Incoming

Today's Track: Soundtrack: Monty Python and the Holy Grail

Call me a geek if you want, but PBS is great television.
No, really. Not only is it educational, but, at times, it can be downright inspirational.
Case in point: On a recent episode of long-running series This Old House, the crew was engaged in remodeling a house in one of Florida's more hurricane-intensive regions. The show's host/commentator/irritating bore was questioning the project's architect/designer on camera. The subject of windows was addressed, being highly crucial in the sense that the house had, at that point, very few of them. According to the interviewee, the house's new windows would represent the highest and finest state of the modern window-design art. They would have to be of significantly higher quality than average to stand the abuse of potential hurricanes. They would in fact need to be--and here I really, really wish I'd been paying enough attention to have gotten the exact quote--capable of sustaining the impact of a coconut traveling at 100 miles per hour. (And that's only in it's paraphrased form. To hear the man himself deliver the original line, utterly deadpan, was much better.)
Now I know what you're thinking.
You're thinking: How much do I have to pay to get to see that?
As a responsible human being, I feel as though I should state that hurricanes are terrible, destructive things, often laying waste to life and property for miles in every direction as they pass. With the added danger and demolition potential of airborne coconuts, it's a real nightmare.
That having been said, think about it. How would you feel if you looked on helplessly as a bunch of coconuts--dense, heavy, hair-covered projectile vegetation from Hell--thundered into a building at almost three times the municipal speed limit?
You'd laugh until you fell face first in the mud, probably. I know I would.
I realize that natural disasters are no laughing matter, as we are so often reminded by stern-faced media spokescreatures. But--due in large part to the efforts of the Fox Network--it is now almost impossible to view any catastrophe less devastating than the Crimean War without mentally adding a cartoon soundtrack and amusing voices.
Besides that... I mean, it's a coconut!
I personally know of several people who would wait in line for tickets to see that. The only problem is getting the things in flight on demand.
--Swallows?--
Hurricanes, as a rule, are not generally available at command. But I'm sure someone somewhere has already come up with an idea that would do the trick--if so, please let me know.
I'm frankly surprised the U.S. military has not looked into coconuts as a practical and humorous waste of taxpayer defense dollars.
(Unfortunately, I don't have a link to any of the documents relating the Air Force/Navy project which involved the aerial release of incendiary device-equipped bats, which would really have gone over well at this point. I urge you to look into it, though.)
In any case, I bet you'll never look at a palm tree in quite the same way again.

By the way, for those of you who want to know, yes, I think I would laugh if it happened to my house.

Untitled

Today's Track: Monday, Monday--The Mamas and The Papas

After the other day, I almost feel like pouring myself a Guinness or three and singing "Feelings" to a coat-rack. The poor thing would probably skitter away in fear.
Somewhere along the way, this thing has undergone some sort of spontaneous format shift, becoming less a lighthearted poke at humanity and more a sort of ongoing digitized mawkish rambling. Needless to say, this is not at all what I had in mind. For what it's worth, I hope that it doesn't turn out to be permanent. But then what's the use of maintaining this exercise in typographical futility if I can't occasionally indulge in a little maudlin gibberish? And really, I doubt that the earth will suffer a significant decrease in angular momentum for want of a few cynical sociological mini-treatises, nor will mankind seize up and jump the evolutionary rails due to a lack of flippant pseudo-philosophy or another Pat Robertson/Al Gore jokes (I forget the precise wording, but the punch line involved a monkey, a vacuum cleaner, and a roll of duct tape). All the same, I don't think I have it in me to be overly deep at this particular moment. I think instead that I will aim somewhere near the middle ground, and talk about my day.
It rained.
Not much, but I assure you that's the most entertaining bit.
Ok, new tack. My week:
Hmm, not much there, either. Which is not really all that surprising, considering there have been only two days of it thus far. Despite the fact that some would have you believe that today is Thursday, it is, in fact, only just Monday. Thus, Sunday being the first day... You get the idea. Returning readers--I assume there are a couple of you--are now, more than ever, unshakably assured in your conviction that I am a Pat Buchanan-caliber lunatic. But I can provide an explanation which is, if not thoroughly satisfying, at least satisfyingly confusing. You see, I've listened for years to people endlessly complaining about having committed acts of which they are ashamed, or of making terrible and/or simply stupid mistakes, or having spotted, at a later time, some simple thing which should have been done but wasn't. The upshot of all this is that these people fervently wish for the ability to retrace their chronological steps and relive their past days, purportedly for the purpose of righting things. After many, many of these rants, and having explained the concept of causality until the concept sickened me, something finally occurred to me: I need to find some less irritating friends.
No, while that also might be true, what I realized as a result of these numerous holdings forth was that, like so many other things, the obvious solution to this problem--that of being unable to correct an unsatisfactory past--was stupefying in its simplicity. You can’t travel back in time to fix things to your liking. There are simply too many paradoxes, many of which might conceivably involve you being shot by your grandfather. So the obvious thing to do would be simply not to submit a day as having been completed until you are completely satisfied with its disposition. In other words, don’t move on to a new day until you’re happy with the last one.
Well, the last few days, beginning late Sunday, have been somewhat...unpleasant. I don’t yet have a firm grasp on exactly what I might do to rectify this, but I refuse to undergo another day until these are sorted out. Accordingly, I’ve been diligently struggling with Monday for a while now, and fully plan to be ready to tackle Tuesday by the beginning of next week. As to why this is, well, maybe I’ll attempt that at another time. For the moment, I have something else that I wish to talk about.
Unfortunately, I’ve forgotten what that is.
So I’ll just take this opportunity to ramble on about a few random things that I do recall presently.
I have yet to extricate my beloved--and rather blackened--lawnmower from the hands of the helpful citizens who insist that it absolutely will not be completely repaired until the day after I am forced to declare bankruptcy. Yes, apparently that "minor fire" I wrote about earlier this month is only going to cost a few hundred dollars to repair. And I narrowly avoided getting a new dog out of the deal, too. As it is, I have yet to see the first trace of dog or strange man again. Of course, it's been quite a while since I last saw my mower, too. I'm not entirely sure I miss either of the three of them. Meanwhile, the lawn is doing nicely sans mower, and I've finally established peaceful relations with the members of the small proto-civilization that has sprung up in one of the more heavily vegetated regions of the property.
I've recently decided to curtail my pretty much nonexistent campaign against public education. As I've often pointed out, the only thing the modern school system has managed, after years of experimentation, to get right is the practice of suspending children who break the rules. Not only does this get the troublemakers out of the classroom--allowing the dedicated students to concentrate on such crucial scholastic matters as discerning the effects of chalk dust on the human digestive system or testing the physiological responses of frogs with pushpins--but it also assures that said disobedient youngsters are sequestered for a few days at a time with their parents, which guarantees that the parents learn the value of raising children who are not intolerable hellions. But I digress. To recount, this practice is the only aspect of public education which is not, at best, an ironic joke. I used to worry about this a great deal. Not so any longer. I've just realized that modern videogame technology is now more than sufficient to counter any of the negative effects--such as actual education--that the public school system might be having on America's children. Plus, videogame consoles don't drink coffee, thus limiting their potential exposure to surreptitiously introduced chalk dust.
And lastly, I'd just like to take this opportunity to point out that the comment-posting gadget on this page need not necessarily be restricted to registering comments about the actual blog. I'd be afraid to comment on most of this stuff. So if you happen to be reading and think of something you think the Masked Logician, or his other three readers, should hear, leave a note behind. It doesn't matter if it doesn't seem important, or even rational. I don't hold myself to such unreasonable standards, so why should I expect it of you?
Think on.

P.S.: Chickens can't vote, why can idiots?

Just Thought You Should Know

Today's Track: Wrote a Song For Everyone--Creedence Clearwater Revival


First, yes, I do in fact realize that it's been a while since my last post. For the last few days, I've been a bit under the weather. Well, alright, to be perfectly honest, my real problem was a sudden shortage of inspiration. I considered filling the blank space with some half-hearted commentary on the latest media drivelling, or perhaps chronicling mindless “day-in-the-life”-type stuff. But, to begin with, nothing terribly interesting had been happening in my life, and other people always seem to get angry when I try to follow them around and write down stuff about their lives. And it is my firm conviction that there are already far too many bloggers out there playing at being underground journalistic juggernauts. I couldnt possibly compete with the good ones, and I won’t imitate the leser ones. Therefore I had very little to say.
Sometime yesterday, I got a notion for another snarky “Philosophy For Humans” piece. I got sidetracked, however, and it was really late before I got a chance to deal with it. Then, before I got it posted, I got involved in some personal things, and my blog quickly paled to insignificance. I had planned on putting up the post this morning, maybe throwing in a few really good Richard Nixon jokes just for variety. But I’ll tell the truth. It just suddenly doesn’t seem worthwhile at this point. As I have been informed, my writing falls far short of actual cultural/social significance, and I’m fine with that. But some of the things I talk about are of more importance, at least to me, than others. And of all the things I have to say, all the things I feel like I should say, even if only for myself, “World Peace in Three Easy Steps” (the other bit’s title) just didn’t seem to carry all that much weight.
I have something I want to share.
Whether or not it’s of any worth I leave to you to decide. In either case, I ask your leave to wax profound for a while.

At one time or another, everyone has had this experience, in one form or another.
Search your memories, you’ll know what I’m talking about.
Maybe it was a childhood crush on the little boy down the block. Or perhaps a starry-eyed infatuation with the golden-haired Venus in blue jeans in your homeroom class. Could be there was some very special person close to you that you always thought about, or it might even have been some cute stranger you met once or twice. Maybe all you feel is that quiet little tingle at the back of your heart. Or maybe it’s a great, all-consuming fire which fills your every waking moment. It matters not whether you’re twelve or 112. Oh, it works on us in different ways at different times. When you’re young, you’re convinced that it’s the great Shakespearean romance, passion for the ages. As you age, and, supposedly, grow wiser, you may not feel quite like floating barefoot above the clover anymore. Or, then again, maybe you do. Whatever it is, you’re in love. So, you think to yourself, do something about it. Be it a passed note, flowers from a secret admirer, or, more simply, just walking up and asking him/her out, just do something. But you don’t. You assure yourself that you have good reasons. Or you tell yourself that you have no chance, so there’s no point in bothering. Possibly you’re just scared: scared of denial, scared of exposing your feelings, scared of your feelings themselves. For whichever of these reasons, or so many more, you say nothing. You just go on wringing your hands, writing poems no one will ever read, and languishing in your rose-petal dreams.
But life never hesitates, does it?
The days just keep right on going, and one day you look up and realize that nothing is the same anymore. Things change, people move on, and chances get missed. And you spend the rest of your life wondering: “What if?” Maybe you forget, mostly, or maybe it’s with you every day. But from time to time it comes back. If I’d done this... If I’d said that... If...
It’s not pleasant, is it? To take a line--woefully out of context, but valid nonetheless--from Christopher Stasheff:

Hell is not knowing.

Life is all what you make of it, I’ve always heard. I can’t speak to that, for I don’t really know what that’s meant to mean. But what I do know, or at least what I believe, is that whatever life is, it’s all about the choices we make. And it’s the missed--or ignored--choices that hurt the most. Sure, it hurts to have your heart broken, to embarrass yourself, whatever. But how much worse it is, years later, to have that little helpful voice at the back of your mind which reminds you that it might have been different?
Yes, it’s happened to me.
More than once I’ve held words inside which might well have brought me happiness if but invested. I know, that’s difficult to believe. Yet it is true. I, the Thousand-Word Wonder, Lord High Potentate of Verbosity, have found my words to fail when they were most important. How many of you can say the same?
And now I’ve come to the end, almost. But I just want to leave you with a few simple words.
If you have something to say, say it. Now. There will be no better time.
What you’ll regret most are the chances you never took, and all the times you have to ask yourself: “What if?”
And last:
If you love someone, tell them so. There’s too much bad in the world to shy away from one of the good things. And if you think they know, tell them again; no one ever got tired of hearing that they were loved.

Go and live life, friends.
Pax vibiscum

For you who have not heard the song I noted above, there’s a simple reason it was chosen to accompany this post. In it, John Fogerty, songwriting genius, says this:

“Wrote a song for everyone; wrote a song for truth. Wrote a song for everyone, and I couldn’t even talk to you.”

I’m sure some of you, having once listened to the song, might be tempted to debate the relevance of the rest of the song, but that line was worth the price of admission.

Caution: Random Venting

Today's Track: Two Thousand Light Years From Home--The Rolling Stones

I think someone with a good working knowledge of Javascript should design a little browser toy which automatically creates a link to every single page you visit, referring it back to a homepage you, the user, have previously specified. Why? Why not? The internet is supposed to be all about the free and unfettered exchange of ideas and information. Links help us to easily navigate to sites of interest, possibly containing valuable and pertinent information, much more easily than if we'd had to search or them manually. At least, that's the theory.
In truth, links help us to quickly, almost instantaneously, access vast amounts of useful data without the tedium of actually having to think about what it is we want to know.
Everyone, if you haven't already, should devote at least one day to link-jumping. That is, continuously moving, link by link, through web pages, not concerning yourself with the site's contents, but using it simply as a place to find the next unvisited link. In this way it is possible to cover enormous swathes of the web in relatively little time. True, you won't necessarily learn anything, but odds are you weren't going to anyway.
Incidentally, if you do decide to try this--or if you have already--let me know how well you did. My personal best is almost eight consecutive hours...

The Tilapia Did It, Officer

or
Of Bicycling Drummers and Intellectual Discontent


Today’s Tracks: Zombie--The Cranberries and
Another Saturday Night--Sam Cooke


Every so often, even the most oblivious of us are given to make a blinding insight.
Only then do we truly appreciate the sentiment so aptly expressed by one Mr. Elmer Fudd upon making acquaintance with one of Newton's more disagreeable laws:

"Ignorance is bliss."

I'll level with you. It wasn't actually the Tilapia that caused all the trouble. As far as I know, he was quite profoundly dead at the time. In fact, it may very well be that he was long since eaten by the night in question. Therefore, it's only just that I lay the blame elsewhere, namely squarely on the shoulders of the cycling fishmonger (who one might, I think, fairly call a peddler), as, I've no doubt, the aforementioned slanderized fish would have done.
The evening began, as so many do, quite innocently. I sat on my couch late one evening, eating a sandwhich. It was not in any way a remarkable night, unless the remark be some sort of comment on the staggering dearth of anything at all happening. Nor was it a particularly good sandwich, save in the sense that it might well have rescued me from starvation, if I'd not eaten in the course of the previous days, which of course I had. So, both a sandwich and an evening on which to consume it, and neither of them particularly pleasant in any way. In fact, I only mention either for the purpose of illustrating the essential dullness which had pervaded my being at this time.
As is my habit at such moments, I switched on the television. Not out of any real hope of finding a satisfying program to watch, exactly. More out of habit, and the overwhelming feeling that, no matter how dejected or apathetic I may have been feeling about the night, the meal, or anything else, matters could only conceivably be exacerbated by having to endure it all in a dark room whilst staring at a blank television. My faithful set, once more earning its rock-solid reputation, failed utterly to provide any viewing option more engrossing than a standard laundry rinse cycle. But it was one of those nights. I'm sure--as substantiated by the phenomenal sales of products such as motorized fishbait and lighted boxer shorts--that you've all had more than a few of them in your lives. After a couple of hours, you would really watch your washing machine. So I assumed my dauntless channel-surfer guise and waded into the murky waters of off-primetime television. For those of you keeping score, this was far from my first mistake that day, but good call nonetheless.
After skimming through every available station approximately thirteen times, I stumbled upon some sort of documentary program--perhaps it was National Geographic--about life in one of those small, sweltering, rice-producing third world nations, whose precise name I don't recall at present. I'm certain this lapse of memory owes a great deal to my dog and her pet alligator, but that's a tale for another time. Anyway, as I had few other calls on my time that evening, I decided to watch for a while. The premise, as I came to understand it, was, basically, that life as a rice farmer or his wife is insanely difficult. Factor in a bustling lot of children, uncertain climatology, and an omnipresent film crew, and things went downhill steadily. I sat through probably half an hour of exhaustive videography devoted to the fine art of watching futilely as crops failed to grow. Likewise, I watched as the farmer made structural repairs to his "home away from home", so that he and his wife could be dry and safe while practicing said art. In other words, I was rapidly approaching catatonic boredom. Then, without warning, he appeared, that grim harbinger of internal unrest:
The bicycling Tilapia salesman.
A small, nondescript man on a rusted two-wheeled relic of forgotten engineering, on which was strapped a box full of relatively recently deceased fish. I sat up and took notice. He approached the farmer's wife, whereupon they proceeded to traded a bit of small talk before getting seriously about the business of dickering.
Pointless nattering and haggling over fish.
And I could not tear my eys from the screen.
I hung on every word; that sun-scorched tableau became my world for a few moments.

I cannot explain the feeling I was left with when I returned to a slightly more sensate condition.
I was subjected to the spontaneous realization that, intellectually and socially, I had completely atrophied.
For a shot time, I was completely out of touch with reality. Completely mentally disarmed and utterly unmanned by the steady, numbing stream of pseudo-stimulus washing over me from the pretty glowing box.
I had abdicated that which we intellectuals like to perceive as the very essence of humanity; the one and only thing that truly separates us from the lower orders of life. And all so easily...

We are in danger, friends. It is slowly happening to us all.
Plus, though I don’t remember for certain, I believe it was on a Saturday night.
Now that’s sad.

All Quiet In The Left Hemisphere

Today's Track: They're Coming to Take Me Away, Ha-Haa!--Napolean XIV

Sometimes I wonder.
For all of our generations of speculation about things like evolution, cosmology, theology, and the true nature of rock and roll, sometimes I really do wonder whether or not man was truly cut out for the deeper issues of life.
Out of respect for issues long--and rightly--laid to rest, I won't bring up such threadbare object lessons in idiocy as the 2000 US Presidential election, P.E.T.A.'s apparent inability to come to terms with the concept of a food chain, the public education system (Motto: "Shaping the minds of the daytime talk show guests of tomorrow"), or former life-sized Executive action-figure Danforth Quayle.
No, while those are good examples, there are simpler and much more obvious ones.
Just this afternoon, I spent no fewer than two hours discussing the local lottery with a gentleman who, in deference to the fact that he happens to be closely related to me, I shall not identify. For the benefit of those of you who, like myself, have absolutely no desire to hear a two-hour dialogue on the subject of state-sanctioned confidence artistry, I will summarize:

• The lottery is not a waste of money because:
  
  
  
  • you're not really losing any money if you stand to make a big payoff, and
    
  • it's only five dollars a week, so you're really not sacrificing anything;
  
  
  
• "Besides, if I win, you'll feel pretty stupid."

What can you say to that?
Obviously, my carefully crafted mathematical arguments fell far short of the mark, and my systematic appeals to logic earned me a good solid round of relatively mean-spirited laughter. Of course, this is from the same man who believes Pat Buchanan is a liberal...

If you can't beat 'em, hide.

Pointless Mental Exercise

Today's Track: Magic Carpet Ride--Steppenwolf


How many people dream?
Trick question, because obviously everyone does.
Have you, then, ever had a nightmare?
Yes? Good. That is, probably not good, but acceptable in the sense that you know what I'm talking about. You do know what I'm talking about, right?
Really?
Wow, I'm impressed.
In that case, to continue:
What makes a nightmare frightening?
Well, you say, it has to be the seven-foot-tall, three-headed, slime-dripping monster with fangs the same size as municipal flag poles. Duh.
Perhaps it is.
But what makes the monster scary?
At this point, you no doubt point patiently at the above description and don your best talking-to-the-inmates face and wait for me to finish gibbering.
Obviously you are not going to cooperate, so I'll just handle this on my own, OK?
Nightmares are scary for the same reason that pleasant dreams make you feel so good. They seem real.
More to the point, to the dreamer, they are real.
While you dream, that dream is your whole world. It is only after you wake that they begin to seem like the preposterous foolishness that they are normally held to be.
Dreams really are silly, aren't they? Once you wake in the real world again, that is.
The real world.
And of course we make this distinction offhandedly, because it's perfectly plain that that in which we wake is always the real world, the familiar world of cars and jobs and wars and Rolling Stones concerts.
But why is that?
Why is what, you ask?
Why is it that we are so sure that we wake up in the "real world"?
Well, where else would we wake up?
Good question.
However, I'm sure, at one time or another, everyone has had one of those dreams in which you think you have awakened, only to find that you are still dreaming. And in case you haven't, let me assure you that it is terrifically disorienting.
Which, of course, is perfectly understandable. Here you are, sleeping comfortably and dreaming away, just like every night, when suddenly you "wake up". Immediately your mind falls into its accustomed waking mode, and you make a good approximation of going about your "real life". Then, suddenly, you realize that things are not at all well. Perhaps it is that the laws of physics seem to have been waived temporarily. Or it could be that the fearful beasts from your "dreams" are proving strangely reluctant to give over the chase. Whatever it is, you must grudgingly admit that this could not possibly be reality as you more normally accept it. And so, in due course, you wake. Ah, reality, sweet reality...

Are you sure?

Whilst you dreamt--in the beginning--you knew that what was presented to you was nothing other than the good old Earth, just as you'd always known it. Then, after your "awakening", you harbored not the slightest doubt that you opened your eyes on a perfectly acceptable, perfectly ordinary world, just like any other morning. And then, with a silent (or not so) sigh of relief, you finally reassume consciousness in your bed, in your home, right where you left it, and all is perfectly normal once more.

Is it?

Sleep tight, friends.

Philosophy For Humans: I

Today’s Track: God Shuffled His Feet--Crash Test Dummies


There is, I have noticed, a great deal of stress afflicting humanity these days. And I've come to the conclusion that this is due, at least in part, to the lack of free alcohol. But not helping matters any is the fact that, ever since the first proto-hominid creature pondered the unfairness of the cosmos while crumpled in a painful heap beneath his favorite tree, man has been unable to get a firm grasp on (Mr. Adams forgive me) life, the universe, and everything.
There are some questions, generally frightfully important ones, whose answers--such as whether Howard Stern is actually human or not--we cannot grasp. So man, in his unflagging drive to find new excuses to consume controlled substances, devised philosophy. This worked just fine for many years, and satisfied all of humanity's thirst for pointless intellectual trivia. But man is a fickle creature. (Fickle: From the Ancient Greek for possessing the attention span of a goldfish). Thus the eternal quest for enlightenment was interrupted by a few generations of wars, exploratory geography, and cable television. Then came the Information Age. Suddenly every piece of knowledge ever collected was amassed and put within easy reach of anyone who cared to look for it. A virtual intellectual utopia could now be born, where one had but to conceive of a question and it could be answered. The mind of man, that which set him above the beast and bird, would ascend to perfection. Naturally, mankind wasted not a single instant in implementing this unimaginable intellectual resource to view pornography.
But there are still a few individuals, mainly of the chemically-augmented variety, who insist on fanning the guttering flame of human curiosity--despite the obvious danger that a Congressional probe, probably headed by Dan Quayle, could be launched to address the subject. But, oddly enough, centuries of cognitive apathy have somehow failed to prepare man to answer the big questions. Go figure. So, in between bong hits, modern “philosophers” are quite distressed.
Well, never fear. The Masked Logician is here to help.
Beginning today, I will, from time to time, endeavor to tackle some of the perplexing issues facing us advanced primates in today’s world. Don’t forget to take copious notes, because I don’t plan on repeating myself.

Today’s Question:

Is there a God?

Now there is a tough one. Probably the single most intractable conundrum to ever be lampooned in a personal web-journal. Perhaps it would be easier to break the issue down into small, easily digestible pieces.
First, consider what you know about whichever God(s)/Goddess(es) you most strongly believe in. On average, omnipotent, omniscient, and inexplicably angry. Sounds a lot like the IRS to me, how about you? Now, think about this: If you were all of those things, would you bother with the likes of yourself?
Second, what about the creation of the universe? Supposedly, God(s)/Whatever, at some point, decided to create everything that is. Now, some people are prone to ask : What did God do for all eternity before there was anything? This is a good question, but a better one would be: Why, after all eternity with nothing--or whatever your particular creation story dictates--would God bother to make anything at all? Does this sound like plausible behavior for any being?
Lastly, reflect on what it would mean if there were a Creator. That would necessitate the existence of an eternal entity who is beyond all constraints of our reality, and who, despite being able to do/have/be absolutely anyhting, wished to spend all Its time watching us. Of course, there’s always the alternative: Against all cosmological and evolutionary odds, “intelligent” life evolved on a tiny little mote in a vast, swirling confusion of inexplicable--and here I use the precise scientific terminology--stuff. Obviously, this is absolutely, unequivocally preposterous as well.
So there you have it. Thank you all for coming, don’t forget to read chapters one and two for homework, and take your damned chewing gum wads with you when you leave.
But I know, some of you out there are shouting: But you didn’t answer anything, you miserable fraud! I feel like opening your skull with a surgical-quality hammer and spitting inside!
Well, first of all, that’s not very nice. Also, I’m sure your saliva would be far from the most dangerous thing floating around in my head, at any rate.
And besides, I meant to lay all your questions to rest. I really did. Unfortunately, it’s getting very late, and all that pornography ain’t going to appreciate itself.

Public (Dis)Service Announcement

Life needs a soundtrack. I feel very strongly about this.
(Well, ok, it’s a half-baked idea I’ve had for a while, specifically reinforced by a similar concept I’ve seen employed in many other weblogs I peruse for ideas to pilfer. Expound upon! Extrapolate, yes, that’s what I meant to say! Pilfer! Ha ha! What a card I am, huh?)
But seriously, it’s a concept that deserves consideration. Modern movies, even the stupendously bad ones, have accompanying musical scores and/or dubbed audio tracks of one sort or another. Being a big fan of music--and of slightly less enthusiasm about the rest of life--I’m convinced that a little music would vastly improve our world. Wouldn’t it be great if, at appropriate moments, giant, city-sized high-fidelity sound systems could crank out a song that perfectly fit any given situation, just like in cinema?
No, it wouldn’t. That would be very, very loud. So I decided to do the next best thing. Starting today, as I bring you real life in easily-digestible fragments, I will also note, for your convenience, a fitting musical accompaniment, which you can play at your leisure.
That way, you can feel free to sing along if you want, and none of the rest of us have to hear it.
Enjoy.

Today’s Track: The Fish Cheer--Country Joe MacDonald and the Fish
(I know it doesn't fit, but rules are only fun if you break them, anyway)

Punitive Conversation

Occasionally, in the course of conducting something roughly approximating everyday life, you are forced to interact with other people. This unfortunate necessity is responsible for most of the major maladies afflicting mankind today, such as ulcers, psychoses, and used car salesmen. But once in a blue moon (a quaint colloquialism which translates as: "Just one day before you were planning on constructing a giant catapult and using it to fling livestock parts at your neighbor's house out of sheer stress-induced spite."), the random acts of humanity which surround you on a daily basis will surprise you by actually being humorous. Take for instance this small sampling of a list I have compiled over recent years of random, out-of-context quotes which have been culled from various conversations in which I have participated:

"Oh, quack, quack, quack!"

"Hey! That looks like some of the carpet we used to have in our living room!
But, Mama, that's a 'possum!"

"It really don't sound like a lot when you break it down in terms of chickens."

"That boy's runnin' like a monkey on crack."

"Oh, er...yeah...vampire...that's what I meant."


"Mine had a big bone in it!"

"Well, let's see you do that with your arm on fire!"

"Buffalo snot on the window... *chuckle* That was a good Christmas."

"I already told you: You need to shoot the pimp before you drink the malt liquor."

"That ostrich tried to attack us! Let's go back and see if he does it again!"

"I don't care what the leprechaun said: The attic is not a good place to store corpses."

"That Christmas tree 'bout kicked his ass!"

"Damned potato!"

And, in the spirit of leaving you with some food for thought:

"Now just what the hell does a duck smell like, anyway?"

Oh, Say Can You See

The Cubicle Dweller delivers this:

The "T" word
I found this list on Wired.com:


The USA Patriot Act changes some of Americans' fundamental legal rights in the name of the war on terror, including:

· Freedom of association: The government may monitor religious and political groups without evidence of criminal activity.

· Right to liberty: Americans may be jailed without being charged or being able to confront witnesses against them.

· Freedom from unreasonable searches: The government may search and seize Americans' papers and effects without probable cause to aid terrorism investigation.

· Freedom of speech: The government may prosecute librarians, telecommunication company officials and anyone else who reveals they have received a subpoena for records related to the terrorism investigation.

· Right to legal representation: The government may monitor penal communications between attorneys and clients, and deny lawyers to Americans accused of crimes.

· Right to a speedy and public trial: The government may jail Americans indefinitely without a trial.

· Freedom of information: The government has closed once-public immigration hearings, secretly detained hundreds of people without charges, and has encouraged bureaucrats to resist requests for public records under the Freedom of Information Act. (From Wired News, September 11, 2002)

Halloween must have come early this year, friends, because I'm scared. George Orwell, save us all...
P.S.: Thank you, master juggler of penguins. You are, obviously, an inspiration to me, in the sense that your insightful, thought-provoking, and, above all, timely posts keep me from having to resort to the tedium of actually searching for information or coming up with ideas of my own.

That's Easy For You To Say

The name escapes me at present--I would greatly appreciate if someone could enlighten me--but someone once said something to the effect that anyone willing to assume power should under no circumstances be allowed to wield it. Though this is obviously obstructively cynical and ungraciously vindictive (there have been a few good, competent leaders in America's history, and as soon as I recall some, I will let you know), I've always counted it among my favorite quotes, notwithstanding the fact that I can never seem to get the wording precisely right. After tonight, though, my new favorite variation on this theme will be:

"Those people who are always most willing to assume the power of leadership are usually those who are incapable of leading anything more demanding than a moment of silence."

According to a televised memorial service held tonight, President George W. Bush, live, in real time, at the White House, led the nation in a moment of silence. Hell of a guy, huh? A great gesture. Really.
But, answer me this:
How do you lead a moment of silence?

Just Saying...

Some of you may have arrived at the conclusion that the Masked Logician is the least bit cynical. My reaction to this is to declare that you obviously have the pattern recognition skills of mulch. No offence, but even a cursory perusal of my writings will clearly indicate that I am one of the Western Hemisphere's richest natural resources of raw cynicism. Had either of them been alive today, the likes of Fitzgerald and Hemingway would no doubt have slouched about my house all day imbibing thoroughly heroic quantities of alcohol and attempting to soak up ambient cynicism. Of course this would eventually cause them to reach some kind of social-pessimism critical mass, possibly resulting in a catastrophic chain reaction of jaded, world-weary affectation so severe that Amish farmpersons as many as seven hundred miles distant would take to hunkering in dingy cafes in company of rank cigars, cheap whiskey, and cantankerous women and expostulating ad infinitum about how very ironic it all is, really. But of course they're both dead--or so we're led to believe, anyway. Thus I am left to disperse the brunt of my pent-up sarcasm and disillusionment with the world at large as best I am able. So far, this blog seems to work prodigiously. I write snarky, scathing things, and then sit here an pretend that a great lot of you reading them, and everyone is thus happy: I because I've written something I felt compelled to write about, in the form of capricious curmudgeonry and general bitching, and you because I only pretended that you read it, rather than you actually having to do so. And so goes life.
But there are some things in life that are so fair, so fine, possessed of such intrinsic goodness that they are simply beyond such petty ideological and perceptual concerns. What does all that mean, you--those of you who are not embarrassed to ask such questions--ask? Well, it means, basically, that I am eye-wateringly verbose, and, many will tell you, a pompous jackass. More simply put, no matter how miserable a grouch you--like myself--may be, sometimes in life you find something that is just good. Period. Not that you always realize what you've found just because you find it. No, we often go straight on marching, head down and eyes closed, following life where it leads, and never once realizing how close we were to something that might have made us happy. And even, on the far-off chance that we do notice in time enough to take stock, how often do we actually appreciate what we've found? Generally speaking, not until after it's gone, passed in and out of our lives while we weren't even looking...
Fine, now that we have the Hallmark™ moment out of the way, I want to introduce you to one of those rare special things that I have the great fortune to include in my life. This special thing is in fact a special person, specifically a woman. (In the immortal words of some guy I overheard in a bar once, "Ain't it always a woman?") I have a feeling that she would be somewhat uncomfortable having me mention her real name, and, as a concession to anonymity, I will refer to her as "Sarah", which I feel is a suitable pseudonym on the grounds that it is a name I can consistently spell correctly. Anyway, "Sarah" is, to perpetrate a grievous understatement, extremely important to me. In fact, I have no reservation whatever in saying that she is easily the single most important individual in my life. Whether or not I take the time to let her know this nearly frequently enough is a matter for debate, but the fact remains that, without her influence, I would likely be a far different and, probably, significantly less pleasant person. Yes, I know what you're thinking, and let me assure you that in fact it is possible for me to be less pleasant. All that being the case, I obviously have a great deal to say about her, and about what she means to me, and how she fits into my life. In fact, even barring my natural verbosity, I could well ramble on for hours, which would be quite sad, as I'm altogether certain that you would stop reading after the first few minutes, leaving me alone to talk to myself. So I think, for the time being, I will content myself with relating something she said to me this afternoon.

"I think that if you were a pygmy goat, I'd want to be a pygmy goat, too."

Careful. I know, I should have warned you to remove any chewing gum from your mouths before reading that, lest you inhale it in the opening seconds of your internal-organ-rupturing attack of mirth. I admit, taken out of context, it sounds a lot like something Jack Handey might say on an off day.
Well, say what you will. As far as I'm concerned, that's one of the most beautiful and touching things I've ever heard.
I just felt I should say that.

One Last

I know what I said. I had decided to make one small token of rememberance to past tragedies and leave it in peace. And I will. But before I do, I'd ask that you read this. It says what needs to be said, I think, about a lot of things.

Further Rememberance

It is now almost midnight here. Just a few more hours until a nation observes one of its darkest aniversaries.
I realize that this is an exhausting-and none too lightly trodden--topic, and I have only a few more words to say on it. Many were the lives we lost on that sunny morning a year ago, and great the cost both in dollars and in grief. Laid asunder alongside those marvels of American architecture, put to rest shoulder to shoulder with the brave and the innocent among the slain, was the innocence of a nation. We, as a people, would do well never to forget what passed that day. But there are things yet greater that we must also hold firm in our minds in the days to come.
Lest we forget...
Peace, friends.

You Know Who You Are

To the one person reading this who knows what it means:
You can rest assured that I am aware of my continued (seeming) avoidance of addressing certain very important matters herein. I know too, as do you, that I move often at a pace which would do shame to any self-respecting glacier. But I promise that you are neither forgotten nor excluded.
After all, is it not true that you should save the best for last?

Love and all good things...

Grab Your Torches And Pitchforks

It's finally happened. Just as I predicted. The witch-hunts commence.
I happened to catch a few words at the tag end of a newscast last night about a bunch of billboards in the state of Florida. Seems the local law enforcement, in response to past and potential future acts of terror-motivated violence, has deployed some large-scale promotional propaganda in the Mosquito State. Every citizen is thereby urged to report "anyone behaving suspiciously" to the authorities with all haste. Not that this is such a bad thing, in and of itself. After all, terrorism is bad, and the terrorists themselves deserve to be dealt with as harshly as the law allows. But, call me an ignorant malcontent if you will, I fail to see “the law” anywhere in that premise. For the life of me, the only thing I see is a catch-all excuse for the population to turn against itself. The nebulous nature of the advisement leaves room enough for an infinite supply of specious rationalizations, and endless voicing of prejudices and uncertainties both real and imagined. It is only a matter of time before such inflammatory pronouncements are heard throughout the nation. And how much longer will it then be before “alert your local authorities” ceases to be a stern warning, becoming instead a mandate? What then? A new, stop-gap addition to the Executive Cabinet? An empowered Congressional task force? Federal, state, municipality, and eventually precinct-level sanctioned regulatory bodies to supervise the reporting and processing of “potential” threats to national security? A 24/7 hotline to the local Homeland Security adjunct?
But what could we, as responsible, upstanding citizens, possibly have to be concerned about? We’re not terrorists, after all. And this “keep an eye on your fellow man” approach is only a logical response to the threat posed by those who seek to do us harm, right? Such people, it goes without saying, do not belong on the streets of a free nation. And when an inevitable few take the fall groundlessly, well, that will just serve as an overdue lesson to no-accounts who slink about our streets behaving “suspiciously”. Sure, that word, ‘suspicious‘, is a bit open-ended, and there might be some people, some few rabid dissidents and anti-Democratic firebrands, who might demand that we question the true nature of the advice of our noble leadership. But then, they themselves bear watching, don’t they? I advise you, those of you that are still willing to listen to reason, that you all stand together, and stand fast. For it is only through solidarity that we can maintain the unwavering vigilance which is to be our last bulwark against the insidious danger which besets us from within. Evil never rests, thus neither can you. You never know what might be waiting out there, and precaution holds our only safety.
Keep a sharp eye out, America.

“Beneath the fire, between his words, lay the peoples’ fear... So he spoke on, and it was a cold winter.” ---Marcus Eldon

“One of the funny things you learn if you live long enough, by the time you think to look behind you, it’s always too late.”
---J. M. Haverton

The Random Curmudgeon Strikes Again

People are great, aren't they? I know, I spend most of my time grousing about slack-witted humanity, but even I have to admit that, for solid entertainment, you simply can't beat Homo Sapiens. Especially their television. Take for instance a certain major multi-million dollar American television network. I won't mention the name, but it's infamous for broadcasting numerous timeless media masterworks such as When Magicians Attack Stuntmen, America's Funniest Congressional Sex Scandals, and When Animals Fall Down. Seriously, though, one of this network's claims to fame is a series of programs in which a master prestidigitator, equipped only with a ridiculous mask and a handful of scantily clad females, systematically performs and explains some of history’s most legendary magic tricks. Is there someone, just one person out there somewhere, who can explain to me the purpose, or indeed the appeal, of this? I admit that, at one time or another, I myself have watched every single one of these broadcasts (approximately seventeen, I believe). Why did I do this? Simple answer: I’m a geek. I am precisely the sort of person with whom you never want to watch a magic show--or a movie, or a stunt demonstration, etc.--because I love nothing more than figuring out, and then explaining in painful detail, how all manner of amazing and/or entertaining things are accomplished. In short, I leech the fun out of things which are supposed to inspire childlike wonder in an audience. Thus, these television programs were more or less right up my alley, as they gave me a chance to confirm my long-standing suspicions and to pick up a few more secrets. But what about the rest of the population? Is it not true that the majority of people watch such things as magic exhibitions for the purpose of being amazed and intrigued? And is it not true that having the tricks explained ruins this effect? Yet, to judge by the public response to this buzzkill fad, as well as by the fact that there have been more sequels than the Police Academy franchise, the Unknown Magician and his illusion-crushing programs command a wider viewing than that of the every episode of Masterpiece Theatre ever aired combined. I don’t get it...
And then there’s daytime “talk shows”. One in particular, which I’m sure you’ll all recognize, routinely features hard-hitting pieces of thought-provoking journalism such as: “Former Transvestite Wives of Ku Klux Klan Leaders who are Cheating on their Livestock-Fetishist Lesbian Lovers with their own Identical Twins While Lobbying for the Right to Act as a Surrogate Mother for the Love-Child of a Third-Term Congressman and His Illegal Alien Man-Bride.” I know what you’re thinking. There is no way, absolutely no possibility whatsoever, that any being with an intellect superior to that of a kitchen sponge could ever believe that such people really exist. To you, I say, with utmost respect, that you are a blithering idiot. There are people, actual, legitimate, child-rearing, voting-right-equipped humans, who not only watch this program, who not only accept its presentations of absurdly aberrant specimens of anthropology as fact, but who allow themselves to become engrossed in the lives of these “people” to the point of spontaneously erupting into fits of physical violence should someone dare to question whichever logical stance they’ve adopted based on the facts demonstrated in that day’s program. But I submit that this is not frightening, as many may be tempted to think. It is merely comical, a cheerful little quirk. The real scare comes when you observe one of these same individuals turn on the evening local news report only to switch it off again in disgust, because (according to them) the newscast is obviously--and they say this in a tone that implies that only an organism less sophisticated than a slime mold would fail to realize this--a work of most sublime fiction, a work that is, no doubt, an extension of some sinister government plot to cloud the minds of its citizens and obscure reality. And they always say this with a straight face.
Ha Ha! Humans, those loveable wackos! What will they think of next?
Now, I think I’ll lock away all the knives and scissors in my house and maybe hide under a mattress in the basement for a while...

Consider this hearty, filling bit of life insight from the Cubicle Dweller:

In Mostly Harmless, Douglas Adams wrote, "There is an art to the business of making sandwiches which it is given to few ever to find the time to explore in depth."

When I was a student, I must have had far too much time on my hands, because if there is only one thing that I am truly good at, it is making sandwiches. When I make a sandwich, it's a perfect creation. Some people just slap a few things between a couple of slices of white bread and stuff it into their mouths. I suppose for them it gets the job done -- it puts matter in their bellies. But there's so much more to the experience. It's an experience that begins with sandwich architecture, which I think Douglas Adams understood:

There was also the geometry of the slice to be refined: the precise relationships between the width and height of the slice and also its thickness which would give the proper sense of bulk and weight to the finished sandwich: here again, lightness was a virtue, but so too were firmness, generosity and that promise of succulence and savour that is the hallmark of a truly intense sandwich experience.

Such a deep understanding of the delicate nuances of sandwich presentation and form is rare.

Now if you'll excuse me, I have to make myself a sandwich for breakfast.

Now, let me say first that I can truly respect an individual who espouses such a profound, intimate a connection with something so easily overlooked, so easily misunderstood, as a sandwich. To those of you who would say that this passion is misdirected, I say only that even in a simple, unassuming sandwich, one may find the roots of meaning, the answers to the great questions, a sort of thinly-sliced Nirvana whose fundaments are those of all things.

That being said, it is just a sandwich...

Pop Quiz...

I had an interesting conversation the other day. A gentleman and I were discussing some of the more general points of foreign relations and the sort of broad, sweeping social issues that only crop up in a conversation between two people with absolutely nothing to say. This led, as such things are in these days, to a reprisal of the most unfortunate occurrences of last September in America. Specifically under consideration were the actions of certain exceedingly brave individuals aboard the jetliner which was, thankfully, brought down short of its mark. This turn of events, of course, due to the noble and selfless actions of men who decided to devote the last moments of their lives to saving those of the countless others that were being threatened that morning. My acquaintance--I call him that despite the fact that I could not, under duress, recall his name, and might well fail to remember him if ever I saw him again--was of the opinion that such is the only logical course of action. Being a professed devout Christian, he claimed to be more than comfortably assured of his ultimate outcome, regardless of what happened. But, further, he made it clear that he, as a man, considered it only natural to want to do anything and everything in one's power to thwart such evil as was at work in that situation (My words, very loosely paraphrased from what I recall of the discussion). Several others who happened to overhear gradually made so as to weigh their own views on the subject--isn't it amazing how a populous so universally regarded as apathetic toward social matters can suddenly so completely embrace a concept? Then again, maybe not so much...
Anyway, I don't mind saying that I agree fully and heartily. In such a situation, you're likely to die regardless of your actions, so you may as well make what's left of your life count for something, right? But then I started thinking, really thinking about it. And I had to ask myself: Are you certain? Would you rush headlong in the face of death to protect a bunch people you don't even know? Even knowing that, should you succeed or fail, you're going to die anyway? I'd love to believe that the answer is an emphatic yeas, but...
Sure, I realize that there are people in the world who do just exactly that every day. A great number of them lost their lives on the morning in question, much to the nation's sadness.
But would I? Could I?
I suppose that, unless I should ever find myself in that circumstance, I will never truly know.
What about you?

Dubious Linkmongering

Ah, Free Enterprise.
Now this is what I call determined niche marketing.
Finally, a little something for all you aspiring megalomaniacs out there...

Oh, The Humanity

Every now and again, something happens that makes you think that maybe the human race isn't so bad after all. Sometimes it's some colossal event which reshapes your entire existence, and other times it's just a small thing that you might not even notice until long after it is over. Whatever form it takes, your whole world view is altered, even if only a little. Suddenly, that whole "fellowship of man", "goodwill to all" thing makes a lot of sense. Your heart feels a little lighter at that moment, doesn't it? You finally feel as though you are a small part of some large thing that's actually worth being a member of. Everything looks a little brighter, and tomorrow is just a day away, as the song says. And then some ambassador of the great goodwill human fellowship tries to kick you in the proverbial teeth...
I was not having the best of days when the fire occurred. It was only an extremely minor fire, property damage was minimal, no lives lost, no animals were harmed in the filming of this afternoon. Due to the irritatingly flammable nature of gasoline vapors, said minor fire (which would have been just about right for the roasting of marshmallows were it not for the fumes) was reluctant to be extinguished. So I attempt to cover the burning material with dirt, the theory being that if I buried it, I wouldn't have to see it, and could comfortably pretend it didn't happen. No, obviously I was trying to deprive it of oxygen. I don't have to tell you that, with the benefit of combustible petroleum products, my fire only chuckled merrily at my attempts to kill it, and even made a light-hearted go at burning the dirt, just to make me look foolish. Eventually, with the aid of a belated fire extinguisher, all was made well. So now I'm left with the charred remains of my loyal--if somewhat cantankerous--lawnmower. As I poke despondently at some of the less identifiable bits, a gentleman--I assume a guest of a neighbor--strides over, equipped with a smallish dog and that hideously smug grin common to all those who have arrived at the scene of important work just in time to fail to be required to assist with any of it. All the same, he did make a mighty effort at carrying out the last and most important task associated with any such event, namely pacing about wearing a furiously thoughtful expression and giving the illusion of possessing some sort of applicable knowledge which might rectify the situation. And I was thankful for the help, because, on a job of this magnitude, it would take one man, even one of my skill and experience, a weekend's solid work to get the thing glowered at properly. Obviously feeling that the extent of his skill had been reached, my nameless acquaintance made his leave. As I watched him go, I couldn't help feeling pretty good about everything in general. I mean, sure, he hadn't managed, strictly speaking, actually to accomplish anything of any real tangible benefit. But at least he'd made a token effort. My estimation of him was quite high then, and I even, in a brief flash of intense idealism (or was it neurological instability?), began to believe that maybe, just maybe, the human race as a whole was at least marginally worth the difficulties and discomforts entailed in not succumbing to the terribly powerful urge one feels on a daily basis to conduct interpersonal relations via a cattle prod.
Then I looked around. There, at my feet, was the smallish dog, looking up at me in that particular manner that conveys the age-old universal message of blissful ignorance. Great, fine, so I shooed the beast away and went back to work. Not more than a few minutes later, I notice that the animal is still hanging about. Long story short, all my numerous endeavors at canine removal were emphatically unsuccessful. Upon closer observation, I realized, with disgust, that the pitiful creature has, in all likelihood, been terribly mistreated in the past. I thought at length, and I've decided that the man, who I have not, I remind you, ever seen before, decided to rid himself of one unwanted pet. The dog, judging from his behavior, could not be happier with that arrangement. And here I stand, with a singed and now ever so slightly misshapen lawn tractor, plus one small dog. For all I know, it might still be standing around somewhere outside, waiting for me to come and do something about it.
I have no doubt whatsoever that I will never again set eyes upon the enigmatic stranger.
People really make you think, sometimes.
Meanwhile, my grass is laughing at me...

Smite If You Will

Militant religious types never fail to amuse me. A wise and observant individual (whose name I have forgotten, though suffice it to say that it is not me) once said:

"A holy war is like two people arguing over who has the biggest imaginary friend."

To all such people, I have only one thing to say. Prepare yourself, for this is a profound insight.
Someone is wrong.
That's right. Everyone is convinced that theirs is the superior faith, and the only one to guarantee eternal salvation and so forth. But someone has to be wrong.
Think carefully about what, if anything, you believe. Be sure you know well your faith, and whence its fundaments lie. Study hard, children. There will be a test afterward.

As Long As He's Not Driving...

All these years, I had suspected Finland of being a rather quiet, low-temperature geological element of Europe. Little did I realize that its inhabitants were, in fact, insane. It seems that the unassuming Fins have achieved that for which American consumer technology designers have striven since the days of the Revolutionary War: they have designd a media format in which Rush Limbaugh is actually tolerable. Haha, no, no, of course you know I jest. It is a well known scientific law that El Rushbo is psychologically toxic to all sentient beings, elliciting nausea, neurological distress, and Conservativism in any human within a five-mile radius. No, what they've actually done is to devise a method whereby a cellular phone can be attatched to a dog. You heard me. According to a recent article on Forbes.com, Finland-based Benefon has joined with Pointer Systems--makers of technology for tracking people--to form a sysem for attatching cell phones to hunting dogs. Now, this may seem at first to be a pretty simple and unremarkeable thing to conceive of, but I'm willing to bet that you didn't think of it. The reasons given for this venture include GPS tracking and--I am very serious--the ability to dial up the dog's number in order to transmit verbal instructions. My only question is: How long would it take the owner to figure out that you and your friends were back in town at a pay telephone instructing Fido to play dead and to lick himself at critical hunting-related moments?

Principled Pontification

Today was not a good day, principle-wise.
I was, for reasons which are still somewhat unclear to even myself, a guest in the home of a couple of my less distant relations this afternoon. Let me first stress that I am fond of both of these individuals, man and wife. They are, in fact, perhaps the only members of my family outside the nuclear unit that I can abide at all. The wife--my great-aunt, specifically, though I generally don't bother with such designations at that degree of removal--is (and I say this with the utmost respect), in the immortal words of Archie Bunker, a dingbat. She is not unintelligent, but she is of a rural background, and is thus of an extremely provincial mindset. I see nothing at all wrong with this, except for the fact that she insists on affecting an insufferable worldly, cosmopolitan attitude. Also, she is one of that peculiar breed of individual who believes it impossible to possess knowledge without sharing it with others. So, as we sat around the kitchen table, she commenced to hold forth on a wide and varied array of things which form only a blur in my mind at present. The topics addressed ranged from her role in the local church--did I mention that she is also an impossibly pious church-going Baptist?--to what she planned to do with her husband's belongings when he died. (Don't ask me.) Finally she alighted on the subject of the Hispanic family that had recently moved in next door, and had been attending their church on occasion. By this I mean, she proceeded to talk condescendingly about them, but in such a sanctimonious and yet sincerely kindly manner that it came off sickening rather than offensive. From both this discourse, and my past dealings with her, I am convinced that, both as a person, and as a good Christian, she would never deign to be anything so vulgar as racist. She simply looks quietly, meekly down on all members of other races than her own as poor, piteous creatures of some slightly lower order. At this point, I will note, for the record, that racism or bigotry in any form inspires me to express my powers of reason via a stout stick. She sat lecturing all those present on the relative virtues, or lack thereof, of her Latino neighbors in the same matter-of-fact way that one might discuss some failing in a wayward dog, or some other such thing. Specifically, she was outlining various aspects of "their culture" by which it was known (for she stated all of it as though it were plain as the law of gravity or of entropy) that young women of Hispanic nations or descent were allowed, encouraged, even socially expected, to be--this is her terminology--"free with their bodies" beyond the age of fifteen. In other words, beyond puberty, Latinas are whores, or at best distastefully fecund breeding machines. This naturally came as something of a shock to me. For, in my experience, Hispanics, both male and female, are by nature so reserved and conservative--especially in matters of romance and sexuality--as to make the typical American appear to be a pig gorging at society's trough of hedonism (I don' think this is NECESSARILY a bad thing, either, by the way). Being, as ever, a tireless combatant of ignorance, it occurred to me to challenge this flagrant abuse of truth. But something stayed my tongue. Be it familial respect, or observance of some unspoken convention forbidding one to point out foolish ethnocentrism and provincial ignorance in one's hostess, or simply the knowledge that the dear woman was thoroughly unequipped to defend herself intellectually, I know not. But I held my silence, consoling myself that I, at least, knew better.
But I've done a good deal of reflecting on the matter since, and I've come to an unnerving conclusion. I think, at bottom, that which bade me not speak out was not some remnant of social grace, or ponderous chivalry, or any such thing so noble. I fear it that it might have been laziness. Perhaps it was just simpler not to say anything, easier to go with the flow rather than jump the dam. Could it be that I am really so apathetic, so far removed from something to believe in that even my proudest-guarded creed--that of truth in knowledge, and knowledge of truth, for one and all--fails me? I sincerely hope this is not the case, but I am certainly shaken by it.
Consider this. What good are the noblest of our ideals, when we won't even fight for the simplest of our principles?
What does it say about me, about any person, when a principle is just no longer worth the effort of defense?

My advice, to all, is to know well what you believe, and even more importantly, why you believe it. When you know these things, stand firm by them. Never sublimate your principles, no matter how good the reasons may seem.

Think on, friends.

Tax Dollars At Work

"A tax on plastic shopping bags in the Republic of Ireland has cut their use by more than 90% and raised millions of euros in revenue, the government says."

This is beyond commentary. But, since it's my blog, I feel that I should be the one to say something, if something must indeed be said. All of you out there who have so much fun bashing Uncle Sam, I don't want to hear another word.

Further Poor Luck

HaloScan is offline due to server difficulties. Just in case anyone attempted to post a comment--and I'm SURE you did--that's the reason it didn't work.

Boredom Can Be Inspiration, Too

I have little else going on just now, so I just thought I'd open a blank text window and see what happened. Nothing much, would be the short answer. So, since I'm already here, I may as well note that I am FINALLY almost through with Robert Pirsig's Zen and the Art of Motorcycle Maintainance. A great read, for the most part. Addresses, among other things, the philosophy of the scientific method and the essential dichotomy of modern thought and the differing ways in which man interacts intellectually with the world about him. Obviously, this is not the entire tale, but to tell more would be to give away a large portion of it, and would ruin the effect. It is, honestly, fairly deep, so proceed carefully.

Consider, If You Will

You are on your way home to your new spouse--who is waiting in your new home--after a long first day at your dream job. Life is, in short, perfect. Imagine that you are all alone, in a secluded, unpopulated area. It's late at night, and you stop and get out of your vehicle for a few minutes. While you're having your break, a figure lurches from the darkness and threatens you with a knife. In your extremity of panic, you retalliate with great force. In the exchange, the attacking figure falls. Hurriedly investigating, you find thatthe form on the ground is in fact a horribly dishevelled elderly man. From his dress, you assume he is homeless, most likely transient. To your horror, you realize that not only is he badly injured, he is now quite clearly dead. Assume further that you KNOW, with utmost certainty, that there are no witnesses, and no one will ever know what has happened.
Do you do the right thing?
What is the right thing?
Are you sure?

The Doctor Is In (Town)

I just had the privilege of witnessing one of the greats in the world of artistic billiards do what he does best. Tonight, for one night only, the internationally-known Tom "Dr. Cue" Rossman was in town. Now, being an enthusiast of the game, if not, strictly speaking, possessing any actual skill or playing ability, I decided that I needed to see this. I must say that both show and man turned out to be dramatically different than anything I'd expected. For those of you with little knowledge of the sport, it might be helpful to note that, at least in my admittedly limited experience, the average billiards professional is every bit as charismatic and engaging as a toaster oven: grim, silent, and studious almost to distraction, arranging shots to demonstrate their technical prowess and "artistic" flair, signing a few autographs, and that's it. But Dr. Cue was not only the diametric opposite of all of this, he was totally beyond classification. A winner of more championships than I could reasonably hope to remember, Mr. Rossman was boisterous and exuberant to a fault, bounding about the table as if he were having more fun than his audience. The whole evening, he maintained an endless stream of jovial banter with everyone present, even going so far as to say that the talking helped his shooting. His sense of humour is one of a kind. That's all I can call it. Sharp wit, perfect timing, and not a small amount of good old-fashioned prop comedy all combined well with his rambunctious manner--he spent a great deal of the time in shouting and laughing giddily and leaping about the room. None of this outshone his true skill though. Suffice it to say that many of the techniques and shots that he made look easy utterly baffled myself and many players of significantly greater experience. It was a fast-paced show, only about three hours altogether. But he devoted some time at the end to demonstrating bits of his various techniques (which are available in full in either book or VHS format). His sheer talent makes for a spectacular exhibition for fans and players of the game, and his extraordinary showmanship and side-splitting humour should leave even novices and non-players wanting more. I would heartily recommend taking in a show if ever you have the chance.
Dr. Cue performs all over the United States, Europe, and other selected venues throughout the year. For a full tour schedule, as well as information on artistic billiards, training techniques/systems, and much more, please visit Dr. Cue Promotions.

Dubious Linkmongering

I just recently came across a site that is simultaneously disturbing and disturbingly addictive. I have absolutely no idea how to describe this. But, if you have the courage, it's worth a look, even if only for morbid curiousity's sake.
Be warned: Not suitable for children, Baptists, or any others whose sensibilities are apt to be injured by the more repugnant facets of the human condition.

Random Idealism

This short bit of raving was inspired by a rebuttal formed to a conversation I had some time ago with a friend, antagonist, and self-made philosopher. Said rebuttal itself has long hidden away in some personal (offline) writings, but I present here the gist of it.
Would someone kindly explain to me why standardization of Web browser platforms (and concurrently, Web design) is necessarily a bad thing? The people who oppose this idea do so on the grounds that being restricted to a single browser/design platform is detrimental to their creative freedom. They go on to say--or shout, more often than not--that, basically, they should be free to disseminate whatever data they possess in any manner that they see fit. The uniform compatibility policy is seen as an attempt at control, and thus a threat. And, in a broad sense, it is a very strict form of control. As a proponent of free speech, an advocate of public domain data, and a self-proclaimed, self-dubbed "Knowledge Communist", I can begin to understand the negative responses. However, it occurred to me a long time ago that having a common standardized vehicle for distribution of data is our only chance for a free information society. I can sum up my stance in one sentence:

What is the use of dispensing information in a form that only a few people can access?

If you're not reaching the public with your data, then all your idealistic posturing over your right to reach them on your own terms is moot. It is possible to become so militant in your defense of a principle that you lose sight of the idea on which that principle was founded.

What do you think?

FUBAR, apparently

I would like to thank those of you who've taken time out of your busy lives to read my little sapling of a blog. I realize that, as of right this moment, it more or less an exercise in electronic boredom, but with any luck other than what I've had, it will get better. Notice I said: "I would like to thank..." I would like to thank my readers, but, for all I can determine, I may not even have any. Apparently my Blogger source code undergoes frequent, random metamorphosis, presumably in response to some arcane and unfathomable binary Circadian rhythm all its own. As a result, several times a day the code that is responsible for controlling the comment/response apparatus is inexplicably subtly altered, so that, in short, it enthusiastically fails to do anything much at all. Ah, well. As I have yet to post anything worthy of remark, it seems to be of little import at this time. Come back frequently, as I hope to have this thing continue to develop on something at least slightly smaller than a cosmic time scale.