Well, we've made it. Firstborn is out of school. (...And will be entering Second Grade next year - how is that even possible?) Secondborn has finished up his daycare program. Firstborn has also had his seventh birthday (How is that even possible?) We have survived parties, half-days, end-of-the-year cleanup, and general chaos.
And that's just the boys. That's saying nothing of what's been going on with the Beautiful Wife and myself: the foundation repairs; the cleaning up the house until it's logistically impossible to find anything (even things that haven't been thrown away or moved to the storage unit); the weird medical stuff; the travels to attend weddings and visit friends; the judicious use of packaged neurotoxins to get rid of the firk ding blast fleas.
You know how I manage to keep putting stuff on the Blog o' Doom, here, despite all this going on? Because if I didn't, I swear I would lose my mind. Writing is how I cope. It's always been how I cope - at least since I was twelve, which is close enough to forever for any human standard of measure. Writing is how I sort my thoughts out, arrange them into patterns that make sense, and set them somewhere that I can come back to when I must. Even the silly, whimsical, stupid stuff that I put up here - I don't just write it to amuse you, my beloved and intelligent readers. I write it because, for example, putting myself in the position of a Mad Scientist long enough to write about his latest difficulties helps me get some perspective on the absurdities in my own life. Plus, it's fun - and that sort of fun also helps me keep my sense of perspective.
So you, my dear and lovely readers - though I'm sure you come here entirely for your own reasons - play a big part in helping me keep my... for lack of a better term... balance. Composure. Serenity. Something like that.
I have other writing projects. I have at least one that I actually made some really good progress on, just this morning. (That would be more exciting if it meant that such progress was likely to, y'know, continue any time in the foreseeable future. Experience suggests that such is not the case.) So I was planning to come here, and post something vaguely apologetic to explain that I might not be around too much this week, since I might be working on other things. But, on further consideration, I don't think that's really the case. There may be some filler this week; probably will be, in fact. But I suspect you'll also see our real-life flea infestation through the lens of the Mad Scientist's world, and the next installment of The Shining Walls (which I'm also very much enjoying), and possibly a few other things into the bargain.
But, well, if I'm a little incoherent, or I leave out a word or two in the of my sentences, well... We have a lot going on just now, you know?
Monday, June 10, 2013
Sunday, June 9, 2013
Bah!
You know what I hate? I hate when I write something out for a Monday morning, and then accidentally publish it on a Sunday night instead. (It's even better when I retroactively publish it on that Sunday morning! Twice the fun!) I mean, sure, I can reset the publication time, but it's already gone out to RSS feeds and blogrolls and I-don't-even-know-what-else.
Though I'm sure that's nowhere near as embarrassing as when our federal government carelessly publishes the details of a top-secret missile base belonging to one of our allies...
Though I'm sure that's nowhere near as embarrassing as when our federal government carelessly publishes the details of a top-secret missile base belonging to one of our allies...
Friday, June 7, 2013
Song Pairs: Who's that girl?
I have a certain fascination with song pairs. Usually they're songs that I consider to be complementary in some way, despite being produced by different artists. Some of this is the songs themselves, but a lot of it just my idiosyncratic personal perceptions and associations. Want an example? All right: I cannot hear Robert Palmer's I Didn't Mean To Turn You On without thinking of Eddie Money's Take Me Home Tonight - and vice versa.
There are also pairs of songs that stick together in my head because they seem, in one way or another, to be the same song - just, y'know, with different music and different lyrics. The most egregious example that springs to mind is "The Long Black Veil" vs. "Over The Hills (And Far Away)".
But this morning I'm thinking about yet another sort of song pair: songs that seem, to my mind, to have taken the same title and run in completely different directions with it. Which brings me to the question of the morning: Who's That Girl?
There are also pairs of songs that stick together in my head because they seem, in one way or another, to be the same song - just, y'know, with different music and different lyrics. The most egregious example that springs to mind is "The Long Black Veil" vs. "Over The Hills (And Far Away)".
But this morning I'm thinking about yet another sort of song pair: songs that seem, to my mind, to have taken the same title and run in completely different directions with it. Which brings me to the question of the morning: Who's That Girl?
Thursday, June 6, 2013
The Parable of the Cartographer
Once upon a time, there was a Cartographer. He was a bright, successful man, well-regarded in his field, and he had (as cartographers so often do) a map.
This was not just any map. This was the map, relied upon by billions of people across the world. It was widely considered, even by those who didn't consult it regularly, to be absolutely the finest tool for navigation available. Admittedly, not all of those of people used the map in exactly the same way; but the Cartographer had studied for years to learn how to read the map correctly and had been much applauded for his ability to decipher its complexities.
One day, the Cartographer was out walking when he heard someone calling out to him. He was, at it happens, walking from his workshop in Springfield, Illinois to the town of Phoenix. He had, of course, brought his copy of the map with him, and he was using it to find his way. So, naturally, the cartographer looked for the source of the voice and found a farmer standing next to him.
"Begging your pardon," said the farmer, "but you're walking through my field, and you're crushing some of my plants."
The cartographer consulted the map, then turned back to the farmer. "That is unfortunate," he said, "but I am on my way to Phoenix; and the map says I must proceed this way."
The farmer wasn't sure what to say to this. He, too, held the map in high regard; and he could tell by the Cartographer's scholarly clothes that the Cartographer had spent a lot more time studying the map than he had. "Well," he said, "if that's what the map says..."
So the Cartographer bade him good day, and continued to follow the map.
Some time later the Cartographer was passing through a town when he again heard someone calling out to him. He stopped and looked around, and found that a man and a woman had stopped him. The man wore a carpenter's toolbelt, and the woman wore the simple skirt and apron of a professional maid. "May I help you?" he asked, thinking that perhaps they were lost and had stopped to ask him for guidance from the map.
"You," said the man, "need to look where you're going. In the last few minutes you've forced four people to detour around you, and bumped into two others. You nearly knocked one lady over!"
"Have I?" asked the Cartographer. He had noticed no such thing, and was startled and a little irritated to be accused of such behavior.
"Oh, yes indeed," answered the woman. "I saw it with my own eyes. You bumped into them just as he said, and no mistake about it."
"Ah," said the Cartographer. "Well." He was, truth be told, a little aggravated at being accosted over something like this; didn't these people have any sense of priorities? "You must understand, I am following the map."
The carpenter scowled and walked away, but the maid asked: "But sir, could you perhaps use your map to find some other way to get where you're going? One that isn't so hard on other people?"
The Cartographer reminded himself that she was, of course, sadly uneducated in these matters. To educate her, he replied: "I'm sorry, my dear, but the map shows us the one correct route. I cannot divert from it." She only stared at him, looking puzzled.
So he bade her good day, and continued to the follow the map.
Later still, as he was approaching Phoenix, he heard yet another voice. He stopped again, and looked to see where it was coming from. This time he found a woman beside him, and she was waving her arms and screaming invectives at him. Finding that she at last had his attention, she demanded: "What do you think you're doing!?"
Well, the Cartographer wasn't used to being addressed in this manner, and he didn't like it one bit. So he drew himself up and said, "Ma'am, I am following the map."
"You are walking on my children!" she replied. "They were out here playing, and you came right up and walked over them! You are hurting my children!"
"Well," he replied. "I don't see how that's possible. I am following the map, and the map shows us the correct route. Naturally it wouldn't show us that path if it was in any way wrong."
"The map?" she asked. "Doesn't it say, 'Don't hurt anyone in your travels'? Look. Right up there, just under the compass rose."
"It does indeed," he agreed, "and that is clear evidence of the value of the map. Moreover, the map clearly shows that this is the way to reach my destination, so this is the path I must follow."
The woman studied him in silence. Just as he was about to bid her farewell, she said: "My husband is an explorer, and I know a thing or two about maps. And the one thing I've seen, over and over, is that no map in the world can help you if you don't stop and orient yourself to the terrain. Doesn't matter how skilled you are at reading it, either. You have to check the terrain." She paused. "Most strangers passing through here, I'd invite 'em in for food and drink, a bit of rest from the heat of the day. But you, sir, don't seem to be the kind of man who changes direction easily, and my kin and I want nothing to do with you."
With that she turned away, gathered up her children, and found her own way back to her home.
I write this in reaction to Fred Clark's rather neat vivisection of Bishop Paprocki's talk on same sex marriage and the question-and-answer session that apparently followed.
Bishop Paprocki may protest that his "position is not a question of anecdotal stories" and that his opponent "presented her case from an emotional position" as opposed to "the church's stance [which] comes from the position of faith and reason", but (assuming even minimal accuracy on the part of the National Catholic Register) neither of those protests is relevant. The people supporting the right of same-sex (etc.) couples to wed are not trying to sway his opinion with anecdotal stories; nor are they arguing on the basis of illogical emotion. They are trying to draw his attention to the terrain.
This was not just any map. This was the map, relied upon by billions of people across the world. It was widely considered, even by those who didn't consult it regularly, to be absolutely the finest tool for navigation available. Admittedly, not all of those of people used the map in exactly the same way; but the Cartographer had studied for years to learn how to read the map correctly and had been much applauded for his ability to decipher its complexities.
One day, the Cartographer was out walking when he heard someone calling out to him. He was, at it happens, walking from his workshop in Springfield, Illinois to the town of Phoenix. He had, of course, brought his copy of the map with him, and he was using it to find his way. So, naturally, the cartographer looked for the source of the voice and found a farmer standing next to him.
"Begging your pardon," said the farmer, "but you're walking through my field, and you're crushing some of my plants."
The cartographer consulted the map, then turned back to the farmer. "That is unfortunate," he said, "but I am on my way to Phoenix; and the map says I must proceed this way."
The farmer wasn't sure what to say to this. He, too, held the map in high regard; and he could tell by the Cartographer's scholarly clothes that the Cartographer had spent a lot more time studying the map than he had. "Well," he said, "if that's what the map says..."
So the Cartographer bade him good day, and continued to follow the map.
Some time later the Cartographer was passing through a town when he again heard someone calling out to him. He stopped and looked around, and found that a man and a woman had stopped him. The man wore a carpenter's toolbelt, and the woman wore the simple skirt and apron of a professional maid. "May I help you?" he asked, thinking that perhaps they were lost and had stopped to ask him for guidance from the map.
"You," said the man, "need to look where you're going. In the last few minutes you've forced four people to detour around you, and bumped into two others. You nearly knocked one lady over!"
"Have I?" asked the Cartographer. He had noticed no such thing, and was startled and a little irritated to be accused of such behavior.
"Oh, yes indeed," answered the woman. "I saw it with my own eyes. You bumped into them just as he said, and no mistake about it."
"Ah," said the Cartographer. "Well." He was, truth be told, a little aggravated at being accosted over something like this; didn't these people have any sense of priorities? "You must understand, I am following the map."
The carpenter scowled and walked away, but the maid asked: "But sir, could you perhaps use your map to find some other way to get where you're going? One that isn't so hard on other people?"
The Cartographer reminded himself that she was, of course, sadly uneducated in these matters. To educate her, he replied: "I'm sorry, my dear, but the map shows us the one correct route. I cannot divert from it." She only stared at him, looking puzzled.
So he bade her good day, and continued to the follow the map.
Later still, as he was approaching Phoenix, he heard yet another voice. He stopped again, and looked to see where it was coming from. This time he found a woman beside him, and she was waving her arms and screaming invectives at him. Finding that she at last had his attention, she demanded: "What do you think you're doing!?"
Well, the Cartographer wasn't used to being addressed in this manner, and he didn't like it one bit. So he drew himself up and said, "Ma'am, I am following the map."
"You are walking on my children!" she replied. "They were out here playing, and you came right up and walked over them! You are hurting my children!"
"Well," he replied. "I don't see how that's possible. I am following the map, and the map shows us the correct route. Naturally it wouldn't show us that path if it was in any way wrong."
"The map?" she asked. "Doesn't it say, 'Don't hurt anyone in your travels'? Look. Right up there, just under the compass rose."
"It does indeed," he agreed, "and that is clear evidence of the value of the map. Moreover, the map clearly shows that this is the way to reach my destination, so this is the path I must follow."
The woman studied him in silence. Just as he was about to bid her farewell, she said: "My husband is an explorer, and I know a thing or two about maps. And the one thing I've seen, over and over, is that no map in the world can help you if you don't stop and orient yourself to the terrain. Doesn't matter how skilled you are at reading it, either. You have to check the terrain." She paused. "Most strangers passing through here, I'd invite 'em in for food and drink, a bit of rest from the heat of the day. But you, sir, don't seem to be the kind of man who changes direction easily, and my kin and I want nothing to do with you."
With that she turned away, gathered up her children, and found her own way back to her home.
I write this in reaction to Fred Clark's rather neat vivisection of Bishop Paprocki's talk on same sex marriage and the question-and-answer session that apparently followed.
Bishop Paprocki may protest that his "position is not a question of anecdotal stories" and that his opponent "presented her case from an emotional position" as opposed to "the church's stance [which] comes from the position of faith and reason", but (assuming even minimal accuracy on the part of the National Catholic Register) neither of those protests is relevant. The people supporting the right of same-sex (etc.) couples to wed are not trying to sway his opinion with anecdotal stories; nor are they arguing on the basis of illogical emotion. They are trying to draw his attention to the terrain.
Wednesday, June 5, 2013
How long can you tread water?
I have, as you might have noticed, some issues with the story of Noah's Ark. Don't get me wrong, I can see the appeal. I've had days (weeks, months) in which it really seemed like the only way to really fix things was to burn everything down and start over. (That seems, to me, to be the fundamental lure of the story.)
But unless you're willing to believe that everyone else in the world, everyone Not Like You, is evil - completely and irredeemably evil - then killing off the entire world is a monstrous and evil thing to do. It's only slightly less monstrous if you're "merely" leaving everyone else to die, as you get in some modern retellings of the story (such as Atlas Shrugged).
If other people are basically just doing their best to get by, then killing them off for their perceived failure(s) isn't noble; it's villainous. It's horrible. And if you discovered that someone was planning to do that, the heroic action would be trying to stop them.
...This has devolved into something of a rant, which wasn't exactly what I intended. So, on a lighter note, here's Bill Cosby with his own distinctive take on the story:
But unless you're willing to believe that everyone else in the world, everyone Not Like You, is evil - completely and irredeemably evil - then killing off the entire world is a monstrous and evil thing to do. It's only slightly less monstrous if you're "merely" leaving everyone else to die, as you get in some modern retellings of the story (such as Atlas Shrugged).
If other people are basically just doing their best to get by, then killing them off for their perceived failure(s) isn't noble; it's villainous. It's horrible. And if you discovered that someone was planning to do that, the heroic action would be trying to stop them.
...This has devolved into something of a rant, which wasn't exactly what I intended. So, on a lighter note, here's Bill Cosby with his own distinctive take on the story:
Tuesday, June 4, 2013
Stuffed Animal Day
So, today is Stuffed Animal Day at Firstborn's school. The students are supposed to bring in a stuffed animal, which they will read stories to (and/or tell stories about), and there will be other related activities. It's basically one of those enjoyable little end-of-the-school-year events - not a big deal, and a little silly, but still fun.
This presented us with a minor difficulty, though. Since we've been trying to get our house ready to sell (with the ultimate goal of getting ourselves into a larger house that feeds into one of our preferred schools): all the stuffed animals are hiding in the storage unit. So, yesterday, I swung by there and retrieved (from the very bottom of the container, I might add), the small plush Cthulhu that has been Firstborn's go-to stuffed animal ever since he first stole it from me.
However, since there's always the possibility that this will raise an eyebrow or two - or at least provoke some interesting questions - I thought I should make sure that Firstborn could explain what a Cthulhu was. So, I printed him out a little guide:
This presented us with a minor difficulty, though. Since we've been trying to get our house ready to sell (with the ultimate goal of getting ourselves into a larger house that feeds into one of our preferred schools): all the stuffed animals are hiding in the storage unit. So, yesterday, I swung by there and retrieved (from the very bottom of the container, I might add), the small plush Cthulhu that has been Firstborn's go-to stuffed animal ever since he first stole it from me.
However, since there's always the possibility that this will raise an eyebrow or two - or at least provoke some interesting questions - I thought I should make sure that Firstborn could explain what a Cthulhu was. So, I printed him out a little guide:
CthulhuI'm looking forward to hearing how this goes.
(Usually Pronounced: kÉ™-THOO-loo or Kuh-THOO-loo)
- Cthulhu comes from a series of stories by author H. P. Lovecraft.
- In the stories, Cthulhu is trapped in an underwater city in the Pacific Ocean. Someday he will rise up and destroy the world.
- Cthulhu has a manlike body, with wings on his back and a head like the body of an octopus. Cthulhu has been described as a mix between a giant human, an octopus and a dragon, and is depicted as being hundreds of meters tall.
- In the stories, Cthulhu sends dreams to people who are sensitive enough to “hear” him.
Monday, June 3, 2013
A Less Frabjous Day
It's not my fault. I just wanted to go camping. So I gathered up some friends, and we packed our gear and headed out. It was supposed to be a bit of simple fun: two nights out, then back in time for work on Monday. Just a calm, relaxing weekend in the woods.
It was... horrible. Do you have any idea how it was? First it was the bird - it got Joe. And then that frumious thing found us, and there went Rex and Carol. When they left, we thought we were safe. We thought we could finally hike back out. But they... they weren't full. They were fleeing. They'd seen the eyes of flame. They knew what was coming - the jaws that bite, the claws that catch. And that horrid, unearthly burbling.
I was the only one who made it out. When it got Alastair, I just... I just ran. I kept running.
It was Joe's fault. He was the one who said we should turn in there, camp in those woods - said it would save us some time on the road. He didn't know they were tulgey woods. None of us did.
If only... if only one of us had thought to pack a vorpal sword.
It was... horrible. Do you have any idea how it was? First it was the bird - it got Joe. And then that frumious thing found us, and there went Rex and Carol. When they left, we thought we were safe. We thought we could finally hike back out. But they... they weren't full. They were fleeing. They'd seen the eyes of flame. They knew what was coming - the jaws that bite, the claws that catch. And that horrid, unearthly burbling.
I was the only one who made it out. When it got Alastair, I just... I just ran. I kept running.
It was Joe's fault. He was the one who said we should turn in there, camp in those woods - said it would save us some time on the road. He didn't know they were tulgey woods. None of us did.
If only... if only one of us had thought to pack a vorpal sword.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)