easily, and probably will, fill a later blog. Right now, I want to discuss a few other books that have revealed the foreign world to me in a powerful way. Most recently, I finished reading The Kite Runner, by Khaled Hosseini, just a few weeks ago. Further back, I read Balkan Ghosts, by Robert Kaplan, and portions of Black Lamb and Grey Falcon, by Rebecca West. All of these books helped me to see, for the first time, the alternate reality of places that I only knew as war zones. One book is fiction, the others are non-fiction, but they all revealed the humanity of war torn regions.
Balkan Ghosts and Black Lamb and Grey Falcon are both about the Balkans. Many people don’t even really know where the Balkans are. I could probably have only named one country from the region before I read Balkan Ghosts, and I probably would have labeled several other countries as “Balkan” which really are not. When Bosnia and Serbia and all those names came up, I immediately thought of Milosevic, and that was all I could think of. Murder, rape, genocide. And while war and strife has certainly been long-lasting in the Balkans, so have love, friendship, loyalty, hope, joy, and daily life. Some critics of Kaplan say his book is too defeatist, implying that peace is never possible in the region because of the deep-seated ethnic hatred, and while that may be a good critique, the book nonetheless opened my eyes to the beauty and mystery of the region.
Investigating further, I read portions of Black Lamb and Grey Falcon, the definitive travel book about the region, and perhaps the first true travelogue. Written in the late 1930s, this book more completely brought to light the Balkans known by those who lived there. There was certainly much grief and frustration, but there was also much pride and love. Most Americans do not travel to places like Bosnia or Serbia because they seem dangerous, and they are, to some extent. But they are probably more dangerous because we flaunt our wealth in the face of their relative poverty; we are easy targets. In Oxford I had the pleasure of meeting several students from the Balkans and many others who had traveled through the region. They all agreed: it was one of the most charming, beautiful, and fascinating places they had ever visited.
When I read The Kite Runner recently, this same idea was again intensely present. The Afghanistan portrayed prior to the Russian invasion and then later under Taliban rule was deeply moving and a complete surprise. I knew that the Taliban were ruthless and that the country was impoverished, but I had no idea that the country had ever been anything but that, even for a small group of people. The narrator, who grew up in a privileged neighborhood, was certainly not the normal Afghan, but the portrayal of the freedom there, most notably of religion, and the relative liberalism compared to the rule of the Soviets and Taliban, were utterly strange to me. I had to completely rethink the image I had of Afghanistan. No longer was it simply the impoverished, religiously intolerant, backward country of the Taliban; now it was a country once headed on a good path which met a disastrous fate at the hands of the Soviets and the conniving Taliban. How sad to think of where it was before the invasion and to where it has fallen now! It is a great tragedy; a tragedy which I previously blamed on the Afghans themselves. No people is completely innocent of its country’s descent into violence, but the Afghans have been abused and exploited. Most of them have only suffered while small groups of power-hungry villains lay waste to the country.
It is clear to me that many of my views of the world have egregiously lacked perspective. The more I learn, the more I discover my own error. Especially when it comes to understanding the foreign world, I no longer trust my preconceptions. I used to list both Afghanistan and the Balkans as places I had no desire to visit, ever. Now, they are both on the list.
What was lost has been found!
Glad tidings!
I have found my lost Teach Yourself Serbo-Croatian and Teach Yourself Romanian books! I have been looking for them every day now for the past two months, and it was really very troubling. After all, I use the languages almost every day.
I have also begun to write a book. I will call it "Non-fiction book" or something similar, unless someone convinces me that another name would be better. I doubt that is possible, though.
Glad tidings!
I have found my lost Teach Yourself Serbo-Croatian and Teach Yourself Romanian books! I have been looking for them every day now for the past two months, and it was really very troubling. After all, I use the languages almost every day.
I have also begun to write a book. I will call it "Non-fiction book" or something similar, unless someone convinces me that another name would be better. I doubt that is possible, though.
Glad tidings!
Secretly Sinister
Rock-a-bye baby, in the treetop,
When the wind blows, the cradle will rock;
When the bough breaks, the cradle will fall,
And down will come baby, cradle and all.
This seems innocent enough until you actually think about what it is saying. Imagine with me:
A new mother takes her little baby, puts it into a cradle, climbs up a tree, and leaves baby in the branches. Perhaps it is a poplar. That would probably be enough to have Mom arrested. But if that wasn’t enough, then the wind starts to blow and it becomes obvious that the poplar will not be supporting baby for long. It’s ok, though, because that is always what Mom intended. It’s not “if the bough breaks,” it’s “when the bough breaks.” This was premeditated. Good ole Mom might have a bit of a mean streak after all. So the wind blows, the bough breaks, and baby and cradle plummet down from the tree to an untimely end.
We often overlook the content of rhymes that have been passed down for centuries simply because they are old. In France (and in high school French classes around the world), children learn a song “Alouette” or “Lark” which goes as follows:
Lark, nice lark,
Lark, I will pluck your feathers!
I will pluck your head,
Your head, your head
Ooooh!
After the first verse, the child continues plucking other parts of the bird, including the nose, the eyes, the neck, the wings, the back, the legs, and the tail. And I must point out that not all of those locations even have feathers on them. In order to pluck the nose, eyes, and legs of a bird, one must be plucking something other than feathers. Ghastly!
While not all nursery rhymes are violent in subject matter, it is so common that explanations now often gravitate toward the violent naturally. Most people have heard that “Ring Around a Rosy” depicts the symptoms and demise of victims of the bubonic plague, though most scholars think the theory is untenable. But even were it true, no one would have qualms about singing it with children.
I’ve always wondered why moms don’t seem to realize what they are saying to their kids in these rhymes. Many moms are perfectly willing to feed their children gruesome tales in the cradle but become absolutely furious when Johnny goes to school and hears a fairy tale that includes a big, bad monster. “He was so scared by that wolf! I can’t believe you would read those kids such a terrible story!”
Little does the mother know that “Little Red Riding Hood” originally ended with the death of the girl, munched up by the wolf just like the grandmother – no woodcutter to save the day, no happy ending, just grim, gruesome death, except for the wolf of course. I wonder how Mom would have reacted if Johnny had heard that version of the story instead of the tame modern one.
While nursery rhymes have maintained their sometimes violent content, we have felt the need over the years to make children’s stories nicer, happier. The original stories were intended to teach lessons, not just to entertain. So if they were good enough for children a few hundred years ago, why are they too scary for kids these days? I don’t think they are. In my opinion, our sanitization of stories, and life in general, makes children believe that everything ends well, that there is always a woodcutter to save the day or a Prince Charming for every Princess. But life is not always happy; in fact, for much of the world, life is more often sad. I have nothing against happy stories, but I do have something against only happy stories.
Learning to deal with the big, bad monster is a vital part of childhood, a precursor to dealing with the real monsters of the world: poverty, murder, disease, hatred. Obviously balance is needed. I would not want my children to be constantly afraid of the strange denizens of the nighttime closet, but I also would not want my children to arrive at adulthood without ever encountering the harsh realities of the world.
The problems of today’s world are the same as they have always been, though manifested differently and with the possibility of greater destruction due to nuclear weapons and other technology. So I have come up with new nursery rhyme fraught with doom for the next generation of kids. Perhaps in fifty years when the wolf in “Little Red Riding Hood” doesn’t even manage to eat the grandmother, the nursery rhymes will still survive with a needed dose of reality:
Daisy, daisy in field of green,
Hazy, hazy clouds over me,
Mushrooms grow and daisies fall;
That will be the end of all.
When the wind blows, the cradle will rock;
When the bough breaks, the cradle will fall,
And down will come baby, cradle and all.
This seems innocent enough until you actually think about what it is saying. Imagine with me:
A new mother takes her little baby, puts it into a cradle, climbs up a tree, and leaves baby in the branches. Perhaps it is a poplar. That would probably be enough to have Mom arrested. But if that wasn’t enough, then the wind starts to blow and it becomes obvious that the poplar will not be supporting baby for long. It’s ok, though, because that is always what Mom intended. It’s not “if the bough breaks,” it’s “when the bough breaks.” This was premeditated. Good ole Mom might have a bit of a mean streak after all. So the wind blows, the bough breaks, and baby and cradle plummet down from the tree to an untimely end.
We often overlook the content of rhymes that have been passed down for centuries simply because they are old. In France (and in high school French classes around the world), children learn a song “Alouette” or “Lark” which goes as follows:
Lark, nice lark,
Lark, I will pluck your feathers!
I will pluck your head,
Your head, your head
Ooooh!
After the first verse, the child continues plucking other parts of the bird, including the nose, the eyes, the neck, the wings, the back, the legs, and the tail. And I must point out that not all of those locations even have feathers on them. In order to pluck the nose, eyes, and legs of a bird, one must be plucking something other than feathers. Ghastly!
While not all nursery rhymes are violent in subject matter, it is so common that explanations now often gravitate toward the violent naturally. Most people have heard that “Ring Around a Rosy” depicts the symptoms and demise of victims of the bubonic plague, though most scholars think the theory is untenable. But even were it true, no one would have qualms about singing it with children.
I’ve always wondered why moms don’t seem to realize what they are saying to their kids in these rhymes. Many moms are perfectly willing to feed their children gruesome tales in the cradle but become absolutely furious when Johnny goes to school and hears a fairy tale that includes a big, bad monster. “He was so scared by that wolf! I can’t believe you would read those kids such a terrible story!”
Little does the mother know that “Little Red Riding Hood” originally ended with the death of the girl, munched up by the wolf just like the grandmother – no woodcutter to save the day, no happy ending, just grim, gruesome death, except for the wolf of course. I wonder how Mom would have reacted if Johnny had heard that version of the story instead of the tame modern one.
While nursery rhymes have maintained their sometimes violent content, we have felt the need over the years to make children’s stories nicer, happier. The original stories were intended to teach lessons, not just to entertain. So if they were good enough for children a few hundred years ago, why are they too scary for kids these days? I don’t think they are. In my opinion, our sanitization of stories, and life in general, makes children believe that everything ends well, that there is always a woodcutter to save the day or a Prince Charming for every Princess. But life is not always happy; in fact, for much of the world, life is more often sad. I have nothing against happy stories, but I do have something against only happy stories.
Learning to deal with the big, bad monster is a vital part of childhood, a precursor to dealing with the real monsters of the world: poverty, murder, disease, hatred. Obviously balance is needed. I would not want my children to be constantly afraid of the strange denizens of the nighttime closet, but I also would not want my children to arrive at adulthood without ever encountering the harsh realities of the world.
The problems of today’s world are the same as they have always been, though manifested differently and with the possibility of greater destruction due to nuclear weapons and other technology. So I have come up with new nursery rhyme fraught with doom for the next generation of kids. Perhaps in fifty years when the wolf in “Little Red Riding Hood” doesn’t even manage to eat the grandmother, the nursery rhymes will still survive with a needed dose of reality:
Daisy, daisy in field of green,
Hazy, hazy clouds over me,
Mushrooms grow and daisies fall;
That will be the end of all.
My Aching Back
About a month ago I realized a great dream of mine: to be old. I often say I am old because many of my interests correspond with those of the elderly. In particular, I love classical music, I heartily enjoy complicated card games like bridge and pinochle, I am not trendy, and I would often prefer to sit around and read than go out and be active. But I had always been missing one crucial factor – a body that doesn’t cooperate.
Granted, I was not particularly disappointed that my body worked well, other than my incessant sinus infections and allergies. But after saying I was old for so long, it was bound to catch up with me. And so it did.
There I was one day, minding my own business, sitting at the kitchen table, not even bragging about my affinity for hobbies of the elderly. Really, I was just sitting. Then I stood up.
“Gaaaaaaaarrr!!”
And I immediately sat back down. Then I tried to stand up again.
“Blaaaaaaaarrrrrgg!!!”
And I sat back down again. Then I tried to – just kidding.
I hunched like Igor over the table as I wondered what in the world had happened. I tried to sit straight in my chair but couldn’t get above a forty-five degree angle without feeling like a water buffalo was ripping my back off. So I stayed still.
My wife, who was looking on, couldn’t help but laugh at me. I couldn’t either. We laughed and laughed, “Well, you’ve gotten your wish. You really are an old person!” Indeed.
It was bizarre. I hadn’t twisted or jumped out of my seat; I just stood up. And what should happen but all the muscles in my lower back feel like springing up to the middle of my back and staying up there in a ball of painful spasms and tightness. The entire lower half of my back had transformed into a huge knot.
After five minutes I was beginning to worry. This was the sort of thing that happens and then is supposed to disappear quickly, so we could all keep on laughing.
“What if I can never walk again??” Sometimes I can be quite an alarmist.
“Oh you’ll be able to walk alright…with a cane!” My wife was really enjoying this. But not for long. After another ten minutes of waiting for the pain to subside with no results, I decided I should move to the couch to pamper my busted back. As I tried to stand up from the table, I knew I would never be the same. My back was a goner. Sharp pains kept me crumpled up; I had to lean on the wall and furniture to make sure no weight was on my lower back whatsoever. Any burden from my upper body sent me crashing to my knees in a traumatic stupor.
I managed to make it all the way to the couch and fell into it, sure I would never stand again. But unfortunately, I drink a lot of water and coffee, and, shocking though it may be, I have a bladder. Just when I was starting to get comfortable, my innards alerted me to the urgency of the situation.
“Crap,” though not literally. I was going to have to stand up again. This time, though, I was in my favorite slouching position on the couch – feet out, back reclined. I couldn’t even manage to push the footrest back into position because of the stress it put on my back. So my wife helped me do that and then had to drag me into my standing hunchback position. But it was a long way to the bathroom and there weren’t many pieces of furniture or wall corners to support me. Instead, I draped my bulky self all over my wife’s back to take the weight off my own. It was pretty pathetic.
Slowly but surely she dragged her burden all the way down the hall to the bathroom. Luckily, I was able to relieve myself without any assistance, but it was a close call. I heard muffled laughter through the door.
“Humbug!” I was no longer in the mood to laugh; I had just permanently lost my mobility.
That evening I had to cancel several work appointments I had lined up for the following day. But it was completely understandable; I have a tough job. Heavy lifting, dangerous machinery, volatile mafia-linked clients, long hours – you name it; I do none of those things. I tutor high school students. But still, sitting in a chair for a couple of hours can be hard work.
After a few days I started to feel a little better. I could resume my work, demanding though it was. My wife was no longer my personal walker, much to her chagrin. It took me about two weeks to get back to my usual self, but I finally came around. My back hasn’t been quite the same since, though. It gets tired quickly, and sore.
The experience changed me; I am a completely new person. Most importantly, I can now really claim that I am old. But I also stand up slower, and I try to avoid clients from the mafia. People who know things tell me that excess stress can cause back spasms, and the mob is definitely stressful. So as you can see, the pain was clearly worth it. How else would I have gleaned such vital lessons?
My advice to you is this: stand up slowly, avoid the mob, and eat your vegetables. But even in these ideal conditions, I would recommend everyone keep a good cane around, just in case.
Granted, I was not particularly disappointed that my body worked well, other than my incessant sinus infections and allergies. But after saying I was old for so long, it was bound to catch up with me. And so it did.
There I was one day, minding my own business, sitting at the kitchen table, not even bragging about my affinity for hobbies of the elderly. Really, I was just sitting. Then I stood up.
“Gaaaaaaaarrr!!”
And I immediately sat back down. Then I tried to stand up again.
“Blaaaaaaaarrrrrgg!!!”
And I sat back down again. Then I tried to – just kidding.
I hunched like Igor over the table as I wondered what in the world had happened. I tried to sit straight in my chair but couldn’t get above a forty-five degree angle without feeling like a water buffalo was ripping my back off. So I stayed still.
My wife, who was looking on, couldn’t help but laugh at me. I couldn’t either. We laughed and laughed, “Well, you’ve gotten your wish. You really are an old person!” Indeed.
It was bizarre. I hadn’t twisted or jumped out of my seat; I just stood up. And what should happen but all the muscles in my lower back feel like springing up to the middle of my back and staying up there in a ball of painful spasms and tightness. The entire lower half of my back had transformed into a huge knot.
After five minutes I was beginning to worry. This was the sort of thing that happens and then is supposed to disappear quickly, so we could all keep on laughing.
“What if I can never walk again??” Sometimes I can be quite an alarmist.
“Oh you’ll be able to walk alright…with a cane!” My wife was really enjoying this. But not for long. After another ten minutes of waiting for the pain to subside with no results, I decided I should move to the couch to pamper my busted back. As I tried to stand up from the table, I knew I would never be the same. My back was a goner. Sharp pains kept me crumpled up; I had to lean on the wall and furniture to make sure no weight was on my lower back whatsoever. Any burden from my upper body sent me crashing to my knees in a traumatic stupor.
I managed to make it all the way to the couch and fell into it, sure I would never stand again. But unfortunately, I drink a lot of water and coffee, and, shocking though it may be, I have a bladder. Just when I was starting to get comfortable, my innards alerted me to the urgency of the situation.
“Crap,” though not literally. I was going to have to stand up again. This time, though, I was in my favorite slouching position on the couch – feet out, back reclined. I couldn’t even manage to push the footrest back into position because of the stress it put on my back. So my wife helped me do that and then had to drag me into my standing hunchback position. But it was a long way to the bathroom and there weren’t many pieces of furniture or wall corners to support me. Instead, I draped my bulky self all over my wife’s back to take the weight off my own. It was pretty pathetic.
Slowly but surely she dragged her burden all the way down the hall to the bathroom. Luckily, I was able to relieve myself without any assistance, but it was a close call. I heard muffled laughter through the door.
“Humbug!” I was no longer in the mood to laugh; I had just permanently lost my mobility.
That evening I had to cancel several work appointments I had lined up for the following day. But it was completely understandable; I have a tough job. Heavy lifting, dangerous machinery, volatile mafia-linked clients, long hours – you name it; I do none of those things. I tutor high school students. But still, sitting in a chair for a couple of hours can be hard work.
After a few days I started to feel a little better. I could resume my work, demanding though it was. My wife was no longer my personal walker, much to her chagrin. It took me about two weeks to get back to my usual self, but I finally came around. My back hasn’t been quite the same since, though. It gets tired quickly, and sore.
The experience changed me; I am a completely new person. Most importantly, I can now really claim that I am old. But I also stand up slower, and I try to avoid clients from the mafia. People who know things tell me that excess stress can cause back spasms, and the mob is definitely stressful. So as you can see, the pain was clearly worth it. How else would I have gleaned such vital lessons?
My advice to you is this: stand up slowly, avoid the mob, and eat your vegetables. But even in these ideal conditions, I would recommend everyone keep a good cane around, just in case.
The Magical Elixir
I used to hate coffee. It smelled great, sure, but it tasted like sieved dirt. I loved to walk down the coffee aisle in the grocery store and immerse myself in the aroma, but when it came to drinking the stuff, not a chance. But as is evident by The Song of My Coffee, coffee won me over eventually. It conquers droves of high school and college students every year during finals, and I was no exception.
I am a member of the generation that has been named at least ten different times with no clear winner. In my opinion, it’s easier to think of our generation as the Starbucks Generation. By the time I was in high school they were growing as quickly as the mold on the forgotten sandwich in the back of my locker. But I was already over-energetic, so I didn’t really need coffee. Nonetheless, as all high school students do, I often found myself in the comfy couches of Starbucks. Though still believing coffee to be filtered mud, I quickly discovered that I could look trendy nonetheless. My savior was the Frappuccino: 98% sugar and milk, 2% coffee, 100% cool.
By my junior and senior years I was chugging my favorite caramel Frappuccinos all the time. I was hooked, not so much by the caffeine as by the image and the tasty goodness. When I got to college, I needed the caffeine more. Everyone stayed up until at least one or two every night, whether to study or play video games or just talk (or participate in illegal activities – but not me – don’t worry Mom and Dad). I still hadn’t conquered the taste of coffee, so it was Frappuccinos and soda that helped me stay awake as long as necessary. I used to take a Nalgene water bottle to the dining hall at breakfast and fill it up with Dr. Pepper to get me through the morning. There’s nothing like 64 ounces of corn syrup and carbonation.
Somewhere along the line – I’m really not sure where – I finally came into my true coffee potential. I realized that I didn’t really dislike regular coffee; I just didn’t know how to make it properly. Once I added cream and sugar and brewed something other than Folgers, I was set.
Now I drink at least two or three cups of coffee a day. I don’t need the caffeine; I just like coffee. That is, I get plenty of sleep, but I’m sure my body wouldn’t like it if I stopped drinking coffee for a few days. I experiment with bean types, brewing methods, strengths. I have a regular drip brew machine, an espresso maker, and a French press lined up on the counter. I can’t keep any of them in the cupboards because I use each one at least twice a week. It has become a hobby, and one that I heartily enjoy.
For many people, though, coffee is a needed stimulant to make it through the day. The first time I experienced “the coffee room” of a corporation, I was shocked to realize that people all around me were drinking dirt cheap, overheated, terrible coffee. I had looked forward to my first visit to the coffee pot, a symbol of camaraderie among the lower echelons of corporate America, but when I poured its burnt liquid into my Styrofoam cup and took a sip, I nearly threw up. That really was sieved dirt. I ended up bringing in my own coffee pot and beans to brew a more palatable beverage. I couldn’t understand why anyone would drink such a horrible thing. After all, there’s always Diet Coke.
Regardless, coffee continues to keep tired eyes open around the world. But in my mind coffee drinking is more akin to wine drinking. It has all the makings for lifelong pleasure and connoisseur-ship. Just as a wine connoisseur can catch the hints of melon or cherry in a fine wine, the coffee lover can catch the chocolate or nutty tones. And there are the coffee equivalents of the expensive wines, too, Luwak coffee, for example. This coffee, I am told, is perhaps the finest tasting brew out there, but it comes at a cost: up to $180 per pound. But the fun part about this coffee is its origin. It is harvested from the feces of our friendly feline, the luwak. Mr. Luwak loves to eat coffee beans, partially digest them, and then divest himself of them for later consumption by the neighborhood coffee connoisseur. Apparently there is just nothing like the digestive enzymes of a luwak for good-tasting coffee. One of these days I’ll try some and let you know.
I may not have the budget for such fineries, but I have come a long way since childhood. Some people tell me I’m killing myself – all that caffeine – but I’m not too worried. These are the same people who don’t want to vaccinate their children. Anyway, I have more important things to worry about, like the potentially serious case of eyelash cancer which has recently been causing all my eyelashes to fall out – terribly frightening!
Plus, I have support from doctors. Haven’t you heard? Coffee cures diabetes, prevents Parkinson’s, reduces the chance of gallstones, and so much more. Don’t believe me? Click here.
So now I can savor my coffee with a good conscience. Along with the rich, creamy taste, the pleasant atmosphere, and good feelings that coffee produces, it also prevents my early demise. God drinks coffee; I’m convinced.
I am a member of the generation that has been named at least ten different times with no clear winner. In my opinion, it’s easier to think of our generation as the Starbucks Generation. By the time I was in high school they were growing as quickly as the mold on the forgotten sandwich in the back of my locker. But I was already over-energetic, so I didn’t really need coffee. Nonetheless, as all high school students do, I often found myself in the comfy couches of Starbucks. Though still believing coffee to be filtered mud, I quickly discovered that I could look trendy nonetheless. My savior was the Frappuccino: 98% sugar and milk, 2% coffee, 100% cool.
By my junior and senior years I was chugging my favorite caramel Frappuccinos all the time. I was hooked, not so much by the caffeine as by the image and the tasty goodness. When I got to college, I needed the caffeine more. Everyone stayed up until at least one or two every night, whether to study or play video games or just talk (or participate in illegal activities – but not me – don’t worry Mom and Dad). I still hadn’t conquered the taste of coffee, so it was Frappuccinos and soda that helped me stay awake as long as necessary. I used to take a Nalgene water bottle to the dining hall at breakfast and fill it up with Dr. Pepper to get me through the morning. There’s nothing like 64 ounces of corn syrup and carbonation.
Somewhere along the line – I’m really not sure where – I finally came into my true coffee potential. I realized that I didn’t really dislike regular coffee; I just didn’t know how to make it properly. Once I added cream and sugar and brewed something other than Folgers, I was set.
Now I drink at least two or three cups of coffee a day. I don’t need the caffeine; I just like coffee. That is, I get plenty of sleep, but I’m sure my body wouldn’t like it if I stopped drinking coffee for a few days. I experiment with bean types, brewing methods, strengths. I have a regular drip brew machine, an espresso maker, and a French press lined up on the counter. I can’t keep any of them in the cupboards because I use each one at least twice a week. It has become a hobby, and one that I heartily enjoy.
For many people, though, coffee is a needed stimulant to make it through the day. The first time I experienced “the coffee room” of a corporation, I was shocked to realize that people all around me were drinking dirt cheap, overheated, terrible coffee. I had looked forward to my first visit to the coffee pot, a symbol of camaraderie among the lower echelons of corporate America, but when I poured its burnt liquid into my Styrofoam cup and took a sip, I nearly threw up. That really was sieved dirt. I ended up bringing in my own coffee pot and beans to brew a more palatable beverage. I couldn’t understand why anyone would drink such a horrible thing. After all, there’s always Diet Coke.
Regardless, coffee continues to keep tired eyes open around the world. But in my mind coffee drinking is more akin to wine drinking. It has all the makings for lifelong pleasure and connoisseur-ship. Just as a wine connoisseur can catch the hints of melon or cherry in a fine wine, the coffee lover can catch the chocolate or nutty tones. And there are the coffee equivalents of the expensive wines, too, Luwak coffee, for example. This coffee, I am told, is perhaps the finest tasting brew out there, but it comes at a cost: up to $180 per pound. But the fun part about this coffee is its origin. It is harvested from the feces of our friendly feline, the luwak. Mr. Luwak loves to eat coffee beans, partially digest them, and then divest himself of them for later consumption by the neighborhood coffee connoisseur. Apparently there is just nothing like the digestive enzymes of a luwak for good-tasting coffee. One of these days I’ll try some and let you know.
I may not have the budget for such fineries, but I have come a long way since childhood. Some people tell me I’m killing myself – all that caffeine – but I’m not too worried. These are the same people who don’t want to vaccinate their children. Anyway, I have more important things to worry about, like the potentially serious case of eyelash cancer which has recently been causing all my eyelashes to fall out – terribly frightening!
Plus, I have support from doctors. Haven’t you heard? Coffee cures diabetes, prevents Parkinson’s, reduces the chance of gallstones, and so much more. Don’t believe me? Click here.
So now I can savor my coffee with a good conscience. Along with the rich, creamy taste, the pleasant atmosphere, and good feelings that coffee produces, it also prevents my early demise. God drinks coffee; I’m convinced.
Evil Publishers and Scaphism
Every time I open a book, particularly if the author is dead, I am greeted with a introduction that discusses the author's accomplishments and contributions to literature, along with a hefty dose of trivia, a minute by minute chronology of the author's life, a historical atlas contrasting the author's political world with our own, a tree diagram explaining the author's relationship to every person he ever met, a minute by minute chronology of the editor's life, and a 27 page treatise on the use of tungsten in light-bulb filaments. If that isn't enough to wear me out, then I must wade through the mire of the preface to the 8th edition, the foreword, and the author's introduction to literary theory, followed by the original foreword to the book, and a page of acknowledgments, capped off with a list of heads of estate still promoting (to their own monetary benefit) our delightfully deceased writer.
And all that before page 1.
Indeed, by this point, I have managed to make it all the way to page lxxvii, but still no fiction (unless you count the section on literary theory as fiction...I know I do). Then the greatest befuddlement of all: when I finally get to the first page of the work I intended to read, it is numbered *gasp* page 17. What happened to the first 16 pages? Guy Montag was surely at work.
So I am torn. I love the feeling of really conquering an entire book, from cover to cover, but the introductory material is so confoundedly boring that I can seldom wade through it without developing a very strong dislike for the book. Knowing this about myself, I often skip the intro and dive right in to the novel. This provides a psychological boost because even if I only read for five minutes, when I put my bookmark into the book, it looks like I have read half the book already. Good job, Jonathan! I need a little self-encouragement sometimes. But at the same time my conscience betrays me: "You haven't really read this book - you didn't even tackle the author's foreword!" So I feel guilty, but relieved, but guilty - it's terrible!
I've decided that if I ever write a book, and I intend to, soon hopefully, that there shall be no foreword, no preface - just title pages, maybe a brief acknowledgment, and then page 1 - not page 39 and a half. I think that publishers are out to confuse readers with that little page numbering trick. They are all up in their conference rooms laughing every time they pick a bizarre page number for the initial page, reveling in the confusion caused for easily baffled people like myself.
Does this bother anyone other than me? I'm curious.
I'm thinking of creating one of those obnoxious chain emails including a petition to tell publishers that they must change their ways. It will be sure to include a section like this:
"Sign your name at the bottom and forward to everyone in your address book!!!!!!!!!! If you don't, your golden retriever will die a bloody death next Tuesday - don't bring the curse of the angry Jimmy upon your household!!!!!!!!!"
But seriously, if you don't pass this blog on to everyone you know, your best friend's uncle's daughter-in-law's third cousin twice removed will have an unnaturally early death by scaphism. You heard me: death by being covered in honey and left out in the hot sun.
Thank you, Balderdash (TM, ®, ©, Ω, ∫ )
And all that before page 1.
Indeed, by this point, I have managed to make it all the way to page lxxvii, but still no fiction (unless you count the section on literary theory as fiction...I know I do). Then the greatest befuddlement of all: when I finally get to the first page of the work I intended to read, it is numbered *gasp* page 17. What happened to the first 16 pages? Guy Montag was surely at work.
So I am torn. I love the feeling of really conquering an entire book, from cover to cover, but the introductory material is so confoundedly boring that I can seldom wade through it without developing a very strong dislike for the book. Knowing this about myself, I often skip the intro and dive right in to the novel. This provides a psychological boost because even if I only read for five minutes, when I put my bookmark into the book, it looks like I have read half the book already. Good job, Jonathan! I need a little self-encouragement sometimes. But at the same time my conscience betrays me: "You haven't really read this book - you didn't even tackle the author's foreword!" So I feel guilty, but relieved, but guilty - it's terrible!
I've decided that if I ever write a book, and I intend to, soon hopefully, that there shall be no foreword, no preface - just title pages, maybe a brief acknowledgment, and then page 1 - not page 39 and a half. I think that publishers are out to confuse readers with that little page numbering trick. They are all up in their conference rooms laughing every time they pick a bizarre page number for the initial page, reveling in the confusion caused for easily baffled people like myself.
Does this bother anyone other than me? I'm curious.
I'm thinking of creating one of those obnoxious chain emails including a petition to tell publishers that they must change their ways. It will be sure to include a section like this:
"Sign your name at the bottom and forward to everyone in your address book!!!!!!!!!! If you don't, your golden retriever will die a bloody death next Tuesday - don't bring the curse of the angry Jimmy upon your household!!!!!!!!!"
But seriously, if you don't pass this blog on to everyone you know, your best friend's uncle's daughter-in-law's third cousin twice removed will have an unnaturally early death by scaphism. You heard me: death by being covered in honey and left out in the hot sun.
Thank you, Balderdash (TM, ®, ©, Ω, ∫ )
Mozart's Misadventure
Two nights ago, after several years of probation, I reinstituted arts and crafts night. I have had no good reason for doing anything visually artistic since I was in about 9th grade, when I took Intro to Art. There I had attempted perspective, failed; attempted pottery, failed; and finally attempted splatter painting, and succeeded. But I was never big into splatter painting, so despite my teacher’s encouragement to pursue it as a career, I humbly bowed out.
I always regretted it.
But after 9 years of facing the truth (that I was not a world famous splatter painter), I have finally accepted it. Indeed, I have realized that my area of true talent lies in action figure accoutrement construction. How did I realize this, you ask? I shall explain.
My brother recently went to New York and brought me back a small gift that inspired me to rediscover my inner artist. It was…a Mozart action figure! I could hardly think of a better gift.
To go along with Mr. Mozart, you can go online to a particular website and print out a piano for Mozart to play. I was astonished by its beauty – its gilded soundboard, its mahogany body, its slender music stand. It was better than a Steinway.
After printing it, you must cut it out, complete with slots A, B, C, D, E, and F and corresponding tabs, fold it, and glue/tape/force the various pieces together into a piano. They say you need a hobby knife, thick paper, and about 20 minutes of time. I did not have the first two, but I figured an excess of time would easily make up for them.
After 2 hours of cutting, folding, groaning, gluing, shoving, smiting, retching, destroying, and howling at the moon, I succeeded in producing something that looked vaguely familiar to a piano. I’ve never been good at following directions, and apparently sometimes they matter. Part of the problem was that my printer’s margins weren’t quite right, so tabs B through E were conspicuously absent. But even had they been present, I would have accidentally chopped them all off, as I did tabs A and F (they were just so dang slender and fragile!). Normal scissors are not built for the niceties of piano construction.
By the time I had the body of the piano put together, I had used thirteen pieces of tape and a few staples, neither of which are called for in the directions. It looked more like a fire-bombed woodshed than a piano, so I figured that it was pointless to make the legs look nice. So instead of cutting them out as directed, I just rolled them into little tubes and taped them to the bottom of the flimsy instrument.
It only stood for 39 seconds. But in that time I managed to take a flattering picture of it, so no worries. It’s too bad Mozart didn’t have very long to tickle the ivories and do his magic.
Good.
Going.
Gone.
Today, Mozart is still sitting there, arms out (he must have incredible stamina), before a piano whose legs have collapsed. It reminds me of those movie scenes where, after years of labor and trials, the main character admits that his great dream, his magnum opus, will never be realized, and he sits in front of the ruins of his work, too grief-stricken to move, and weeps. It really is a perfect image – Mozart sitting there, arms extended, before a busted piano; it’s too bad action figures can’t cry plastic tears.
The fact is, I stink at building pianos. I feel bad that the first piano I tried to build was intended for the great Mozart. I probably should have started smaller and worked my way up, maybe beginning with Kalinnikov or some other obscure Russian composer. I’ve often wondered how it is that all kids are so good at arts and crafts but how so many adults are bad at them. When do kids start losing the ability to spread glitter appropriately and cut anything out perfectly with a mere pair of safety scissors? And why is it a pair of scissors anyway? I don’t think I would call a single blade a scissor. A single scissor is no scissor at all, just like there is no such thing as a single pant. Clearly we have a conspiracy on our hands.
After this unfortunate experience, I have decided to put myself on probation again, this time permanently. Mozart deserves better, so I will remove myself from the trade.
I bet Salieri is behind all this.
I always regretted it.
But after 9 years of facing the truth (that I was not a world famous splatter painter), I have finally accepted it. Indeed, I have realized that my area of true talent lies in action figure accoutrement construction. How did I realize this, you ask? I shall explain.
My brother recently went to New York and brought me back a small gift that inspired me to rediscover my inner artist. It was…a Mozart action figure! I could hardly think of a better gift.
To go along with Mr. Mozart, you can go online to a particular website and print out a piano for Mozart to play. I was astonished by its beauty – its gilded soundboard, its mahogany body, its slender music stand. It was better than a Steinway.
After printing it, you must cut it out, complete with slots A, B, C, D, E, and F and corresponding tabs, fold it, and glue/tape/force the various pieces together into a piano. They say you need a hobby knife, thick paper, and about 20 minutes of time. I did not have the first two, but I figured an excess of time would easily make up for them.
After 2 hours of cutting, folding, groaning, gluing, shoving, smiting, retching, destroying, and howling at the moon, I succeeded in producing something that looked vaguely familiar to a piano. I’ve never been good at following directions, and apparently sometimes they matter. Part of the problem was that my printer’s margins weren’t quite right, so tabs B through E were conspicuously absent. But even had they been present, I would have accidentally chopped them all off, as I did tabs A and F (they were just so dang slender and fragile!). Normal scissors are not built for the niceties of piano construction.
By the time I had the body of the piano put together, I had used thirteen pieces of tape and a few staples, neither of which are called for in the directions. It looked more like a fire-bombed woodshed than a piano, so I figured that it was pointless to make the legs look nice. So instead of cutting them out as directed, I just rolled them into little tubes and taped them to the bottom of the flimsy instrument.
It only stood for 39 seconds. But in that time I managed to take a flattering picture of it, so no worries. It’s too bad Mozart didn’t have very long to tickle the ivories and do his magic.
Good.
Going.
Gone.The fact is, I stink at building pianos. I feel bad that the first piano I tried to build was intended for the great Mozart. I probably should have started smaller and worked my way up, maybe beginning with Kalinnikov or some other obscure Russian composer. I’ve often wondered how it is that all kids are so good at arts and crafts but how so many adults are bad at them. When do kids start losing the ability to spread glitter appropriately and cut anything out perfectly with a mere pair of safety scissors? And why is it a pair of scissors anyway? I don’t think I would call a single blade a scissor. A single scissor is no scissor at all, just like there is no such thing as a single pant. Clearly we have a conspiracy on our hands.
After this unfortunate experience, I have decided to put myself on probation again, this time permanently. Mozart deserves better, so I will remove myself from the trade.
I bet Salieri is behind all this.
More than just chorus
As a boy with two older brothers, I had a path set out for me, tried and true. I knew which teachers were good, which ones were bad, and which ones were just strange. I knew baseball was the sport of champions; I knew which music was cool. But I have always been the abnormal child. I started taking guitar in the fifth grade, the first one in my family to begin music lessons after my oldest brother’s traumatic piano experiences in his early years. In high school I had some changes forced upon me. For one, I didn’t get the famed Granville for biology as a freshman, instead getting stuck with the new guy, Rashford. It was shocking, almost sacrilege – I knew Granville was the man to have, my brothers said so – how did this happen? Well, Rashford wasn’t so bad after all; actually he was quite good, and I ended up having Granville later for AP (also good).
And as it happens, being in Rashford’s class had a much larger impact on my life than I would have expected. In the spring of the year, when all things are fresh and beautiful, I had my eye on a certain girl from Rashford’s class. Perhaps it was fate, but this crush of mine happened to coincide with recruitment season for the ever man-lacking chorus, and this girl just happened to be in chorus. As all good chorus members do, she was actively participating in the recruitment process, and she was especially on the lookout for boys (as was everyone else). Though every high school chorus seems to have a paucity of men, that year had seen a particular drought at my school. So I was doomed to say yes when she came and asked me if I was interested in joining chorus.
I didn’t even know what I was doing. Really I had planned to say yes, go sign some sort of mailing list, and never actually join. Chorus was not on the older-brother-approved list of classes to take. It would throw everything off – I wouldn’t get into the right classes at the right time with the right teachers. High school would surely be an utter failure if I threw of the plan this early. It was only freshman year and there I was signing my life away to destitution.
But I couldn’t help myself. I went down the hall with the girl after school the next day and signed up for the following year’s Men’s Chorus, first period, with Mr. Spraggins. I thought it would be easy to get out of, but choristers are fearfully good at making sure that once you sign up, you show up. It must be that Educational Psychology class they all take.
School finished up and I went off to summer, trying not to think about how I had ruined my life so young. The summer months flew by, as usual, and come August I stepped foot into the chorus room for the first time. Men’s Chorus was quite an interesting experience. Apparently many girls had taken advantage of crushes for recruitment: the room was packed with guys. There were lanky guys with tremendous cracks in their voices, cool guys with the latest fashions, nerdy guys with awesome contradictions in style, all somewhere between boyhood and manhood. In no other room except perhaps the band and art rooms could you find such a spectrum.
As a sophomore then, I felt somewhat comfortable in the school, but chorus was a whole new deal. I didn’t know a soul, but they all seemed to know each other. Before long, though, I fit right in. There was room for anyone in chorus, especially if you were a guy. The diversity of backgrounds and ages made that class one of the most memorable of my entire high school career. I heard all sorts of crazy stories, many surely untrue, but all unique because of the lack of girls in the class. We were free to be uncouth, smelly, pompous, silly, unmanly boys in that class. There was no one to impress, just a bunch of other guys. We could be ourselves, especially when the different parts went to separate rooms to practice without any adult supervision. It was easily the most freedom I ever had during school until college.
Chorus quickly became the highlight of my day. I loved going to hang out with all the guys for the first hour of every day, and I admit, I began to enjoy the music too. It was particularly cool when we formed a sort of barber shop dodectet that sang the Temptations and other Motown favorites. Just a few years prior I had begun piano lessons, too, so chorus solidified the presence of music in my life for years to come. But more importantly, I learned to be myself in chorus, an important step for me after having spent the previous year transitioning from private school to public school.
Unfortunately, Men’s Chorus only lasted for one full year, as I recall. My junior year, recruitment did not go as well, and attrition forced the remaining guys to join the various mixed choirs. While the music was certainly of a higher quality from that point forward, I always missed Men’s Chorus. I was very comfortable in chorus by then, but I could never be as comfortable as I was with only guys around. An era had passed, never to return.
Well, six years later I have had my share of choral activities. I was active with a variety of choirs and vocal ensembles in college, and I even directed a church choir for three years (which was certainly a highlight of my college years). While I am currently not involved in any musical endeavors due to recent relocations, I know I will be involved somewhere again soon. And I will always enjoy singing, particularly in a choral setting.
It’s funny to think what my life would have been like without the influence of chorus. Perhaps piano lessons would have pricked my interest enough to keep me as involved in music as I ended up being throughout college, but perhaps not. Chorus gave me much more than musical experience. It was a life experience, a force of self-realization that brought me confidence, fun, and friendship. I believe that without this aspect, chorus would never have led me into music as it did.
As a taller boy, I have now clearly established my own life outside the footsteps of my brethren, and music has been one of the most defining differences. I never would have anticipated the ramifications of having the “wrong” biology teacher as a freshman. Sometimes the smallest of diversions from the set path can make a world of difference.
And as it happens, being in Rashford’s class had a much larger impact on my life than I would have expected. In the spring of the year, when all things are fresh and beautiful, I had my eye on a certain girl from Rashford’s class. Perhaps it was fate, but this crush of mine happened to coincide with recruitment season for the ever man-lacking chorus, and this girl just happened to be in chorus. As all good chorus members do, she was actively participating in the recruitment process, and she was especially on the lookout for boys (as was everyone else). Though every high school chorus seems to have a paucity of men, that year had seen a particular drought at my school. So I was doomed to say yes when she came and asked me if I was interested in joining chorus.
I didn’t even know what I was doing. Really I had planned to say yes, go sign some sort of mailing list, and never actually join. Chorus was not on the older-brother-approved list of classes to take. It would throw everything off – I wouldn’t get into the right classes at the right time with the right teachers. High school would surely be an utter failure if I threw of the plan this early. It was only freshman year and there I was signing my life away to destitution.
But I couldn’t help myself. I went down the hall with the girl after school the next day and signed up for the following year’s Men’s Chorus, first period, with Mr. Spraggins. I thought it would be easy to get out of, but choristers are fearfully good at making sure that once you sign up, you show up. It must be that Educational Psychology class they all take.
School finished up and I went off to summer, trying not to think about how I had ruined my life so young. The summer months flew by, as usual, and come August I stepped foot into the chorus room for the first time. Men’s Chorus was quite an interesting experience. Apparently many girls had taken advantage of crushes for recruitment: the room was packed with guys. There were lanky guys with tremendous cracks in their voices, cool guys with the latest fashions, nerdy guys with awesome contradictions in style, all somewhere between boyhood and manhood. In no other room except perhaps the band and art rooms could you find such a spectrum.
As a sophomore then, I felt somewhat comfortable in the school, but chorus was a whole new deal. I didn’t know a soul, but they all seemed to know each other. Before long, though, I fit right in. There was room for anyone in chorus, especially if you were a guy. The diversity of backgrounds and ages made that class one of the most memorable of my entire high school career. I heard all sorts of crazy stories, many surely untrue, but all unique because of the lack of girls in the class. We were free to be uncouth, smelly, pompous, silly, unmanly boys in that class. There was no one to impress, just a bunch of other guys. We could be ourselves, especially when the different parts went to separate rooms to practice without any adult supervision. It was easily the most freedom I ever had during school until college.
Chorus quickly became the highlight of my day. I loved going to hang out with all the guys for the first hour of every day, and I admit, I began to enjoy the music too. It was particularly cool when we formed a sort of barber shop dodectet that sang the Temptations and other Motown favorites. Just a few years prior I had begun piano lessons, too, so chorus solidified the presence of music in my life for years to come. But more importantly, I learned to be myself in chorus, an important step for me after having spent the previous year transitioning from private school to public school.
Unfortunately, Men’s Chorus only lasted for one full year, as I recall. My junior year, recruitment did not go as well, and attrition forced the remaining guys to join the various mixed choirs. While the music was certainly of a higher quality from that point forward, I always missed Men’s Chorus. I was very comfortable in chorus by then, but I could never be as comfortable as I was with only guys around. An era had passed, never to return.
Well, six years later I have had my share of choral activities. I was active with a variety of choirs and vocal ensembles in college, and I even directed a church choir for three years (which was certainly a highlight of my college years). While I am currently not involved in any musical endeavors due to recent relocations, I know I will be involved somewhere again soon. And I will always enjoy singing, particularly in a choral setting.
It’s funny to think what my life would have been like without the influence of chorus. Perhaps piano lessons would have pricked my interest enough to keep me as involved in music as I ended up being throughout college, but perhaps not. Chorus gave me much more than musical experience. It was a life experience, a force of self-realization that brought me confidence, fun, and friendship. I believe that without this aspect, chorus would never have led me into music as it did.
As a taller boy, I have now clearly established my own life outside the footsteps of my brethren, and music has been one of the most defining differences. I never would have anticipated the ramifications of having the “wrong” biology teacher as a freshman. Sometimes the smallest of diversions from the set path can make a world of difference.
Spelling and Such
When I was in the first grade, my family moved from Massachusetts to Georgia. It was quite a change, but for most children, change is easy to deal with. Children seem to have a greater ability to adapt than adults, probably because they have not yet learned to fear change like many adults. Children innately accept change as the only consistent aspect of life. So I acclimated to Georgia quickly. It didn't hurt, though, that we brought the snow with us that year. The Great Blizzard o' '93, as it is recorded in the annals, hit Georgia just weeks after we arrived.
Before long I was saying y'all and drinking sweet tea, but there was one thing that I never absorbed, and I still haven't. It is a particular word, which I discovered one day when I volunteered to read a paragraph out loud in school:
"'Jimmy went to school. He liked it there. It was fun. His mother asked him, 'Do you like school Jimmy?' 'Yes Maw-Am, I do.'"
Apparently Jimmy was funny, so I started laughing along with my classmates, even though I didn't get it. Then my teacher informed me that the word spelled "ma'am" was pronounced "mam." What kind of messed up phonetic world was this anyway? I never read aloud again - ever - and I am extremely shy to this day as a result of my tragic ma'am experience. Just ask around.
One of the problems with being a reader is that we often learn what a word means and associate it with whatever we believe to be its pronunciation, even if that pronunciation is wrong. My sister, for instance, likes to tell the story of how for years she believed the word "laughter" to be pronounced "lotter," rhyming with "hotter." There are many examples of this principle, and some that you may not have realized yourself.
For instance, Goethe, the Shakespeare of Germany, is not "go-eth" but rather "Ger-tuh." The word "draught," while common in England, is currently underlined by my spell-checker as a misspelled word, and following the principle of "laughter," is pronounced "draft," not "drawt." I did not realize this myself until recently, and based on a small survey I conducted, many others do not know either. Then there's "victuals," pronounced "vittles," as in "Get some vittles and roast them on the far - I'm cold and hungry!" Until yesterday, when I saw the word printed for the first time that I can remember, I would have spelled "roughage" as "ruffage" had I written it myself, and probably would have pronounced "roughage" as "roo-age," were its meaning not so evident in the book I was reading. I also recall thinking "epitome" was "epi-tome" not "ep-pit-oh-me," though I knew what the word "ep-pit-oh-me" meant when spoken.
There are many other words whose pronunciations should be obvious but which are constantly mispronounced. There is no "x" in "essssssspresso." (That is, by the way, how it was originally spelt, to emphasize the sound of steaming water.) There is an "r" after the "b" in February. And, again with the "x," it is "et cetera," not "ex cetera." I'm sure the first "r" in February will eventually go away, in a few hundred years perhaps, since it is never used. That which is not used is thrown away.
Sometimes in English we have actually kept the old and new versions of a word, though. For instance, the word "amicable" means friendly; so does the word "amiable." And in fact, they are the same word historically. Somewhere along the way, a group of folks stopped using the "c" in "amicable," either from laziness or forgetfulness or both. But I suppose another group liked the "c," so both words came to us in English, though they come from precisely the same word amicabilis, "friendly" in Latin. Curious, isn't it? We like our choices in English.
Whenever I come across examples like this one, I reflect that spelling really should not be as strict as it is. We permit both amiable and amicable, despite the fact that they are the same word, so why not permit both February and Febuary, espresso and expresso, and so on? In Middle English especially (Chaucer's era), they took this view. Words were speld however the auther felt lyke spellyng them, or however best reflekted the pronuntsiashun. Good times.
I like diversity in spelling; it keeps life interesting, whether the different spellings are "correct" or not. It's funny - not a single word in the previous paragraph is underlined in my spell-checker even though "draught" was (and still is) underlined. You may think it's a glitch; I think its a sign.
With ridiculously spelled text messages and quick emails overtaking other forms of communication, we are sure to see some funny spelling changes in the next few centuries. If we're lucky, pronunciations will change along with them. Then when we are unfrozen from our cryogenic freezers in 2513, we will all have a good laugh over the way people communicate, unless, of course, we are still afraid of change. I'm sure the kids will love it.
Before long I was saying y'all and drinking sweet tea, but there was one thing that I never absorbed, and I still haven't. It is a particular word, which I discovered one day when I volunteered to read a paragraph out loud in school:
"'Jimmy went to school. He liked it there. It was fun. His mother asked him, 'Do you like school Jimmy?' 'Yes Maw-Am, I do.'"
Apparently Jimmy was funny, so I started laughing along with my classmates, even though I didn't get it. Then my teacher informed me that the word spelled "ma'am" was pronounced "mam." What kind of messed up phonetic world was this anyway? I never read aloud again - ever - and I am extremely shy to this day as a result of my tragic ma'am experience. Just ask around.
One of the problems with being a reader is that we often learn what a word means and associate it with whatever we believe to be its pronunciation, even if that pronunciation is wrong. My sister, for instance, likes to tell the story of how for years she believed the word "laughter" to be pronounced "lotter," rhyming with "hotter." There are many examples of this principle, and some that you may not have realized yourself.
For instance, Goethe, the Shakespeare of Germany, is not "go-eth" but rather "Ger-tuh." The word "draught," while common in England, is currently underlined by my spell-checker as a misspelled word, and following the principle of "laughter," is pronounced "draft," not "drawt." I did not realize this myself until recently, and based on a small survey I conducted, many others do not know either. Then there's "victuals," pronounced "vittles," as in "Get some vittles and roast them on the far - I'm cold and hungry!" Until yesterday, when I saw the word printed for the first time that I can remember, I would have spelled "roughage" as "ruffage" had I written it myself, and probably would have pronounced "roughage" as "roo-age," were its meaning not so evident in the book I was reading. I also recall thinking "epitome" was "epi-tome" not "ep-pit-oh-me," though I knew what the word "ep-pit-oh-me" meant when spoken.
There are many other words whose pronunciations should be obvious but which are constantly mispronounced. There is no "x" in "essssssspresso." (That is, by the way, how it was originally spelt, to emphasize the sound of steaming water.) There is an "r" after the "b" in February. And, again with the "x," it is "et cetera," not "ex cetera." I'm sure the first "r" in February will eventually go away, in a few hundred years perhaps, since it is never used. That which is not used is thrown away.
Sometimes in English we have actually kept the old and new versions of a word, though. For instance, the word "amicable" means friendly; so does the word "amiable." And in fact, they are the same word historically. Somewhere along the way, a group of folks stopped using the "c" in "amicable," either from laziness or forgetfulness or both. But I suppose another group liked the "c," so both words came to us in English, though they come from precisely the same word amicabilis, "friendly" in Latin. Curious, isn't it? We like our choices in English.
Whenever I come across examples like this one, I reflect that spelling really should not be as strict as it is. We permit both amiable and amicable, despite the fact that they are the same word, so why not permit both February and Febuary, espresso and expresso, and so on? In Middle English especially (Chaucer's era), they took this view. Words were speld however the auther felt lyke spellyng them, or however best reflekted the pronuntsiashun. Good times.
I like diversity in spelling; it keeps life interesting, whether the different spellings are "correct" or not. It's funny - not a single word in the previous paragraph is underlined in my spell-checker even though "draught" was (and still is) underlined. You may think it's a glitch; I think its a sign.
With ridiculously spelled text messages and quick emails overtaking other forms of communication, we are sure to see some funny spelling changes in the next few centuries. If we're lucky, pronunciations will change along with them. Then when we are unfrozen from our cryogenic freezers in 2513, we will all have a good laugh over the way people communicate, unless, of course, we are still afraid of change. I'm sure the kids will love it.
More Palindromes, or perhaps just Symmetry
I just now began to write a post relating cell phones and concerts, but after completing only one paragraph, I went off on this completely unrelated tangent. Very quickly the digression grew longer than the actual article, so I decided to write a short post dedicated to that digression. I have discussed this topic before, but it only gets better with age.
Palindromes. How I love thee; let me count the ways. Or perhaps not; it would take far too long. Instead, let's dive right in.
The word "dub" is a special sort of palindrome - if you reverse the word completely (not just the order of the letters, but the letters themselves), it remains "dub" since d and b are reflections of each other. You could check to see if this works by writing a word on a piece of paper, holding it up to a mirror, and seeing if it is the same word in the mirror. Obviously it is difficult to find this kind of palindrome since many letters' reflections are not other letters. Some other examples are "bud," "A TOYOTA," and "mom," though the last two types only exhibit this property because all of the letters are individually bilaterally symmetrical. Personally I don't find them nearly as exciting as b's and d's switching places with each other.
Another strange type of of palindrome is exhibited by the word "pod." This time, if you stuck a needle through the center of the "o" (so the needle would be sticking straight into your computer screen...please don't try this at home - I fear lawsuits) and then rotated the word 180 degrees by twisting the needle, "pod" would remain "pod." In math we would call this symmetry about the origin. Unfortunately, I can't think of any other examples; there may not be any. So what I'm saying is that this point is completely useless, but it's still awesome.
It's sort of like learning Old English really well. There's a big list of words in Old English that are only ever used once in Old English, namely, in Beowulf. So you are reading Beowulf in Old English, come across a word you don't know, go to all the trouble of looking it up in a dictionary and making a flashcard, and then you realize that you will never, ever again need to know that word. I'd say it's still worth it. But I am rather strange.
Well, to close out, I was recently pointed to a long, palindromic poem by some comedian. It is surprisingly long. I think the poet should submit the poem to some modern poetry contest. It's sure to win - it makes no sense. But if he didn't say it was a palindrome and the judges didn't catch it (which I'm sure they wouldn't), it would be fantastic to see all those would-be poets pouring ridiculous, overwrought theories and interpretations all over a poem that has no meaning. (By the way, that poem read at Obama's inauguration was absolutely horrid. I just read it again online, and I retain my opinion. It ruined the moment, sapped it of life. In particular, the delivery was completely flat, devoid of spirit or passion. If a poet should know anything, it should be that poetry is meant to be both heard and seen, so if you speak it poorly, the poem is ruined. The poet, of all people, should be able to read her own poem well. Alas, it was not so. "Praise Song for the Day" ended up being a lifeless attempt at beauty.)
So here's the poem. Excuses its vulgarities - it's hard to make palindromes.
"Dammit I'm Mad" by Demetri Martin
Palindromes. How I love thee; let me count the ways. Or perhaps not; it would take far too long. Instead, let's dive right in.
The word "dub" is a special sort of palindrome - if you reverse the word completely (not just the order of the letters, but the letters themselves), it remains "dub" since d and b are reflections of each other. You could check to see if this works by writing a word on a piece of paper, holding it up to a mirror, and seeing if it is the same word in the mirror. Obviously it is difficult to find this kind of palindrome since many letters' reflections are not other letters. Some other examples are "bud," "A TOYOTA," and "mom," though the last two types only exhibit this property because all of the letters are individually bilaterally symmetrical. Personally I don't find them nearly as exciting as b's and d's switching places with each other.
Another strange type of of palindrome is exhibited by the word "pod." This time, if you stuck a needle through the center of the "o" (so the needle would be sticking straight into your computer screen...please don't try this at home - I fear lawsuits) and then rotated the word 180 degrees by twisting the needle, "pod" would remain "pod." In math we would call this symmetry about the origin. Unfortunately, I can't think of any other examples; there may not be any. So what I'm saying is that this point is completely useless, but it's still awesome.
It's sort of like learning Old English really well. There's a big list of words in Old English that are only ever used once in Old English, namely, in Beowulf. So you are reading Beowulf in Old English, come across a word you don't know, go to all the trouble of looking it up in a dictionary and making a flashcard, and then you realize that you will never, ever again need to know that word. I'd say it's still worth it. But I am rather strange.
Well, to close out, I was recently pointed to a long, palindromic poem by some comedian. It is surprisingly long. I think the poet should submit the poem to some modern poetry contest. It's sure to win - it makes no sense. But if he didn't say it was a palindrome and the judges didn't catch it (which I'm sure they wouldn't), it would be fantastic to see all those would-be poets pouring ridiculous, overwrought theories and interpretations all over a poem that has no meaning. (By the way, that poem read at Obama's inauguration was absolutely horrid. I just read it again online, and I retain my opinion. It ruined the moment, sapped it of life. In particular, the delivery was completely flat, devoid of spirit or passion. If a poet should know anything, it should be that poetry is meant to be both heard and seen, so if you speak it poorly, the poem is ruined. The poet, of all people, should be able to read her own poem well. Alas, it was not so. "Praise Song for the Day" ended up being a lifeless attempt at beauty.)
So here's the poem. Excuses its vulgarities - it's hard to make palindromes.
"Dammit I'm Mad" by Demetri Martin
Dammit I'm mad.
Evil is a deed as I live.
God, am I reviled? I rise, my bed on a sun, I melt.
To be not one man emanating is sad. I piss.
Alas, it is so late. Who stops to help?
Man, it is hot. I'm in it. I tell.
I am not a devil. I level "Mad Dog".
Ah, say burning is, as a deified gulp,
In my halo of a mired rum tin.
I erase many men. Oh, to be man, a sin.
Is evil in a clam? In a trap?
No. It is open. On it I was stuck.
Rats peed on hope. Elsewhere dips a web.
Be still if I fill its ebb.
Ew, a spider… eh?
We sleep. Oh no!
Deep, stark cuts saw it in one position.
Part animal, can I live? Sin is a name.
Both, one… my names are in it.
Murder? I'm a fool.
A hymn I plug, deified as a sign in ruby ash,
A Goddam level I lived at.
On mail let it in. I'm it.
Oh, sit in ample hot spots. Oh wet!
A loss it is alas (sip). I'd assign it a name.
Name not one bottle minus an ode by me:
"Sir, I deliver. I'm a dog"
Evil is a deed as I live.
Dammit I'm mad.
On the Road
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.
"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.
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