Happy as a Clam

2012

2012-01-10T21:15:00.000-08:00

I just had this conversation in my head:

Did you say “2K12”? You sound like a toucan.

Alright, how would you pronounce the year? Two thousand twelve?

Usually, yeah. You have a problem with that?

Well, it’s got a lot of syllables, doesn’t it? It’s a bit gangly. “Two thousand” has one more syllable than “nineteen,” and it doesn’t roll off the tongue as easily, either. It’s bothered me ever since we hit the new millennium.

Seriously? How old were you then? Eight?

I was a conscientious child.

How’s this: twenty-twelve. That matches the past style of saying “nineteen” to represent nineteen hundred, and it even has a nice “tw” sound to it.

It works, I guess. Sounds weird, but I’ll have to get used to it. Wait. No, that’s bad... it does open us up to a bunch of dumb jokes about eyesight eight years from now.

Yeah, but we’ll get those anyway. Besides, they can’t be worse than the apocalypse jokes this year, and the “where’s the flying cars?” jokes in a couple more.

True. It’ll sound a bit more natural once get past the teen years, too. You could say that the outlook gets better after 2020.

...that’s not going to be funny in eight years.

2011-12-22T16:17:00.000-08:00

“I hate you!” he shouted. “I hate you and your stupid comical comparisons!” His face was red and contorted, like a crayola left out on the stove. “You make them all the time. Try showing a little human empathy,” he added, bubbling.

Famous Poets as an action team:

2011-11-20T14:03:00.000-08:00

William Shakespeare is the team leader.
Edgar Allen Poe is the dark, edgy, cloaked one.
Robert Frost is the hard-hitting tough guy.
Emily Dickinson is the token female.
Lewis Carroll is the comedic relief.

Also, e.e. cummings is an odd side-character who helps them on occasion, though he’s never recovered from his encounter with a pack of Grammar Nazis.

I'm sorry to leave out Hemmingway, Lord Byron, and the Bronte sisters... but there's always the sequel.

Fun Fact

2011-11-16T22:25:00.000-08:00

In the past three millennia of world history, the average imperial power has survived for 215 years. America, measured from the ratification of the constitution, is now 223 years old.

I find this hilarious, because it sounds like one of those quaint, patently ridiculous "facts" that people pass around online, but I found it in a scholarly article by a guy who researched the fact himself. Evidence:

"Using a data set of empires that spans over 3,000 years, I wanted to create a model that could show us, statistically, what the lifetimes of empires look like. There are many more complex and intricate models of how civilizations grow and decay, but perhaps something could be gained by creating a very simple model that looks only at life span.

This data set is expansive, including everything from the Babylonian Empire of ancient Mesopotomia - known for such contributions as Hammurabi’s Code - to the Byzantine Empire, which has provided us with the eponymous word for red tape. Some of the world’s empires lasted an exceptionally long time: The ancient, and now little known, Elam empire located in present-day Iran lasted a thousand years. Others were short-lived, for all their power: The Phrygian and Lydian empires were around for only about six decades each. (The data set, based on earlier research in empires, ends at 600 A.D.)

If you crunch these all together, the first thing you discover is that the average lifetime of these powers is 215 years.

If you’re playing at home, this number is pessimistically eerie: It’s been 223 years since the ratification of the US Constitution. And that should perhaps give us some pause. To make this explicit, the United States has now outlasted the majority of the empires in my historical data set, and is now crossing the threshold into hoary old age."

~ http://www.spaulforrest.com/2011/11/how-long-will-america-last.html

Life at the moment

2011-11-16T21:36:00.000-08:00

I have three eight-page papers to complete in the next four weeks, at least three four-pagers (I haven't counted em yet), a website to design and launch, and a couple finals, on top of my typical homework for my seven classes. I've also volunteered to help prepare posters for the senior projects of the honors kids graduating this year. I'm not sure why I did, as I'm a tad busy already... probably the same reason I'm taking the time to write this post. Maybe it's terrible priorities.

On the upside, I've finished my internship duties for a month or so, and as of last Saturday, also finished the production of Alice in Wonderland in which I was the Mad Hatter. It sold out for six out of eight shows, but we couldn't extend the run for another weekend, which is just as well, as next Saturday I'll be attempting to shoot an entire short film within one day.

I was hoping to do Nanowrimo this year, too... But I do have a week-long Thanksgiving break coming up. I might be able to dash off 50 thousand words.

College study tip:

2011-11-16T21:23:00.000-08:00

If you leave your book alone on a library table overnight or even for several hours, the libraries clear it away. But if you stick it spread-eagled on one of the display shelves, no one notices or cares, and it’s easily retrieved later. It’s hiding in plain sight. There’s probably a cool story in there.

Maybe one written in the 1800s by Edgar Allen Poe.

A Joke

2011-10-24T17:08:00.001-07:00

An immigrant from the old country came through Ellis Island. As part of a physical exam, he was asked to read a line of letters on an eye chart. Pointing to the fourth row (which contained the letters S Z Q W R E K Z I), the doctor asked, "Can you read these letters?" "Read them?!!" The man exclaimed, "I KNOW the man!"

Yet another quote

2011-10-23T17:50:00.000-07:00

“On at least four of the 16 occasions between April and July that I went to Guy's for my venesections I was accosted outside the McDonald's on St Thomas Street by the same young man. He was well-spoken if shabbily dressed, and had the limp-scrape gait and the paradoxical features – at once sharply etched and poorly registered – of the street junky. Each time he asked me for change and each time I asked him if he had a drug problem. The first time he denied this I told him: "Sorry, I only give money to people who have a drug problem." So, predictably, he back-pedalled: "No, no, I do have an 'abit …" Addiction being such a great leveller, it planes away even the ability to detect irony. Then I zeroed in for the kill. "I'm sorry again, but I don't give money to liars." And he desperately rejoined: "I juss don't like to admit it straight up. Y'know what people are like …" Finally, I relented and gave him a pound coin or two, before subjecting him – in the time-honoured Sally Army way – to a homily in return for his handout.”

- English Novelist Will Self

premonition

2011-10-17T19:01:00.000-07:00

I once heard a story (originally told by Kevin Young) about Gerson Goldhaber, who was a physicist at Lawrence Berkeley National Lab. He was talking on the phone with another physicist at SLAC near Stanford University near the end of the day on Tuesday, October 17, 1989. The SLAC physicist suddenly interrupted with, “Gerson, I have to go! There’s a very big earthquake happening!” and then hung up. So Gerson stepped out into a group of people in the hall, made a big show of yawning and checking his watch, then said, “Aren’t we about due for an earthquake?” Before anyone could respond, the Loma Prieta earthquake reached Berkeley, and he became a legend.

-the XKCD blog

2011-10-11T21:30:00.000-07:00

“I know that David Tennant's Hamlet isn't till July. And lots of people are going to be doing Dr Who in Hamlet jokes, so this is just me getting it out of the way early, to avoid the rush...
"To be, or not to be, that is the question. Weeelll.... More of A question really. Not THE question. Because, well, I mean, there are billions and billions of questions out there, and well, when I say billions, I mean, when you add in the answers, not just the questions, weeelll, you're looking at numbers that are positively astronomical and... for that matter the other question is what you lot are doing on this planet in the first place, and er, did anyone try just pushing this little red button?”
― Neil Gaiman

And now for a couplet regarding Batman

2011-10-10T13:49:00.001-07:00

In his life educational and his life bi-vocational
He's endured large amounts of critiques degradational

TPS

2011-10-03T15:09:00.001-07:00

“At Twitter, they like to measure human events in tweets per second, or TPS. The more tweets per second, the more impressive and important the event—Twitter as the most important measure of human history. The company started releasing this number the summer of 2009, when Michael Jackson died and crashed Twitter’s service under the weight of 493 TPS.
On computer monitors on floor three, they can watch TPS for an event spike like commodities on a trading desk. The freak earthquake in Virginia in August reached 5,500 TPS, a number released to the press as a significant barometer of impact: “More tweets than Osama bin Laden,” said the London Telegraph.
That compares to 5,530 TPS for the Japanese earthquake and tsunami. Or 6,436 TPS for the 2011 BET Awards, and 5,531 for the NBA Finals. In August, the new Twitter record was set: 8,868 TPS for Beyoncé’s performance at the MTV Video Music Awards.”

~http://nymag.com/print/?/news/media/twitter-2011-10/

Reverse Socratic Method

2011-09-28T17:31:00.001-07:00

The “reverse Socratic method”: Force everyone to ask you questions about increasingly specialized topics until they get to the question you want. It's an idea of my own invention.

Newswriting exercise

2011-09-09T14:13:00.000-07:00

The Assignment:

To reformat the opening of a newspaper article so that it's less clunky; punchier.

The Opening:

"Maria Ramero, 23, of 154 East Lansing Blvd., in Riverdale, and her daughter, Jessica Ramero, 4, of the same address, were killed when their car collided with a milk truck at 4:13 p.m. at the corner of Wayne and First streets at Riverdale yesterday."

My Answers:

"Milk isn't always good for your bones. Maria Ramero, 23, and her young daughter were killed early this morning by a renegade milk truck."

"Got milk? A Riverdale mother and her four-year-old daughter wish they hadn't."

The root cause of all the problems in the world, condensed

2011-08-23T00:24:00.001-07:00

It's either love
or lack thereof

slothy

2011-08-15T20:24:00.000-07:00

You know how some people stop halfway through a sentence to think before finishing it? Imagine if two of them hold a conversation. They could alternate every half-sentence, with semi-related subjects woven into each other. Like a demented Monty Python sketch.

2011-07-23T22:31:00.001-07:00

A case of swollen whimsey

2011-06-26T23:43:00.000-07:00

Today I was reading Lewis Carroll's Silvie and Bruno when someone near me used the phrase "hurt his pride." My nonsense-fueled thoughts came up with this, which would fit quite well into anything Carroll's written:

  You’ve heard people say “The only thing I hurt was my pride.” They don’t mean their pride was physically hurt, of course. But where I come from, that’s possible. We hurt our pride, our egos, our tempers. Why, just last week, a friend of mine fell off his bike and landed right on his temper. He hasn’t been able to get mad for days, and as a result, quite a few people have been borrowing money from him or breaking bad news. I haven’t, though. Stubbed my sense of opportunism the other day, and it still hasn’t quite recovered.
  In addition to physicals, we get ‘immaterials’. The local hospital has an entire department for this sort thing. Operating on aspects of personality is tougher than brain surgery, and so I’m not quite clear of the specifics. Often there’s a waitlist, which you can be moved up if you provide a need. Say a man has severed his competitive spirit, but has a marathon approaching within the next few days. He would of course be rushed though. These reasons are vigorously inspected for authenticity, particularly those regarding such issues as fractured honesty.
  The black market can be a problem... It’s not uncommon for those who wander into the bad side of town to wake up in a tub of ice sans a sense of humor. They don’t take it well. Undergraduate students, too, surrender personality traits willingly, starting with those that won’t be needed by their occupation. Many a well-loved Mr. Rodgers-esque TV show host owes his amiability to a half-dozen equally successful lawyers.

The Dr Whooves picture

2011-06-26T16:32:00.000-07:00

Found this on someone's tumblr. It's what the previously mentioned birthday card was copied from. Now you can all see the visual!

Dr Whooves

2011-06-23T10:25:00.000-07:00

Yesterday, while walking through the streets of Seattle, I found a hand-drawn birthday card. It was a manga style picture of a pony wearing a bowtie saying, "I'm a pony now! Ponies are cool!" It's mane looked like Matt Smith's hair. Also, after the Happy Birthday and OXOXOX, it was signed "Dr. Whooves."
It was the best thing ever. I was going to post a picture online for all to see. But then it fell out of my back pocket, and it's probably floating in Lake Union right now. Which is the worst thing ever. I feel like Jonah, after God gives him a plant for shade and then whithers it up again. Such persecution.

2011-06-20T21:37:00.001-07:00

Last Saturday, my family was on a camping trip for the weekend. We were hiking past a trail with a sign saying it led to "Grandma's Cove." Just then, three white-haired ladies hiked up it.

I thought to myself that this was ironic, but then realized it was the opposite. Anti-irony. And a very good example of it: It makes so much sense that you don't expect it to. We've all adapted to an imperfect world in which the title "Grandma's Cove" is naturally assumed to have little or no correlation with the type of people who peruse it. When it turns out to have said correlation, we are surprised. It's irony and the opposite of irony at the same time. Someone should invent a word for this.

Cuss Island

2011-06-20T00:17:00.000-07:00

I want to see a story about a pirate captain who forces all his men to put a piece of treasure in a "cuss chest" for each profanity or curse. When it’s full, they bury it on a tiny island they call Cuss Island. Legend has it that if one finds the right island, they’ll uncover a king’s ransom. But every piece is individually cursed by definition, and therefore a great pall hangs over it all.

A Snippet, part 2

2011-06-10T23:29:00.000-07:00

"Contrary to popular belief, a male can occasionally use the term 'I love you' when referring to a member of the same sex. Two stipulations must be strictly adhered to, however. First, the two must be close friends. There is no definitive measurement for this, but a good rule of thumb for the speaker to keep in mind is a willingness to take a bullet for his friend.
Second, and perhaps most important of all, the phrase must always be followed by the word 'man.' (If at all possible, the emphasis should be on 'man' rather than on 'love' or 'you.') Failure to include this one word may easily result in the dissolution of the friendship in question."

A Snippet

2011-06-09T16:22:00.001-07:00

"Men, on the other hand, are complete opposites. The only occasion that could possibly bring one of them to tears would be a particularly violent decapitation, and even then, he wouldn't cry since his eyes would be missing by that point. Perhaps he would punch the air sadly."

Set the critique meters to "scathing"

2011-05-26T19:20:00.000-07:00

Here's a song subtly critiquing high school romances. Or praising them. It's tough to tell.

Also, why do the words "scathing" and "critique" go together so often? Who decided that one?

An Insult

2011-05-11T11:41:00.000-07:00

Yesterday, my parents worked together on a zinger for me:

Me: I’ll watch Thor all by myself, and then come back and reenact it for the whole family.
Isaac: I don’t think you’re as buff as Thor is.
Me: I beg to differ.
Mom: Oh, there’s no need. We all know you and Thor differ...
Dad: ...and you don’t need to beg for it.

See? It’s a perfectly choreographed one-two punch. I’d be insulted if I weren’t so proud of them.

2011-05-01T10:53:00.001-07:00

http://ifbyhappyyoumeanderanged.blogspot.com/2010/05/may-day.html

Reasons Why Forks Are Better Than Spoons

2011-04-29T13:37:00.000-07:00

1) When you come to a fork in the road, you can take it. Not so with the spoon.

2) You can use the side of a fork as a very dull knife blade, in order to cut things. Spoons are tougher, and cut things into semi-circles rather than straight.

3) You can threaten people much more effectively with a fork.

4) You can go out at night forking a house. People tend to shy away from spooning it.

5) If you like eating things that rhyme with your utinsel, you have a nice staple: pork. Spoon users only have loon, which I hear is pretty nasty. Also, tough to eat with a spoon.

6) The devil would look pretty lame carrying around a pitchSPOON.

7) Thugs don't sound as confident when they say "Spoon it over."

8) There is no spoon.

Do a barrel roll!

2011-04-23T08:41:00.000-07:00

see more Gifs

Hundred Dollar Bill

2011-04-15T22:25:00.000-07:00

I just had an interesting experience... Yesterday, while studying for my research paper on tricksters in folklore, I found an African American tale about a guy who kept a one hundred dollar bill in his pocket solely so that he could offer it to pay for a 50 cent haircut. When the barber couldn't give him change for a hundred bucks, the guy would get away without paying anything since it was technically the barber who couldn't pay.
Then, today, I attended a swing dance that cost a dollar at the door. All I had was a twenty, and the cashier couldn't change it, so he let me in free. The trick works in real life!

Gravity Train

2011-04-13T20:55:00.000-07:00

A gravity train is a theoretical means of transportation intended to go between two points on the surface of a sphere, following a straight tunnel that goes directly from one point to the other through the interior of the sphere.

In a large body such as a planet, this train could be left to accelerate using just the force of gravity, since, during the first half of the trip (from the point of departure until the middle), the downwards pull towards the center of gravity would pull it towards the destination. During the second half of the trip, the acceleration would be in the opposite direction relative to the trajectory, but (ignoring the effects of friction) the speed acquired before would be enough to cancel this deceleration exactly (so that the train would reach its destination with speed equal to zero).

--Wikipedia

I think the most interesting aspect of this is the fact that it would only take 42 minutes to travel to the other side of the earth. Especially given the significance of the number 42.

2011-04-08T12:34:00.000-07:00

2011-04-02T15:12:00.000-07:00

Says Tom to Bill, pray tell me, sir,
Why is it that the devil,
In spite of all his naughty ways,
Can never be uncivil?

Says Bill to Tom, the answer’s plain
To any mind that’s bright:
Because the imp of darkness, sir,
Can ne’er be imp o’ light.

– Charles Carroll Bombaugh, Gleanings for the Curious From the Harvest-Fields of Literature, 1890

Full vs. Empty

2011-03-27T19:14:00.000-07:00

You may have heard that the pessimist calls a glass half empty while an optimist calls the same one half full. You may also know that the pragmatist calls it both and that the engineer calls the glass twice as large as it needs to be. But what does the mad scientist call it?

He calls it a source of unlimited water!

Note: The mad scientist may or may not being using false logic. They're a hasty bunch.

The Toughest Tongue Twister Ever

2011-03-27T12:54:00.001-07:00

“The seething sea ceaseth and thus the seething sea sufficeth us.”

Big Orange Head

2011-03-24T20:04:00.000-07:00

Man walks into a bar and pauses: at the other end of the bar, there's this guy with a big orange head. Just kind of sitting there, mooning into his drink. So the man asks the bartender, "Say, what's up with the guy with the big orange head?" And the bartender says, "It's an interesting story. Buy him a drink and maybe he'll tell it to you."

So the man walks over and introduces himself and offers to buy a round. The guy with the big orange head says, "Yeah, I'll bet you want to know the story, huh?" To which the man replies, "Sure, if you don't mind."
The man with the big orange head sighs and says, "You know, I've gone over it in my mind a million times. Basically, it's like this: I was walking along the beach one day, when I stubbed my toe on something. I looked down, and there was an antique brass lamp. I picked it up and dusted it off a little -- when all of a sudden this enormous genie pops out!
"The genie thundered, 'You have released me from my ten-thousand year imprisonment, and I am in your debt. I will grant you three wishes as a token of my gratitude.'
The man at the bar is agape. The guy with the big orange head continues: "So I said, 'Wow, okay. Well, my first wish is to be fantastically wealthy.'
"The genie says, 'Your wish is granted.' And all of a sudden I have rings on my fingers and a crown on my head, and my wallet is full of money and a dozen ATM cards and the deed to a mansion in the hills -- I mean, I was loaded!
"So I said, 'Amazing! Okay, for my next wish , I want to be married to the most beautiful woman in the world.'
"The genie says, 'Your wish is granted.' And the ocean parts, and out walks this gorgeous woman in this beautiful dress, and she takes my hand and we fall in love and the genie marries us right there. It was incredible.

"The genie booms, 'You have one wish remaining.'"

The man with the big orange head pauses and sips his beer. He says, "Now, you know, this may be where I went wrong. I wished for a big orange head.

Puzzle

2011-03-19T09:34:00.001-07:00

Imagine two quarters side by side on the table. If you keep one still while rotating the other one around it, with their edges touching (without slipping) the entire time, how many rotations will the moving quarter make?

The obvious answer is wrong, and using two quarters to figure it out is cheating.

2011-03-14T20:33:00.001-07:00

‘Twas Euclid, and the theorem pi
Did plane and solid in the text,
All parallel were the radii,
And the ang-gulls convex’d.

“Beware the Wentworth-Smith, my son,
And the Loci that vacillate;
Beware the Axiom, and shun
The faithless Postulate.”

He took his Waterman in hand;
Long time the proper proof he sought;
Then rested he by the XYZ
And sat awhile in thought.

And as in inverse thought he sat
A brilliant proof, in lines of flame,
All neat and trim, it came to him,
Tangenting as it came.

“AB, CD,” reflected he–
The Waterman went snicker-snack–
He Q.E.D.-ed, and, proud indeed,
He trapezoided back.

“And hast thou proved the 29th?
Come to my arms, my radius boy!
O good for you! O one point two!”
He rhombused in his joy.

‘Twas Euclid, and the theorem pi
Did plane and solid in the text;
All parallel were the radii,
And the ang-gulls convex’d.

– Emma Rounds

Governments

2011-03-02T21:11:00.000-08:00

cannonarchy – government by superior firepower
foolocracy – government by fools
neocracy – government by new or inexperienced rulers
pollarchy – government by the multitude or a mob
technocracy - government by scientists

2011-02-16T16:55:00.000-08:00

http://tiny.cc/9qqu2

Gallows Humor

2011-02-11T21:31:00.000-08:00

Last words of executed murderers:

George Appel (1928): “Well, folks, you’ll soon see a baked Appel.”
James W. Rodgers (1960): (asked for a last request) “Why, yes — a bulletproof vest.”
Frederick Wood (1963): “Gentlemen, you are about to see the effects of electricity upon Wood.”
James French (1966): “I have a terrific headline for you in the morning: ‘French Fries’.”
Jimmy Glass (1987): “I’d rather be fishing.”

In 1856, English murderer William Palmer stood on the gallows and asked, “Are you sure it’s safe?”

-http://www.futilitycloset.com/2010/07/21/black-humor-2/

I just googled "RSVP"

2011-02-09T20:58:00.000-08:00

I think one of the little facts of life is that you can google any random phrase and find a horror movie titled it.

Students of the World

2011-02-05T14:28:00.000-08:00

I’ve come up with an analogy to describe the United States and its slipping prominence as a world power. I present it below:

America is like the popular kid in high school, and it’s almost time for graduation. He’s so chill that everyone likes him, but once he graduates, he can’t roll by on charm alone. The school geek, China, will probably take over.

To continue the analogy past the point of relevance, the jock is no doubt Russia, and China’s geeky pals are Korea and India. Canada is the cool older brother, and France is the hot senior girl. Mexico is the loud kid that no one likes but who demands acknowledgment.

If this were a TV show, I’d watch it. It could have so many hilarious political in-jokes, like America’s continuing health and energy issues. The plots could cover ancient history, like the fact that Iran legally changed his name from Persia in order to start a new life, or keep up with current events, with an episode about Egypt’s internet being down, perhaps due to Somali pirating too much.

And America’s the ultimate teenager. Sometimes you don’t know what state a teenager would be in, but this one’s got fifty states. And weight issues, too... come to think of it, maybe America should be female.

(sic)

2011-01-31T14:05:00.000-08:00

On a Watch lost in a Tavern.

A Watch lost in a Tavern ? that's a Crime,

You know how men in drinking lose there time :

A Watch keeps time, and if time pass away.

There is small reason that the Watch should stay.

The key hung out, and you forgot to lock it,

Time scorns to be kept tame in any pocket.

Hereafter if you keep't, thus must you do,

Pocket your Watch, and watch your pockets too.

-“Humour, wit, and satire of the 17th century”

Google's domain

2011-01-30T11:59:00.000-08:00

Just found out from a college friend who spent most of her life in South Africa that the country has a slang term for markers, "cokies." I looked it up on Google and as it turns out, there's next to nothing about it on the internet. There's one blog where someone talks about how surprised she was to find out about the term, but nothing else anywhere. This is the first thing that I've found on my own that hasn't been well-documented on Google.

those Magic Tree House books

2011-01-27T12:46:00.000-08:00

The author really wrote herself into a corner when she titled the first one Dinosaurs Before Dark, and followed it with The Knight at Dawn and Mummies in the Morning. Now she has to have some kind of measurement of time in every title. She was fine for the first twenty books or so, but it turned into her cash cow,* and she's on book number 45 now.

First she had Vacation in a Volcano, which isn't really a time of day. She's also expanded to complete days of the week, like Monday with a Mad Genius, and randomly specific ones like Dark Day, Early Morning, and Late Winter. She's even repeated herself with Night of the Ninja and Night of the New Magicians, which is unforgiveable. Her latest is A Crazy Day with Cobras, and I expect the titles to get even more entertaining from here.

*Not sure about the etymology of that phrase. It's like the "goose that lays the golden eggs" one, but cows don't lay eggs. That I know of. I haven't witnesses a cow birthing as of yet.

All is discovered.

2011-01-23T18:08:00.000-08:00

There is a tradition to the effect that Noel Coward once sent identical notes to the twenty most prominent men in London, saying, ‘All is discovered. Escape while you can.’

All twenty abruptly left town.

– Paul C. Sherr, The Short Story and the Oral Tradition, 1970

Rutland

2011-01-21T18:31:00.001-08:00

For many years Rutland was the smallest county in England, being only 152 square miles. In April 1974, owing to an appalling planning blunder on the part of the British government, it literally ceased to exist. shortly afterwards Sir Nat Kosher realized the enormous tax benefits of broadcasting from somewhere which didn't legally exist and formed Rutland Weekend Television, Britain's smallest TV station. From its very first broadcast RWTV was greeted with praise from Accountants and Taxation Experts in every walk of life.

--The Rutland Dirty Weekend Book, Eyre Methuen Ltd., 1976

Be Always Good

2011-01-14T17:28:00.000-08:00

Be good, be good, be always good,
And now & then be clever,
But don’t you ever be too good,
Nor ever be too clever;
For such as be too awful good
They awful lonely are,
And such as often clever be
Get cut & stung & trodden on by persons of lesser mental capacity, for this kind do by a law of their construction regard exhibitions of superior intellectuality as an offensive impertinence leveled at their lack of this high gift, & are prompt to resent such-like exhibitions in the manner above indicated — & are they justifiable? alas, alas they

(It is not best to go on; I think the line is already longer than it ought to be for real true poetry.)

– Mark Twain

Seven fingers

2011-01-11T13:22:00.000-08:00

"What if we had seven fingers on each of our hands? [...] We could name our fingers after the days of the week, and if we didn't like something, we could flip that person a "Wednesday." If you were clumsy, you could say, "Sorry, I'm all weekends." -Roger von Oech

Why Opening Credits Exist

2011-01-04T17:46:00.003-08:00

You know how people enjoy something more if they’ve paid a lot for it? They also want to buy something more after they’ve held it. The same principle applies to those opening credits for movies. They remind the audience that it’s a movie, that it’s been paid for, and hey, look, it’s so cool already, but you still have the rest of it to look forward to. It’s a marketing ploy.

An approach to insurrection

2011-01-03T14:02:00.000-08:00

Inspiration just struck me. It was rather heavily, and in the back of the head, so I can't account for the quality of my poem.

An approach to insurrection

To avoid revolution
Takes a strong constitution
Do you think, good sir, to achieve it?

King, to risk being smarmy
In regards to their army
I’ll tell them, most kindly, to sleeve it

It gives me satisfaction
that their faction’s a fraction
Of our troubles in this current age and day

The economy will bother me
Even greater, gastronomy
So I won’t leave my supper to attend to the fray

Random facts about guns

2011-01-02T20:32:00.000-08:00

A fatal bullet through the heart can leave a guy up and shooting for over ten seconds — obviously an eternity for a law enforcement officer in a point-blank shootout.

A guy can get shot and not know it. Police officers are trained to check themselves carefully when any shots are fired, because it has happened that officers thought they were unharmed, went home, laid down to rest, and bled to death.

A guy can be in a shootout and THINK he got shot, and it turns out there’s not a mark on him. They get knocked over, feel intense pain, cry out, etc. There were enough of these cases that the researchers were able to find some involving officers who were previously decorated for valor and had in fact been shot before.

A guy can get shot multiple times with a powerful weapon and get lucky, or he can get shot with a tiny weapon and get unlucky. I still remember the story used to illustrate this: a fight between roommates got ugly, and one guy shot the other six times in the chest with a .45. The second guy went to his attic, found his great-grandfather’s Civil War-era relic small caliber revolver (something like a .22), went back downstairs, and shot his roommate through the heart, killing him. Forty-eight hours later, his desire for medical care overcame his aversion to getting caught, and he walked into an emergency room. He recovered completely.

http://news.ycombinator.com/item?id=2027579

Merry Christmas

2010-12-25T09:23:00.000-08:00

There is no sanity clause.

A joke

2010-12-22T12:36:00.001-08:00

Q: How do you confuse a blond?

A: Paint yourself green and throw forks at her.

George and the Conveyer Belt Quest: A Tale of the Good Life

2010-12-18T22:15:00.000-08:00

This was written for the final paper in my Humanities class of my first semester at college, which I finished this week. It's allegorical. Sort of.

George woke to a ringing in his ears, soon forgotten as he looked about himself. He was lying on a hard patch of dirt, underneath a surprisingly large signpost marking the beginning of a road. No one was actually walking the road, though George could see shadowy figures shuffling across the barren field in all other directions. Beneath the little boy, the hard-packed ground muttered and quivered indistinctly, as if they were all perched on the stomach of a giant dragon with indigestion.

George was still pondering this possibility, staring at the ground, when a voice broke through his thoughts: “It’s moving.”

“Excuse me?” George said, looking up at the man who had appeared before him. The gentleman wore a suit and top hat, though there were enough holes in both that the term “wearing” was generous.

“The ground’s moving,” the man continued, “We’re always moving somewhere, you just don’t notice. The best thing to do is to keep walking. Care to join me?”

“Sure, I guess.” Now that George thought about it, he realized that he was missing something, as if he needed something to occupy his time with. Simple walking wouldn’t really help, but maybe he could find whatever element he lacked. “Are you walking on that street?” George asked, pointing to the road unfurling from the signpost beside them. But the man in ragged clothes only scoffed.

“That’s a kinda weird path,” he chuckled knowingly, “Look at that sign. ‘St St.’ What’s that even supposed to mean?”

The sign did indeed say ‘St St.’ on it, which, mysterious as it was, didn’t quite seem like a reason to disregard the entire road. Still, George deferred to the intelligence of the man he had just met, who seemed worldly-wise enough. They set out to blaze their own path, heading west.

“The name’s Sentered. Celf Sentered,” George’s traveling companion said with the air of a British secret agent, “I’ve heard tell of a place over here where all your dreams come true and you get anything you want: The Land of Moderation.”

“Moderation? That sounds pretty good,” George said.

“Indeed it does… every kind of indulgence imaginable, my friend. You can do anything you want there, and that’s the ticket to true happiness in life.”

The tundra was rocky, and the ground was dotted with thorns, but they managed the trek fine. Soon, other figures could be seen, all headed in roughly same direction; Moderation was a popular destination. As if to explain why, a sign rose out of the mist before them. The words You can do anything in Moderation were proudly emblazoned upon it, affirming Celf’s recent claim.

Behind the sign, Moderation began with a large forest. Redwood- sized trunks were scattered throughout the scene like the pillars of an ancient civilization, and enormous pears lay in between. Scores of travelers stood around Moderation, indulging in the pears. Almost all of them were dressed like kings, complete with a kingly layer of fat.

“Welcome!” One of them called out, waddling over. “Take a pear! There’s plenty for all!” Then the man looked around and qualified, “Well, maybe not all. But I’ve already got mine, so grab what you can for yourself.”

“Nice to meet you,” George said. Celf had already buried his face in a nearby six-foot-tall pear, but burbled something through the pear juice that might have been a greeting.

“Please, take a pear!” The man continued, “Everyone else is, so you know that you want to! Here in the Forest of Pear Pressure, we all go with the flow. My name’s Celf.”

“Celf? But that’s his name.” George pointed out his pal, who was difficult to identify now that his back was turned.

“Sure it is. We’re all Celf Sentered around here; that’s why we all get along. There was that chap Augustine who came for a pear or two, but he didn’t stick around. Now, come on, you might as well have a bite to eat.”

George left both Celfs, wondering farther into the forest. It seemed like fun. Everyone had all they wanted, and there were even enough pears leftover to smash underfoot. George had been looking for a good life, and this looked like one. But as he walked, he realized something disturbing: hidden around the shadowy pear tree roots were even more people. These ones were even fatter, their rich clothes dank and their faces void of emotion. They were still shoveling pear flesh into their gaping mouths just as efficiently as the others, but with none of the enjoyment.

This couldn’t be right, George realized. The Celfs weren’t happy; they were turning into empty shells. This was only the ‘right’ path spatially speaking.

George made his way back, though he couldn’t find either of the men that he’d talked to before. Instead, he heard a new voice, barely audible, whispering, “Come…” from somewhere nearby. George followed, happening upon a train track that pointed back in the direction George had come to Moderation from. A small train stood on it and as George neared the train, its operator showed himself, no doubt the owner of the voice.

“Hop on,” the wizened and blind old man called, “We depart ASAP.” George was happy to escape the debauched Moderation, and the operator applauded him as he boarded, saying, “It’s hard to get anywhere fast without a Train of Thought.” The train tooted and pulled away, working fine despite the operator’s lack of eyesight. “There’s always the Stream of Consciousness, but that’ll just take you right off the conveyer belt.”

“The conveyer belt? What do you mean?” our intrepid hero asked.

“Haven’t ya noticed the ground move?” the operator snorted with superiority, “It’s cause the world’s built on a giant conveyer belt. We’re always headed towards a nasty fall off the end,” –here he jabbed a thumb towards the south, which was to the side of the east-bound train—“unless we go somewhere else with our lives. That’s why I run a train track, helping to move folks around.”

“Are you sure it helps?” George asked. There seemed to be something wrong with traveling sideways on a conveyer belt in order to keep from falling off, but not being mathematically-oriented, George wasn’t sure exactly what.

“Oh, sure. It’s not what you do that’s important, just that you do something. Those losers over in Moderation only care about themselves, but I know better. You need to care about something else. You’ll see what I mean once we get to the station.”

The operator’s train of thought pulled up at a new land, the home of the Faithful Elite. It was a fancy city, and was covered in shiny metallic red and silver walkways, which swept up and over buildings like a bucket of tinsel that had been dropped from the heavens.

“We’re better than the rest of the world,” explained the operator, whose name was Devotion. “Most of them try to please themselves, and just get fat. There’s more to life than stuffing yourself like a mid-50s college phone-booth.”

Devo pointed out a gentleman below them who had decided to fold as many leaves as possible into tiny origami cranes. A vast pile almost engulfed the man. “That’s False Security down there,” Devo said, “Keepin’ busy. You don’t see him sitting and eating pears. Though technically, I don’t see him at all. And there’s False Hope, busy at his desk job, and False Faith, looking to his model car hobby.” Devo sighed happily. “We’re all too busy to feel empty and useless like the others. We’ve found the good life.”

George couldn’t wait to think up a task for himself. Maybe he could inflate balloons or watch paint dry. This was definitely the solution to his problems. He followed blind Devotion.

It was only after picking up his official paint-watching smock, generously provided by the Elite, that George was struck by an issue with the project. It was filling the unhappiness of self-gratitude with pointless activities. It seemed like that wasn’t really filling the void at all, just ignoring it. This epiphany came moments before the ground began to shudder under George even more violently than usual. Ahead, to the south, a glowing red light broached the horizon, growing until George could see the actual edge of the conveyer belt.

Heading to the east side of the world hadn’t helped at all. George was still going to be swept down just like those in the forested west. Despair gripped him now, as the outskirts of the Elite city began to snap and pop, city tinsel disappearing forever into the chasm beyond the belt. Tiny screams of the devote growing-grass-watchers of the east mingled with the even fainter cries of the fatties of the west.

“We’re all unfulfilled,” George shouted over the others, “What must I do to be saved?”

At that moment, he heard one more voice. This one was separate from the rest. It was calm and unwavering, and it was familiar, too. “Come, George.”

George had heard that call before, he now remembered. It had always been there, overlooked amidst the other travelers George had found, and it had been the faint memory of it that had led George away from the pear forest, and that had pointed out Devo’s various logical contradictions. “Come, George.”

George followed the call, running north after it. The world collapsed behind him, the mortal earth under his feet churning away from the call. At first the reddish heat of a distinctly bad life practically singed his soles (shoe and otherwise), but eventually it disappeared as he drew away from the conveyer belt edge.

Other lands and places drifted in and out of the smog George passed through. Some looked enticing even now; a carnival and a candyland caught his eye. But they were all presenting various activities or pleasures that George now knew were useless and even deadly. They all led to a bad life, and George needed something more.

The call was coming from a lone road in the center of a barren field. In point of fact, it was the same one in which George had begun his trek. A man stood in the mysterious St St., cloaked in a white so bright George couldn’t quite make it out. Its light, however, brightened the rest of the world well enough that the previously ubiquitous fog was swept away, and George could tell how grimy it really was. It paled in comparison with the man who now stood, calling “Come.”

George’s first step onto the solid rock of Saint Street gave him a new understanding that his old world of secular morality was too shaky to show. The man in white was the missing element, and now George knew he had finally found the good way, the good truth, and the good life.

2010-12-09T06:28:00.001-08:00

"No woman can be handsome by the force of features alone; any more that she can be witty by only the help of speech." ~ Kin Hubbard

2010-12-08T14:44:00.000-08:00

Note to self:

Never used the word 'arguably'. No one likes it, since it's so wishy-washy. Maybe subvert their expectations, though: "While it is an arguably good concept, those found arguing so are often morons."

This is what awesome looks like.

2010-12-07T18:48:00.000-08:00

Awww yeahhhh.

Also,

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=BQOWWH9Gbr4

and

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=39eoqDdD_hY

Hi Guys!

2010-11-20T14:51:00.001-08:00

see more Gifs

Past Versions of my Blog title

2010-11-20T09:50:00.000-08:00

The Big Happy World of Confused People

My, You're Looking Happy Today

You Look Deranged, Deranged, Deranged, Happy, And Deranged.

It's getting harder to come up with titles that make a good joke when combined with the blog url.

25 facts about myself

2010-11-19T14:25:00.000-08:00

1. I own close to a hundred copies of Vanilla Ice's autobiography (when I learned it was ghost-written by his manager Timmy Quon, I lost all interest in being a distributor).

2. In the seventh grade, I invented a new eating utensil called the "clingting". I ate every meal with it for four and a half years. It involved magnets.

3. On a dare, I once broke a window of a police car with my head, then blamed it on a homeless guy passed out in a gutter nearby and was awarded a medal.

4. Ever since I saw "The Neverending Story", I've felt that if ever I am truly needed, I will hear a book calling out to me. It's happened twice, and I've ignored it both times.

5. I used to be a vegetarian for moral reasons, but ever since a cow kicked my baby brother in the head I've switched to an all-beef diet. Those jerks deserve it.

6. I've never understood the lyrics to "U Can't Touch This". Is he talking about his suit? Maybe a immaterial concept, like liberty or irascibility.

7. My skills of imitation are inarguable. Once, I was mistaken for a chameleon by three zookeepers. They chased me for a quarter of an hour.

8. I can knit backwards.

9. I have studied lyrical dissonance for three years under the tutelage of Roman Van Duusker, the renowned lyricist. Later I found out that he was actually just the homeless guy getting his revenge on me, but that's life.

10. My theories on Atlantis and its relation to the modern vacuum cleaner have been published in five separate academic magazines and one anthology benefiting those affected by Typhoon Parma in the Philippines.

12. When I was 17, I was hired by as a consultant by a Belgian acrobat. It didn't last long, in part due to my slim grasp of the Dutch language.

13. While some people have an irrational fear of the number 13, and often skip it in the construction of buildings and such, my fear is of the number 11. I try not to use it.

14. I once developed an addition to nicotine patches, working my way up from the weakest to the strongest. In retrospect, this wasn't a good idea.

15. The only pet I've ever had was a mongoose. I feed him on grapefruit.

16. The feathers in my pillow breakdown after a few years of use, so I have now switched to using torn-up pages from autobiographies of Vanilla Ice.

17. January 2011 will mark the tenth anniversary of the last time I ate a banana.

18. Occasionally, if I haven't slept for 24 hours, I see dinosaurs out of the corner of my eye. But normally, I can catch a much better view.

19. I've been contacted to script TV shows based off of my life. Ratings were never very high, however, and after a particularly bad pilot involving an oil tanker and three rare species of bullfrog, I was banned from the Writers Guild of America.

20. I've broken a bone three times. Oddly, it belonged to the same person each time. He's now a close family friend due to the number of get-well-soon cards we've exchanged.

21. I like to tell people that I was involved in a jewel heist during my studies abroad in Africa. But I exaggerate a little; I did trip the criminal on his way out, but it was by accident.

22. My vast collection of candy wrappers is not the largest in the world, but it is the most clean.

23. I once saved a midget from a run-away steamroller while vacationing in New York. He is now my indentured servant (This is the reason my candy wrappers are so clean.)

24. My mongoose was once the suspect in a Murder in the Rue Morgue-esque police investigation. He was cleared, but to this day Police Sargent Ed McJohnston spends his off days staking out my house while muttering incoherently to himself.

25. In the Scottish-Australian community, I'm known as "Lucky".

A Vignette

2010-11-10T14:45:00.000-08:00

"Good authors too who once knew better words / Now only use four letter words"

This quote from the musical Anything Goes shows a sad truth: four letter words are now the norm for entertainment. Even a PG-13 rating allows for one use of the ol' F word. This desensitization has destroyed the quaint comfort of movies, plays or novels of old.

But wait, says the admittedly theoretical intelligent modernist, aren't you forgetting something? If today's audiences are indeed "desensitized" to swear words, then any media that uses them rests within the certain level of "comfort" that you claim has been lost.

Alright, we try to say, but the modernist goes on, eager to prove his point: This exposes your hypocrisy! Today's culture merely demonstrates an evolved version of the yesterday's comfort, and you all have failed to appreciate it due to your bias against progress!

After calming our young dissenter, we attempt to reason with him. Sure, we gently explain, this desensitization has given us comfort with obscene or blasphemous phrases in today's world, but there is another issue at stake here. The impact that such evil words could carry in the past has all but petered out. Now that any children's show can use "oh my God" or "damn", it's hard to gain as much emotional impact when a serious Broadway drama uses an F-bomb. The comfort of the norm still exists, but since shock is the new comfort, there is nothing left to be the new shock. Our world of plays and books is now missing a color from its emotional palette, irreplaceably lost to the sands of time.

This shuts the modernist up for a moment. But, still unaware that his intellect is of a size highly uncommon to those holding to his modernist views in real life, he strokes his artsy-goatee-studded chin and comes up with another objection.

This shock incited by dirty words of the past, he says, you imply that it's a necessary part of the olden literature. But I believe your original argument was that such dirty words were never found back then. Are you changing your opinion?

He sits back with a smug look which is difficult to make out, as the expression is indigenous to his type. He knows he has us now. We must either admit that we are wrong or else adopt a compromising view that swear words were not uncommon in the past. His thumbs are itching with the desire to update his Facebook status, via mobile phone, concerning his triumph over the fuddy-duddies of the past.

But we are far from defeated.

The point of the element of shock is to exist without actually appearing, we explain. The feeling of comfort is even more secure when we know that swear words could be used, but are not. This seems like a bit of a stretch to our modernist until we point out that a similar principle applies to his right to vote. At this point, he has little to do but fold.

Author's Note: I came up with that on a whim last night, and haven't edited it, so excuse any errors. I probably misused the term 'modernist' for one. Also, I apparently have an inner intelligent modernist.

Connoísseur, n.

2010-10-30T11:06:00.000-07:00

An old wine-bibber was smashed in a railway collision, and some wine was poured on his lips to revive him. "Pauillac, 1873," he murmured and died.

~The Devil's Dictionary

Anon

2010-10-25T17:52:00.000-07:00

ANON

The Myth Behind The Legend

Few literary puzzles have inspired such universal apathy as the question: "Who was Anon?" Books of quotations are cluttered with sayings attributed to Anon, and these scraps of truth and wisdom have earned Anon universal recognition and immortality. Innumerable biographies have been written about lesser authors, even authors so obscure that their works are seldom read. But Anon, though widely read and widely quoted, has been accorded only widespread indifference by the literary community.

Even the most astute literary scholar would be perplexed if asked to identify the central themes of Anon's work. If a historian were asked how Anon's work was influenced by the culture and events of his times, he would be at a total loss for a sensible answer.

So complete has been the scholarly neglect of Anon that his name has become a synonym for "unknown." In spite of this, his works have stood the test of time, and he continues to be one of the most often quoted authors. (Ibid may be more frequently cited, but his works were derivative.)

What little we know of Anon's life is of doubtful validity. We have no authentic picture of Anon, nor any first hand description of him by anyone who would admit to having known him. Not one scrap of original manuscript in his own hand has survived the ravages of time. Scholars have given up hope of ever discovering an autobiography of Anon in some dusty attic.

Yet, from the available dearth of evidence, we can piece together a sketch (albeit apocryphal) of this prolific genius. We know that Anon's wisdom appeared very early in history. When references to him are traced backward in time, in the general direction towards the emergence of civilization, they lead us to a blank wall. This suggests that Anon must be placed in historical times so ancient as to predate the emergence of intelligent thought. He was certainly ahead of his time, which may be the reason why none of his contemporaries knew of him.

If that argument seems specious, consider this independent and equally convincing evidence which leads to the same conclusion. Anon's work was considered immortal in all historical ages, and it is generally quite difficult for an author to achieve immortality in his own time.

Perhaps Anon inspired an ancient "school" of thinkers who later traveled far and wide disseminating his ideas. This may be true. Nobody knows. But then, he would, since Nobody knew Anon personally. Indeed, Nobody knew a lot of things which baffled everyone else. But the hypothesis that Nobody was a pupil of Anon is dubious, if true.

The historical problem is compounded by the timeless quality of Anon's work. His wisdom seems too old-fashioned for modern times, yet too advanced for ancient times. Either Anon was in the habit of living in the past, or anticipating the future. If so, it follows that he was probably neglected and unappreciated in his own age, and that could explain a lot.

Leaving these irrelevant questions aside, let us look at Anon's career. It can be divided into three distinct phases: the first, the second, and the third. That leaves only the problem of deciding into which phase to place each of Anon's works. This is especially troublesome for his posthumous works. Since we have no idea when Anon died, it's even a bit difficult to determine which of his works were posthumous.

We might at least hope to extract Anon's philosophy from those fragments of his genius which have trickled down to us through the sieve of history. It is a vain hope. While Anon wrote (or perhaps spoke) on many subjects, he had the infuriating habit of speaking on every side of every question. No consistent pattern emerges, but this is itself consistent with Anon's own observation that "Consistency is the curse of small minds." On yet another occasion he said, "Sticking consistently to any one position sooner or later leads to logical difficulties." Perhaps Anon merely wanted to ensure that all sides of every question be heard. Yet he expressed reservations about this approach, saying, "One who can see both sides of a question doesn't understand the question." Such remarks strongly suggest that Anon may be the true father of the disciplines of logic and philosophy.

To achieve a true appreciation of Anon's work we must first recognize that the inconsistencies and contradictions inherent or implied in his work do, in fact, represent the central, unifying theme of his philosophy.

Anon's fragmentary output has become so diffused throughout many cultures that it is nearly impossible to specify his country of origin. Some have suggested that Anon was German, his full name being Till Anon--a ridiculous notion at best. Another improbable theory has it that Anon was Spanish with a German surname: Anon y' Maus. Or could this be a nickname describing Anon's timidity: "Anon, the mouse"?

One historian even goes so far as to suggest that all of Anon's works are forgeries of recent (19th century) origin, perpetrated by author Lewis Carroll (Charles Dodgson) writing under the pseudonym: E. M. Anon. When this name is read backwards it is seen to be an anagram of the kind Carroll loved to devise. This outrageous theory deserves to be rejected on its merits.

Lest we be overawed by Anon's versatility, we should look at what he didn't do, for that demonstrates his discrimination and good taste. He never wrote an epic poem, a play, or an opera. He never wrote a best selling work of fiction, never wrote a textbook, and never edited an anthology. He left such enterprises to hacks and lesser intellects.

No painting or drawing bears the signature "Anon." No sculpture has "Anon" chiseled on its base. If he ever tried his hand at art, he apparently never signed his works.

For all of his output of serious sagacity, homely homilies, and profound pronouncements, Anon had a lighter side. In fact his output of jokes far exceeded the rest of his literary work. It is true that many of these jokes are off-color, but that has only enhanced their popularity. They are remembered and quoted verbatim by people who couldn't recite one line of "The Ancient Mariner." Anon knew that art is of no value without an audience, or as he put it so well, "'Tis better to be obscene than unheard."

So, a picture of Anon emerges: a witty, slightly cynical, philosopher of the people. He could sum up the essence of an idea in one pithy sentence. Though many others plagiarized his works, he never complained. He must have cared little for money, for there is no record that he was ever paid for any of his work.

Anon demonstrated that the best way to achieve recognition is by not seeking it. He was unconcerned about the judgment of posterity, for he said, "Be not obligated to posterity. What has posterity ever done for you? The critical judgment of posterity comes too late to be useful."

Of course any conclusions about Anon, the man, might have to be modified if it were shown that Anon was a woman. The true sex of Anon may be a matter of dispute among scholars, yet we have no reason to believe that Anon ever had the slightest concern about this question.

As usual, Anon had the first word on such speculations when he (or she) said, "Nothing stimulates outrageous theories so effectively as an absence of evidence."

________________________________

APPENDIX: SCHOLARLY NOTES

1. The name "Anon" is virtually unknown in any language, which suggests that Anon had no descendants. Perhaps Anon's family suffered from hereditary infertility. It's a well-known biological fact that if your parents had no children, it's very likely that you won't either.2. Recently Anon's works have been subjected to stylistic analysis with the aid of a computer. The tentative conclusion is that Anon plagiarized all of his works from others.

3. Those who fault Anon's style should remember that his sayings would probably sound better in Anon's native tongue, if we only knew what language that was.

4. We may safely assume that Anon never had the advantage of higher education, for no Ph.D. thesis bears his name.

5. Though Anon's life is shrouded in obscurity, his works have far greater merit than those of authors whose meaning is shrouded in obscurity.

2010-10-22T06:48:00.000-07:00

A martyr is a man who cares so much for something outside him, that he forgets his own personal life. A suicide is a man who cares little for anything outside him, that he wants to see the last of everything.

~GK Chesteron

A Comedy Schematic

2010-10-21T19:51:00.000-07:00

I just watched the 2002 film version of The Importance of Being Earnest, which is one of the cleverest plays I've ever seen. It got me thinking about the particular group of period-piece comedies into which it falls. Other stories in this group include Gilbert and Sullivan's works, Moliere's The Miser, most Shakespeare comedies, a lot of Saki's short stories, some O Henry stories, and anything written by PG Wodehouse.

Within this group, there are a lot of similar themes and elements. I've figured out several lists detailing them.

Story elements:

Bets
Blackmail
Duels
Family pride
Love triangles
Matchmaking
Mis-mailed letter(s)
Mistaken identity
New-found inheritance

Political corruption

Social Hierarchy

Relationships:

Two relationships can be given per character, so that the second can be revealed in order to move the plot along during the 2nd or 3rd act.

Aunt/Uncle

-overbearing, doting, cool

Boss

Butler

Cousin

Father/Mother

-step-, foster

Fiancée

-secret, arranged, normal

Friend

Husband/wife

Nanny

Old military buddy

Old school chum

An optional list is that of the possible supernatural elements. These change the nature of the story, making it even less realistic than it already was, so they should be handled with care. Also, it's a short list, since there aren't many supernatural things that constantly come up in witty comedies.

Supernatural Elements:

Deities

-benevolent, malevolent, pranking

Ghosts

-advice-dispensing, task-requiring

Love potions

My last list is of the elements that are more or less completely essential to this type of story. I saved it for last because these ones are pretty intuitive, and shouldn't need as much attention as the others when one constructs the story. They're just helpful to have in mind.

Essentials:

Intellectual exchanges of wit

Lies

A happy ending

Using these lists, one can compose a plot. Mix and match three or four story elements, pick out some good relationships for the characters, and then make a plot that works off of each one. If one can make most of the plot elements intertwine with each other, it will work well.

A good technique is to choose one of the story elements to center the entire plot on, and weave the others around it, since this makes the story cohesive. Give the characters unrealistic priories, like family pride or a bet over one's life, since this opens up a lot of story possibilities that wouldn't actually exist in real life, and makes the story funnier.

You'll have to come up with the wit by yourself. Originality is one thing I can't help you with.

2010-10-19T08:16:00.001-07:00

http://formspring.me/Qwip13

Ode to the Eyebrow

2010-10-08T13:13:00.000-07:00

“And then, the lover sighing like furnace
with a woeful ballad made to his mistress’ eyebrow”,
--Act II, Scene VII from 'As You Like It’, by William Shakespeare

Ode to the Eyebrow

It’s a thin black line on skin so milky
Dances wild like a merry selkie

Constant measures of propriety
often hinting at faux piety

It decorates a mind astute
And in several ways acute

It rises with an air of shocking
It lowers in teasing or mocking

Always flippant, oozing style
The only brow I’ve seen smile

And an extra verse that didn't fit the rest of the poem:

It volleys forth, it sallies back
It wriggles like a worm on crack

2010-10-05T23:09:00.000-07:00

There are only two solutions to ignorance: either stop being ignorant, or learn to be ignorant of one's ignorance.

Lottery

2010-10-05T14:27:00.000-07:00

Lottery! That's what it is. Not a death drawing, a death lottery. Death drawing does have a bit of a ring to it, though. Nice alliteration. Probably draws the folks in like crazy.

The above paragraph came to me late last night. Earlier, I'd had one of those annoying moments when you can't find the right word. I'd picked 'drawing' to describe a situation in which everyone draws papers to see who dies, but everyone knows that's always called a death lottery, never a death drawing. Google it; you'll see I'm right.

My roommate wasn't there to hear me muttering to myself. I would say that was a narrow escape from alienation, but considering I engaged in a nerf gun fight while pretending to be a zombified Moriarty to his Sherlock Holmes the other week, he already knows how weird I am and is fine with it.

Floss

2010-09-28T20:44:00.001-07:00

"One of my students wrote a story about a nun who got a piece of dental floss stuck between her lower left molars, and who couldn’t get it out all day long. I thought that was wonderful. The story dealt with issues a lot more important than dental floss, but what kept readers going was anxiety about when the dental floss would finally be removed. Nobody could read that story without fishing around in his mouth with a finger. Now, there’s an admirable practical joke for you. When you exclude plot, when you exclude anyone’s wanting anything, you exclude the reader, which is a mean-spirited thing to do."

--Vonnegut

haha

2010-09-19T19:49:00.001-07:00

I just thought of the phrase "Rainbow Cartel".

2010-09-16T14:00:00.000-07:00

I can understand having good looking people populating TV shows.... but why are the murder victims on crime shows good looking, too? They only show up for five minutes at the beginning.

Maybe they're trying to keep up the continuity of a world entirely populated with beautiful people.

Teenagers and sarcasm

2010-09-13T18:47:00.000-07:00

They go together well.

I think it's because sarcasm is a way to be passive-aggressive, so teenagers can convince themselves that they aren't really at fault, but still vent their messed-up teenage emotions.

I could expound on this and turn this into an essay, but I've been writing a lot of them here at college anyway.

It's like The Happening crossed with a typical over-done genre.

2010-09-05T20:42:00.000-07:00

The opposite of a vampire: plants. Because they like sunlight.

In a fight, the vampires' only hope is Bunnicula.

2010-09-04T17:09:00.000-07:00

I want a story about reincarnation in which people can be reincarnated at any point in time. The storyline could revolve around a handful of people who retain their memories, and, by strategically killing themselves, can come back as other characters. Famous characters from history. I'm thinking one guy comes back as Nicola Tesla to save the day at the end.

PP&Z

2010-09-01T13:34:00.000-07:00

So not only is there a Pride and Prejudice and Zombies movie in the future, but Natalie Portman is starring. Looks like it has potential.

Carnegie

2010-08-31T12:55:00.000-07:00

I wonder if I could write a story in which Andrew Carnegie, the Scottish-American businessman and philanthropist from the 1800s, was trying to hide a deep dark secret by keeping it out of the libraries, which were the only source of anything close to obscure information at the time. It would make sense, because he donated money for more than 2,500 libraries, including some belonging to public and university library systems. Maybe it was all so that he could keep out the information he wanted no one to know.

But I could get in trouble for defamation. So maybe I won't do it.

2010-08-31T07:40:00.001-07:00

2010-08-29T12:06:00.001-07:00

The 2 rules to success in life:

1. Don't tell people everything you know.

Biblical analogy

2010-08-27T21:04:00.000-07:00

Jeremiah 13:1-11 contains an analogy saying that God's people are his loincloth. This doesn't seem to have caught on as well as the one about the church being the bride of Christ.

Six Lessons

2010-08-26T13:52:00.000-07:00

This is a speech by John Taylor Gatto, given as he accept the New York State Teacher of the Year award for 1991, his third in as many years. It was his last one, as he retired later that year, probably because this speech created a little friction with his employers.

The Six-Lesson Schoolteacher

Call me Mr. Gatto, please. Twenty-six years ago, having nothing better to do, I tried my hand at schoolteaching. My license certifies me as an instructor of English language and literature, but that isn't what I do at all. What I teach is school, and I win awards doing it.
Teaching means many different things, but six lessons are common to schoolteaching from Harlem to Hollywood. You pay for these lessons in more ways than you can imagine, so you might as well know what they are:
The first lesson I teach is: "Stay in the class where you belong." I don't know who decides that my kids belong there but that's not my business. The children are numbered so that if any get away they can be returned to the right class. Over the years the variety of ways children are numbered has increased dramatically, until it is hard to see the human being under the burden of the numbers each carries. Numbering children is a big and very profitable business, though what the business is designed to accomplish is elusive.
In any case, again, that's not my business. My job is to make the kids like it -- being locked in together, I mean -- or at the minimum, endure it. If things go well, the kids can't imagine themselves anywhere else; they envy and fear the better classes and have contempt for the dumber classes. So the class mostly keeps itself in good marching order. That's the real lesson of any rigged competition like school. You come to know your place.
Nevertheless, in spite of the overall blueprint, I make an effort to urge children to higher levels of test success, promising eventual transfer from the lower-level class as a reward. I insinuate that the day will come when an employer will hire them on the basis of test scores, even though my own experience is that employers are (rightly) indifferent to such things. I never lie outright, but I've come to see that truth and [school]teaching are incompatible.
The lesson of numbered classes is that there is no way out of your class except by magic. Until that happens you must stay where you are put.
The second lesson I teach kids is to turn on and off like a light switch. I demand that they become totally involved in my lessons, jumping up and down in their seats with anticipation, competing vigorously with each other for my favor. But when the bell rings I insist that they drop the work at once and proceed quickly to the next work station. Nothing important is ever finished in my class, nor in any other class I know of.
The lesson of bells is that no work is worth finishing, so why care too deeply about anything? Bells are the secret logic of schooltime; their argument is inexorable; bells destroy past and future, converting every interval into a sameness, as an abstract map makes every living mountain and river the same even though they are not. Bells inoculate each undertaking with indifference.
The third lesson I teach you is to surrender your will to a predestined chain of command. Rights may be granted or withheld, by authority, without appeal. As a schoolteacher I intervene in many personal decisions, issuing a Pass for those I deem legitimate, or initiating a disciplinary confrontation for behavior that threatens my control. My judgments come thick and fast, because individuality is trying constantly to assert itself in my classroom. Individuality is a curse to all systems of classification, a contradiction of class theory.
Here are some common ways it shows up: children sneak away for a private moment in the toilet on the pretext of moving their bowels; they trick me out of a private instant in the hallway on the grounds that they need water. Sometimes free will appears right in front of me in children angry, depressed or exhilarated by things outside my ken. Rights in such things cannot exist for schoolteachers; only privileges, which can be withdrawn, exist.
The fourth lesson I teach is that only I determine what curriculum you will study. (Rather, I enforce decisions transmitted by the people who pay me). This power lets me separate good kids from bad kids instantly. Good kids do the tasks I appoint with a minimum of conflict and a decent show of enthusiasm. Of the millions of things of value to learn, I decide what few we have time for. The choices are mine. Curiosity has no important place in my work, only conformity.
Bad kids fight against this, of course, trying openly or covertly to make decisions for themselves about what they will learn. How can we allow that and survive as schoolteachers? Fortunately there are procedures to break the will of those who resist.
This is another way I teach the lesson of dependency. Good people wait for a teacher to tell them what to do. This is the most important lesson of all, that we must wait for other people, better trained than ourselves, to make the meanings of our lives. It is no exaggeration to say that our entire economy depends upon this lesson being learned. Think of what would fall apart if kids weren't trained in the dependency lesson: The social-service businesses could hardly survive, including the fast-growing counseling industry; commercial entertainment of all sorts, along with television, would wither if people remembered how to make their own fun; the food services, restaurants and prepared-food warehouses would shrink if people returned to making their own meals rather than depending on strangers to cook for them. Much of modern law, medicine, and engineering would go too -- the clothing business as well -- unless a guaranteed supply of helpless people poured out of our schools each year. We've built a way of life that depends on people doing what they are told because they don't know any other way. For God's sake, let's not rock that boat!
In lesson five I teach that your self-respect should depend on an observer's measure of your worth. My kids are constantly evaluated and judged. A monthly report, impressive in its precision, is sent into students' homes to spread approval or to mark exactly -- down to a single percentage point -- how dissatisfied with their children parents should be. Although some people might be surprised how little time or reflection goes into making up these records, the cumulative weight of the objective- seeming documents establishes a profile of defect which compels a child to arrive at a certain decisions about himself and his future based on the casual judgment of strangers.
Self-evaluation -- the staple of every major philosophical system that ever appeared on the planet -- is never a factor in these things. The lesson of report cards, grades, and tests is that children should not trust themselves or their parents, but must rely on the evaluation of certified officials. People need to be told what they are worth.
In lesson six I teach children that they are being watched. I keep each student under constant surveillance and so do my colleagues. There are no private spaces for children; there is no private time. Class change lasts 300 seconds to keep promiscuous fraternization at low levels. Students are encouraged to tattle on each other, even to tattle on their parents. Of course I encourage parents to file their own child's waywardness, too.
I assign "homework" so that this surveillance extends into the household, where students might otherwise use the time to learn something unauthorized, perhaps from a father or mother, or by apprenticing to some wiser person in the neighborhood.
The lesson of constant surveillance is that no one can be trusted, that privacy is not legitimate. Surveillance is an ancient urgency among certain influential thinkers; it was a central prescription set down by Calvin in the Institutes, by Plato in the Republic, by Hobbes, by Comte, by Francis Bacon. All these childless men discovered the same thing: Children must be closely watched if you want to keep a society under central control.
It is the great triumph of schooling that among even the best of my fellow teachers, and among even the best parents, there is only a small number who can imagine a different way to do things. Yet only a very few lifetimes ago things were different in the United States: originality and variety were common currency; our freedom from regimentation made us the miracle of the world; social class boundaries were relatively easy to cross; our citizenry was marvelously confident, inventive, and able to do many things independently, to think for themselves. We were something, all by ourselves, as individuals.
It only takes about 50 contact hours to transmit basic literacy and math skills well enough that kids can be self-teachers from then on. The cry for "basic skills" practice is a smokescreen behind which schools pre-empt the time of children for twelve years and teach them the six lessons I've just taught you.
We've had a society increasingly under central control in the United States since just before the Civil War: the lives we lead, the clothes we wear, the food we eat, and the green highway signs we drive by from coast to coast are the products of this central control. So, too, I think, are the epidemics of drugs, suicide, divorce, violence, cruelty, and the hardening of class into caste in the U.S., products of the dehumanization of our lives, the lessening of individual and family importance that central control imposes.
Without a fully active role in community life you cannot develop into a complete human being. Aristotle taught that. Surely he was right; look around you or look in the mirror: that is the demonstration.
"School" is an essential support system for a vision of social engineering that condemns most people to be subordinate stones in a pyramid that narrows to a control point as it ascends. "School" is an artifice which makes such a pyramidal social order seem inevitable (although such a premise is a fundamental betrayal of the American Revolution). In colonial days and through the period of the early Republic we had no schools to speak of. And yet the promise of democracy was beginning to be realized. We turned our backs on this promise by bringing to life the ancient dream of Egypt: compulsory training in subordination for everybody. Compulsory schooling was the secret Plato reluctantly transmitted in the Republic when he laid down the plans for total state control of human life.
The current debate about whether we should have a national curriculum is phony; we already have one, locked up in the six lessons I've told you about and a few more I've spared you. This curriculum produces moral and intellectual paralysis, and no curriculum of content will be sufficient to reverse its bad effects. What is under discussion is a great irrelevancy.
None of this is inevitable, you know. None of it is impregnable to change. We do have a choice in how we bring up young people; there is no right way. There is no "international competition" that compels our existence, difficult as it is to even think about in the face of a constant media barrage of myth to the contrary. In every important material respect our nation is self-sufficient. If we gained a non-material philosophy that found meaning where it is genuinely located -- in families, friends, the passage of seasons, in nature, in simple ceremonies and rituals, in curiosity, generosity, compassion, and service to others, in a decent independence and privacy -- then we would be truly self-sufficient.
How did these awful places, these "schools", come about? As we know them, they are a product of the two "Red Scares" of 1848 and 1919, when powerful interests feared a revolution among our industrial poor, and partly they are the result of the revulsion with which old-line families regarded the waves of Celtic, Slavic, and Latin immigration -- and the Catholic religion -- after 1845. And certainly a third contributing cause can be found in the revulsion with which these same families regarded the free movement of Africans through the society after the Civil War.
Look again at the six lessons of school. This is training for permanent underclasses, people who are to be deprived forever of finding the center of their own special genius. And it is training shaken loose from its original logic: to regulate the poor. Since the 1920s the growth of the well-articulated school bureaucracy, and the less visible growth of a horde of industries that profit from schooling exactly as it is, have enlarged schooling's original grasp to seize the sons and daughters of the middle class.
Is it any wonder Socrates was outraged at the accusation that he took money to teach? Even then, philosophers saw clearly the inevitable direction the professionalization of teaching would take, pre-empting the teaching function that belongs to all in a healthy community; belongs, indeed, most clearly to yourself, since nobody else cares as much about your destiny. Professional teaching tends to another serious error. It makes things that are inherently easy to learn, like reading, writing, and arithmetic, difficult -- by insisting they be taught by pedagogical procedures.
With lessons like the ones I teach day after day, is it any wonder we have the national crisis we face today? Young people indifferent to the adult world and to the future; indifferent to almost everything except the diversion of toys and violence? Rich or poor, schoolchildren cannot concentrate on anything for very long. They have a poor sense of time past and to come; they are mistrustful of intimacy (like the children of divorce they really are); they hate solitude, are cruel, materialistic, dependent, passive, violent, timid in the face of the unexpected, addicted to distraction.
All the peripheral tendencies of childhood are magnified to a grotesque extent by schooling, whose hidden curriculum prevents effective personality development. Indeed, without exploiting the fearfulness, selfishness, and inexperience of children our schools could not survive at all, nor could I as a certified schoolteacher.
"Critical thinking" is a term we hear frequently these days as a form of training which will herald a new day in mass schooling. It certainly will, if it ever happens. No common school that actually dared teach the use of dialectic, heuristic, and other tools of free minds could last a year without being torn to pieces.
Institutional schoolteachers are destructive to children's development. Nobody survives the Six-Lesson Curriculum unscathed, not even the instructors. The method is deeply and profoundly anti-educational. No tinkering will fix it. In one of the great ironies of human affairs, the massive rethinking that schools require would cost so much less than we are spending now that it is not likely to happen. First and foremost, the business I am in is a jobs project and a contract-letting agency. We cannot afford to save money, not even to help children.
At the pass we've come to historically, and after 26 years of teaching, I must conclude that one of the only alternatives on the horizon for most families is to teach their own children at home. Small, de- institutionalized schools are another. Some form of free-market system for public schooling is the likeliest place to look for answers. But the near impossibility of these things for the shattered families of the poor, and for too many on the fringes of the economic middle class, foretell that the disaster of Six-Lesson Schools is likely to continue.
After an adult lifetime spent in teaching school I believe the method of schooling is the only real content it has. Don't be fooled into thinking that good curricula or good equipment or good teachers are the critical determinants of your son and daughter's schooltime. All the pathologies we've considered come about in large measure because the lessons of school prevent children from keeping important appointments with themselves and their families, to learn lessons in self-motivation, perseverance, self-reliance, courage, dignity and love -- and, of course, lessons in service to others, which are among the key lessons of home life.
Thirty years ago these things could still be learned in the time left after school. But television has eaten most of that time, and a combination of television and the stresses peculiar to two-income or single-parent families have swallowed up most of what used to be family time. Our kids have no time left to grow up fully human, and only thin-soil wastelands to do it in.
A future is rushing down upon our culture which will insist that all of us learn the wisdom of non-material experience; this future will demand, as the price of survival, that we follow a pace of natural life economical in material cost. These lessons cannot be learned in schools as they are. School is like starting life with a 12-year jail sentence in which bad habits are the only curriculum truly learned. I teach school and win awards doing it. I should know.

A choice

2010-08-18T23:01:00.000-07:00

You have a choice before you today. You can click one of the links below and be transported to a location on the interwebs. Two of these links will take you to a recipe for lemon beans, but the other will reveal a witty commentary on a semi-recent blockbuster. Attempt to choose the abnormal one on your first try.

Also, hovering over the links so that you can see what they are counts as clicking them.

Link one.

Link two.

Link three.

2010-08-10T21:34:00.000-07:00

"When I was in college, there were certain words you couldn't say in front of a girl. Now you can say them, but you can't say 'girl'."

~Tom Lehrer

Singular Personality Disorder

2010-08-09T17:26:00.000-07:00

We all know that a person can have Multiple Personality Disorder, which would give them several different personalities, but what about several different people having the same personality?

I'm thinking they would be twins, with the same disorder due to similar genes and background. And that would mean that they would look the same, as well as think that they are the same person. Sounds like a good black comedy.

Hu-Wen

2010-08-06T00:23:00.001-07:00

Here's a skit I composed about the governmental system in China, as mentioned a few posts down.

Well, here we are in China. It's about time to start sight-seeing, but first, maybe you can educate me on China's government system.

Sure thing, buddy.

What I want to know is, who's the President of China?

That's right.

What? I'm asking about the President.

Hu?

The President of China.

Hu.

The guy in charge.

Hu!

That's what I want to know!

I'm telling you, the man's name is Hu.

What's the man's name?

No, Hu's the man's name.

.... Who is the man's name?

That's right!

No, it's not. That's terrible grammar. You don't say "Who is the man's name", you say "What's the man's name". Now, what's the man's name?

It's Hu.

No, it's "what".

You think his name is what?

I don't know what his name is, that why I'm asking you!

Well, now, there's no need to get riled up like that. The President isn't the only important figure, you know. If you don't like his name, there are others.

Like who?

Yes, just like Hu.

What?

No, there's nobody like What. I don't even know where that came from.

Who's what?

No, he's not! That's what I'm trying to tell you!

Who's getting riled up now?

Is he? I wouldn't know.

Look, what were you saying about other people? There are other officials you can tell me about?

Yes. For instance, the Prime Minister?

What's his name?

Wen.

... What's his name right now?

Wen.

This very moment.

Wen!

Has he ever changed his name?

No.

So he's always had the same name?

Yes.

What is it?

Wen.

Right now!

Wen.

Who's the Prime Minister?!

No, he's the President!

What?

Hu.

Who?

Right!

What?

No!

What?

No!

What?!

I don't even know who What is, but Hu's the president and Wen's the Prime Minister.

When is the Prime Minister what?

He's never What! No one's What. He's when.

When what?

I don't know his given name, I'm afraid. Just the surname.

Which is... what?

I don't think you've learned anything here.

Look, never mind. I give up. You don't need to try to tell me about the government.

Well, alright. Maybe later we can talk about what's what.

I don't even know how this guy "What" showed up. What's he got to do with anything?

I don't know. You brought him up.

Did not... when?

What about him?

Who?

He's the President.

Who?

Now you've got it. You'll understand the Hu-Wen Administration yet!

The what?

The Hu-Wen Administration.

Well, if you don't know those basic concepts like who and when, it's no wonder we never got anywhere.

Tell you what; let's calm down over dinner. I want to try out my wok.

Your what?

My wok. It's a versatile round-bottomed cooking vessel. It's Chinese.

So in this government it's a Hu-Wen wok?

Well... you could say that.

I don't think I will. Let's eat.

The Perils of Modern Living

2010-08-05T23:21:00.001-07:00

The Perils of Modern Living

Well up above the tropostrata
 There is a region stark and stellar
 Where, on a streak of anti-matter
 Lived Dr. Edward Anti-Teller.

 Remote from Fusion's origin,
 He lived unguessed and unawares
 With all his antikith and kin,
 And kept macassars on his chairs.

 One morning, idling by the sea,
 He spied a tin of monstrous girth
 That bore three letters: A. E. C.
 Out stepped a visitor from Earth.

 Then, shouting gladly o'er the sands,
 Met two who in their alien ways
 Were like as lentils. Their right hands
 Clasped, and the rest was gamma rays.

-- Harold P Furth

2010-08-05T00:07:00.000-07:00

China's current president is named 'Hu', and it's Prime Minister is named 'Wen'. They really should put together an Abbot-and-Costello-type skit about the state of their country. It would be hilarious.

And then I'll start into the jellybeans

2010-08-04T16:14:00.000-07:00

You know what the first thing I'm going to do once I get my braces off next week is?

Eat a whole bushel of apples.

2010-08-02T23:39:00.000-07:00

Wit

2010-08-01T22:20:00.000-07:00

I'm interested in wit. In my opinion, it's the clearest and probably best way to show one's level of intelligence. However, after looking over the work of greatest wits of history, I've noticed some patterns. These can all be summed up into one point: wit is word-based.

The usual witticism will convey two elements. First, either a deep philosophical statement, or an insult of some sort. Second, a completely unrelated play on words.

For example, the great wit Oscar Wilde has been attributed the quote, "There is only one thing in the world worse than being talked about, and that is not being talked about." The philosophical point is that Wilde would rather be infamous then unknown, and the wordplay is that he used a seeming contradiction of words to say so.

As another example, Churchill has been said to have been invited to a play with "Bring a friend...if you have one" and replying with something alone the lines of "I have a previous engagement, but I'll gladly attend your second night...if you have one." Or maybe it was someone else who said it. I don't care, since it's beside the point. The joke follows the same pattern as most other wit: It has a insightful or insulting comment (and this time it's an insult) made funny by wordplay (parallel construction this time).

I've always thought that wordplay was a bit of a shallow way to be witty, since it's usually pretty easy. But after looking through the different wits, from Whistler to Twain to Marx (just kidding, I meant Marx), wordplay was just about the only thing they could use.

As a corollary, this explains why puns are disliked so much. Since they try to play on words, but tend to be unimpressive, they are the one form of joke that has the highest aspirations but goes the least towards reaching them. I still like them anyway. Probably because they're the underdog.

Undunking

2010-07-31T16:04:00.000-07:00

I've invented a new prank to pull on swimmers; undunking. You find someone swimming underwater and then pull their head up out of the water. It's for when you aren't allowed to dunk people.

Vampires the right way

2010-07-22T17:04:00.000-07:00

http://www.hulu.com/ultraviolet

I've always liked that mini-series.

It's hard to pick the best wording for things like this.

2010-07-18T16:06:00.001-07:00

By now, the sweat beads decorated his forehead so liberally that they resembled liquid wampum.

By now, the sweat beaded his brow so thickly it resembled liquid wampum.

By now, the sweat beads decorated his forehead so liberally that they resembled liquid macramé.

By now, the sweat beads decorated his forehead so liberally that they resembled that one type of lanyard I used to make tons of during craft time at camp.

Misdirections of airflow and information

2010-07-17T00:09:00.000-07:00

I've always had a problem with being quieter then I should be. It shows up when I'm talking to a couple hundred people and just can't raise my voice enough to be heard properly.

Now, if you've ever had that problem, or been around someone with that problem, or had a reasonably well-rounded education in public communication, you have probably also heard the advice to "speak from your diaphragm". The diaphragm is the muscle underneath the rib cage, and you can project your voice farther if you clench it as you expel air, rather than contracting your rib cage. Most people tend to speak from their chest instead of their diaphragm back when they're poor uneducated souls, blind to the mysterious ways of the public speaker. If you want to check which one you use naturally, try breathing normally while resting one hand on your chest and one on your bellybutton. If the hand on the bellybutton moves, you're a diaphragm breather.

I, unlike most people, speak from my diaphragm naturally. I never had to change when I started public speaking. I'm pretty sure that's why I have a hard time speaking loudly. I'm used to speaking normally, while still using my diaphragm, so concentrating on using my diaphragm doesn't help me project louder than usual. Recently, I've realized that I actually can speak about as loud as I want if I contract my chest and lungs along with the diaphragm. Apparently, it's a combination of the two areas that really projects. Go figure.

Two Watsons

2010-07-11T21:32:00.000-07:00

The long awaited TAGS

2010-07-10T15:09:00.000-07:00

So about seven months ago I was given a couple tags. It took a while, since I don't like filling out tags that much, but I did them.

A few of the answers, like what clothes I'm wearing and what song is stuck in my head, are outdated, since I filled them in months ago.

TAG ONE

Rules:
1. Do a post about the person who awarded you, and their blog.
2. Give the award to 5 of your favorite blogs, give a reason, and leave a comment telling them they have been awarded.
3. Answer the 10 random questions.
4. Have Fun!

1. Have you ever ridden an elephant?
Coincidentally, I had the opportunity to do just that the other week, when I visited a parallel universe. Elephants had replaced the subway there. On a side note, the universe's similarly-named sandwich shop sold "five dollar trunk-longs".

2. Have you ever eaten squid?
Yeah, in a salad once. It didn't taste like much. I would have preferred something that tasted more impressive, either positive or negative. Tasteless squid is anti-climatic.

3. What is something crazy you have done with your best friend?
Hmmm, where to start... Evan and I once held a tickle/pillow fight that lasted for over an hour. We ran around and screamed jokes at each other the whole time. We've also practiced parkour in a mall after watching Sherlock Holmes for the first time. I almost killed myself.

4. Have you ever held an alligator?
Parallel universe. They're actually just as rare over there, but I happened to find myself embroiled in a mad scientists' plan to rule the world through mutant cyborg alligator handbags. In the end, I trained them all to sing Kumbaya and make smores around a campfire. Never got very high quality chocolate out of them, though. The scientist made a slip-up somewhere in the taste-sensory gene, I expect.

5. Have you ever let a snake slither through your fingers?
Yeah, I used to play around with garter snakes when I was a little kid.

6. What is your first and foremost dream in life?
Being a decent enough novelist to not need a real job.

7. What is your dream vacation?
Somewhere stunningly beautiful, like a tropical island or a lodge in snowy mountains. With no people. And an internet connection.

8. What is the funniest movie you have ever seen?
Either Tank Girl or Running Out of Time. Neither ones a comedy, and they were both only funny the first time... And I wouldn't recommend Tank Girl, since it's R rated. But I found them hilarious at the time. There's this one awesome scene in Tank Girl where the titular character starts a musical number. It's the only one in the movie, and there's a fourth-wall breaking interruption half-way through by the evil Nazi government, and then no reference to it again.

9. What is your favorite song?
It changes too often to say...

10. If you could change the world in one way, what would you do?

What's that supposed to mean? Anyone can change the world in some way. Unless you mean something that is against the natural law. Maybe I would give everyone wings.

TAG TWO

1- Have you been asked out?
Only once, as a joke. The cashier at the Green River college bookstore was flirting with me.

Did I somehow lose number 2? It's not here... Odd.

3 - What's your middle name?
Richard. Kinda boring, in my opinion. I would have preferred Oscar or Waldo.

4 - Your current relationship status?
Single. Why are you asking? I don't date electronic surveys, if that's what you were wondering. Not to be harsh or anything.

5 - What's the first thing you do when you wake up from a nap?
Eat something. This is a habit that will haunt me once my metabolism slows down.

6 - What is your current mood?
Normal. Kinda happy. A little tired.

7 - What color shirt are you wearing?
Solid black. Last week was regionals, and so none of my siblings did the laundry. I also wore a pair of black jeans today. I looked like a stage hand.

8 - Missing something?
Yes. I am.

So are you. That question was a fragment.

9 - Current Favorite Quote?
Ah... "current". I like you, tag. You're smarter than the last tag, even if you do ask more pokey personal questions. And use strange sentence fragments. Current favorite quote: "When all else fails, ludicrously escalate the situation."

10 - If you could go back in time and change something what would be?
I would go back in time and have a little chat with my 13-year-old self to try to guide him through life. I can see a lot of problems with that, but even if it went wrong, it'd be a lot of fun to see him.

That or I'd kill Hitler. One or the other.

11 - If you must be an animal for one day, what would you be?
I really don't envy the intellectual breadth of any animals I know. However, since I have to be one, I'd want to be something big, like a whale. Or a dinosaur. No, I think a blue whale would be fun. Although something that can fly would be cool, too. Actually, anything different would be fun.

12 - Ever had a near death experience?
Nope.

13 - Something you do a lot?
I wiggle my eyebrows. Nonstop.

14 - The song stuck in your head?
Come to the Circus, by Circus Contraptions.

15 - Least favorite household chore?
Pruning my wardrobe. I hate clothes, and I like hoarding things. I actually paid my little sister to do it.

16 - Name someone with the same birthday as you.
Arther Sullivan, of Gilbert and Sullivan fame. Had to google that one, but now I'm happy to have a connection to him. W00t!

17 - When was the last time you cried?
Hmm. I was tearing up a bit last Saturday, since my eyes were itchy for some reason. Can't recall the last time I cried over an emotion.

18- Have you ever sung in front of a large audience?
Yeah, last year Evan and I sung a verse from Maxwell's Silver Hammer in front of 150-ish students.

19 - If you could have one super power what would it be?
The ability to travel through time and space.

20 - What's the first thing you notice about the opposite gender?
Their smile. After that, noses. I really like noses. Personality comes third.

21 - What do you usually order from Starbucks?
I've ordered a hot chocolate once, which doesn't qualify me for a 'usually'.

22 - What's your biggest secret?
Seriously? Ok, you're not as smart a tag as I thought you were. Points for effort. I have very few secrets, but I'll never tell the ones I have online.

23- What's your favorite color?
Purple.

24 - Do you still watch kiddie shows or TV shows?
Define "kiddie shows". I watch TV shows with a kiddie-level of intelligence to them. Does that count?

25 - What's on your walls?
A pale blue border with yellow rubber duckies on it. We three boys have had it since we were young enough that it made sense to have such a babyish border. I don't want to get rid of it now... it's too awesome.

26 - What are you?
I'm a figment of your imagination, here to entertain you.

27 - Do you speak any other language?
No. I'm learned Latin, ASL, and Spanish, but I don't count it as 'speaking' a language unless I'm fluent, which I'm not.

28 - What's your favorite smell?
Lemons and horseradish together.

29 - Describe your life in one word!
Often.

30 - Have you ever kissed in the rain?
Not that I recall.

31 - What are you thinking about right now?
Kissing in the rain... and that's your fault.

32 - What should you be doing?
Sleeping.

33 - Who was the last person that made you upset/angry?
Grace and Sophia DeB. They stole my phone and then attempted to guilt-trip me into deleting a video off of it. It was mostly the guilt trip that upset me. I hate those...

34 - How often do you talk to God?
Pretty often. I do the type of conversation that Tevya does in Fiddler on the Roof. I'm a little concerned about that, actually, since it doesn't seem very respectful.

35 - Do you like working in the yard?
A bit. Not a whole lot. That was a random question.

36 - If you could have any last name in the world, what would you want?
Merriweather.

37 - What is your natural hair color?
Dark brown.

38 - Do you have many friends?
Yeah, I guess.

39 - Who is your role-model?
I don't really have one, other than Jesus.

40 - Do you like your life?
Yup.

50. )I am going to tag...
Yes you are. Go, little tag! Tag other people! Tag away! Go go go! .... Go on, do it. Tag someone. ... Do it! .... Nowww do it! ........ ok, fine. I'll do it myself. Everybody who hasn't already done these two tags is hereby tagged.

Home Alone IV: An Epilogue

2010-07-09T21:22:00.000-07:00

So my family is back. I've learned a few lessons from them.

--The daisies on the dining room table have died. I hadn't noticed. I guess they need fresh water ever so often. Or should have been moved after they kicked the farm.

--Lettuce goes bad if you freeze it and then thaw it out. I did that while trying to keep it crispy. This is interesting to know, but I'm not sure how I can apply it to my life. ... Well, actually, I suppose I could try not to put lettuce in freezers.

--The rest of the family doesn't want to have any of the sherbet if there's only a half of a bowl left.

Home Alone III

2010-07-06T23:34:00.000-07:00

I fixed one of the can openers!

My first step was to try to find a wrench, since I realized that the bolt holding on the blade of the can opener was loose. Unfortunately, I don't know where any of the tools in our house are, and all my family members were AWOL with their cellphones turned off. After a fruitless search, I realized that I could use the other can opener as a makeshift wrench, since it had two metal handles that could be clamped together. I unscrewed the first can opener with the second, and noticed that I needed a new, thicker washer. I had as much luck finding the washers as I had with the wrenches, so I bent a paper clip into a circle and bolted it in. And now it works! Time for some sherbet to celebrate.

We'll see if this series of Home Alone posts continues. They did get a fourth movie out of the series...