rhymeswithplague

Waxing philosophical at the O.K. Corral

2012-02-14T16:00:00.010-05:00

In our last session, we began by quoting Abraham Lincoln’s statement that if you call a tail a leg, a dog would still have four legs, not five, because calling a tail a leg does not make it a leg.

In the comments section, people began waxing philosophical.
I thought it would be good to elevate the discussion to full-post status.

Carolina in Nederland said it was a trick question and she didn’t like trick questions; they make the people who ask such questions seem smart. But it doesn’t mean that they are smart, although you could argue that it is smart to ask questions that make you seem smart. Carolina is a deep thinker.

Putz from Utah agreed with me that Abe Lincoln was one smart cookie and thought the question was clever, not tricky.

Then Snowbrush out in Oregon chimed in with that old conundrum, “If a tree falls in the forest, and no one hears it, did it make a sound?” Let me just say here that it certainly would have had the capacity for sound, sending out sound waves and all, but if no ear or device capable of receiving the sound waves was anywhere in the vicinity, then no, it didn’t make a sound in the traditional sense, although it could have made a sound in the non-traditional sense. Do I make myself clear?

Katherine from Bay of Plenty in New Zealand (a country in the Southern Hemisphere) presented the possibility that Abraham Lincoln might have invented the wink-smiley emoticon. What that has to do with anything, I’m not sure. Also, the link begins by saying, “While most people believe that Scott Fahlman was the first person to suggest the use of the :-) symbol for representing a smiley face,...” but I challenge that statement. Most people do not believe that Scott Fahlman was the first person to suggest the use of the :-) symbol for representing a smiley face. Most people have never heard of Scott Fahlman.

Then Anonymous, whose origin and whereabouts remain uncertain, posed another rhetorical question: “If snow falls, brushing against the trees in the woods, but no one sees or hears it, does it exist?”

That one’s easy. It most certainly does.

It just doesn’t make a sound.

Next, Elizabeth in the U.K. told us that living in a garage doesn’t make you a car.

I hastened to add that it is also important to remember that a kitten born in an oven is not a chocolate-chip cookie. Elizabeth replied that that was precisely the point she was making.

I asked Snowbrush if he was high on some substance when he made his usual wisecrack (his word) and said that I myself am high all the time without the aid of some substance. He replied, “Wow! You must save a ton of money. Then again, if you tithe, probably not.”

Leaving aside for the moment the question of my financial status and contributory habits, nobody tackled another of Snowbrush’s questions: “What--if anything--might a person’s answer to Lincoln’s question tell us about that person?”

Let me try to formulate an answer to that one.

Persons who answer “Five” find it difficult to focus on the task at hand, are easily led astray, tend to put their hope in unworkable solutions to the dilemmas facing society, and may have used marijuana. They are almost always Democrats.

Persons who answer “Four” harbor no illusions about the total depravity of humankind, are solid as a rock in their personal relationships, refuse to deviate from majority opinion even after it has become a relic from another age, have never let their automobiles drift cross the double yellow line on a highway, and may have sold marijuana. They are invariably Republicans to the fourth generation.

Persons who answer “Seven,” “Nine,” or “I don’t know” attend Star Trek conventions, believe that aliens from another part of the galaxy have been kept alive in Area 51 for at least a half-century, would rather watch a reality show on television about bored housewives in Oklahoma City than attend a concert of live zither and dulcimer music, sit out general elections in a pout because there is not a dime’s worth of difference in the candidates, and may have grown marijuana. In primaries and caucuses, they vote for Ron Paul.

Persons who answer “Twenty-three” obviously did not understand the question.

How am I doing?

Jump in at any time.

I beg you.

That Abe Lincoln was one smart cookie

2012-02-12T07:39:00.004-05:00

Today is Abraham Lincoln’s birthday.

If he were still alive, he would be 203.

Happy birthday, Abe!

He said something once that I’m thinking of right now.

Not “Fourscore and seven years ago.” Not “With malice toward none, with charity for all.” Not “government of the people, by the people, and for the people.”

I’m not thinking of any of those.

No, I’m thinking of something much more profound. During one of his speeches on the campaign trail he asked, “If you call a tail a leg, how many legs does a dog have?”

Someone in the crowd called out, “Five.”

“Wrong,” said Lincoln. “It would have four legs. Calling a tail a leg doesn’t make it a leg.”

It would be good if certain politicians of our own day, both on the right and on the left, would keep that in mind.

When the juices aren’t flowing

2012-02-08T11:30:00.012-05:00

...it’s a good time to let Billy Ray Barnwell out of his cage and be our guest blogger for the day. For those who don’t know, Billy is sort of my alter ego and sort of not; suffice it to say that he and I have somewhat of a shared history except that his incorporates a lot of fiction and mine actually happened.

Here’s another chapter from his book, Billy Ray Barnwell Here:

CHAPTER 2

Billy Ray Barnwell here, in one of these little chapters or vignettes or whatever they are I absolutely positively must get started on a poem or essay or something really literary, boy it sure is hard being an author, there are so many possibilities to choose from that some days I can’t focus at all, maybe I could find me a pill I could take for that, but I sure wouldn’t want to become dependent on drugs like Udella Mabry’s cousin Virgil Abernathy did, that was a really sad case, but after he finished doing his time he went to school and became the town pharmacist, so all’s well that ends well, to coin a phrase. I do know this is not going to be a novel because if I were going to write me a novel the characters would already be saying things like “It don’t make me no never mind” and “If Mama ain’t happy, ain’t nobody happy,” things I would never say in real life. I wish I could think of something interesting to write about today, nothing ever happens in this one-horse town, I will just keep pouring the words onto the paper and maybe something good will come of it, I have faith in the process. Mr. Morris said the only way to become a writer is to write, I don’t know why it took me so long to actually do it, Udella said the other day just think this is how Ernest Hemingway got started and I said I like William Faulkner better, then Udella’s buddy Juanita chimed in and said she didn’t care for Faulkner and I asked her why not and she scrunched up her face for a minute like she was trying to decide why herself and finally she said “too many words” well let me tell you I was flabbergasted, it was just like that scene in that Amadeus movie where the Italian composers tell the king or duke or whatever he is that Mozart’s music has too many notes, well in my opinion we should all have too many notes like Mozart or too many words like Faulkner, even though he did tend to use words like “scrofulous” and “phylacteries” and “lugubrious” and “mendaciously,” Faulkner I mean, not Mozart, which always sent me scurrying to the dictionary, wait a minute, hold the fort, that isn’t Faulkner I’m thinking of, that’s Thomas Wolfe, talk about a man who used too many words, O by the lost and wind-grieved ghost come back again my eye, why couldn’t he just write about simple things, a stone, a leaf, a door, that’s a joke for all you literary types, I’m sure it will bring great guffaws in English departments at universities all across this wonderful land of ours, and for those of you who don’t get the joke, I don’t want to ruin your concentration by explaining it, the joke I mean, not your concentration.

I wouldn’t want to think the well is running dry or anything, but all I can think to tell you about right now are things my father used to say, such as using a condom is like wearing socks to take a shower, or when you eat beans if you also eat macaroni you will get a pipe organ effect, or the ever popular pull my finger, he was a real delight to know, I didn’t think so then and I don’t think so now, in fact I prayed many times for him to be gone and now that he is I miss him more than I like to admit, damn was his favorite adjective and hell was his favorite noun, he smoked Chesterfield cigarettes like they were going out of style and between him and Mama the ashtrays at our house were always full and the air was always blue with smoke, and in spite of all of that or maybe because of it he started teaching the men’s Sunday School class at the Methodist church, you couldn’t make this stuff up, truth is stranger than fiction, I guess I should cut him some slack, he was a good man trying to do his best, he served in the U.S. Navy during the Second World War as a machinist’s mate, whatever that is, on a ship called the PCE869, which PCE stands for Patrol Craft Escort, I know because he talked about the Navy every single day of his life and it is emblazoned in my brain along with the Great Lakes Naval Training Center and the Panama Canal Zone that has towns named Cristobal and Colón and when you say Colón it is not like the part of your body that is somewhere between your stomach and your anal sphincter, it is like the cologne that a man might want to splash on various parts of his body before going out on a big date so that if a person got close enough to smell him that person would end up smelling the cologne and not the body parts, oh by the way Cristobal Colón means Christopher Columbus in Spanish, he drove me absolutely bonkers, my father I mean, not Christopher Columbus, but he did have what every man wants and what every woman dreams about, Udella please tell Juanita she can stop laughing, I’m talking about a weekly paycheck, he was a good provider, for nearly twenty years he worked at Consolidated Vultee Aircraft which changed its name to Convair and then changed it again to General Dynamics Corporation, he was a turret lathe and milling machine operator, he helped build the wing assemblies of the B-36, B-58, and F-111 airplanes with guys named Jim Hodges and Ike Pemberton and Finn Wahl, and he rode thirty-four miles each way to work in a car pool with guys named Bill Poe and Wayne Harmon and Hubert Beard, his round dark green plastic-covered badge said he was employee number 183473, Daddy’s badge I mean, not Hubert Beard’s, not that I ever really noticed, then he got sick and died about a year and a half before he would have been eligible to retire and it’s a damn shame, pardon my French, that he died of pancreatic cancer, I wouldn’t wish that on anyone so be careful what you pray for because you just might get it, and it is way past time to end it for now, this is Billy Ray Barnwell your roving reporter signing off.

Hail to the master

2012-02-07T21:45:00.000-05:00

Upon learning today about an article entitled “Oldest Living Thing On Earth Discovered” in The Telegraph, humorist Dave Barry immediately created a post with the title “Incredibly, It’s Not Keith Richards”....

Say what?

2012-02-07T08:00:00.003-05:00

This, my 914th post, reminds me that I lived in Poughkeepsie, New York, from 1965 until 1968.

Do you know why?

I don’t mean do you know why I lived in Poughkeepsie, New York, from 1965 until 1968. That one’s easy: After being honorably discharged from the United States Air Force, I was hired by IBM to work there.

I meant do you know why this, my 914th post, reminds me that I lived in Poughkeepsie, New York, from 1965 until 1968.

Your trivia fix for the day: The name Poughkeepsie is derived from the Native American term Uppu-qui-ipis-in, which means “reed-covered hut by the water.” The water in question is the Hudson River. The area includes Vassar College (alma mater of Jacqueline Bouvier Kennedy Onassis) and a large IBM campus noted for its ongoing development and manufacturing of IBM mainframes (first post-military workplace of the noted blogger rhymeswithplague).

This will be an open-book test. Take as much time as you need.

Photo by Daniel Case, 2008. Used under the terms of the GNU Free Documentation License, Version 1.2 or any later version published by the Free Software Foundation.

Editor’s note. Dear reader, the answer to my question can be found in the comments section of this post. --RWP

Post-game thoughts

2012-02-06T11:00:00.005-05:00

If you’re anything like me (you’re probably not), you might be asking, “What game?”

I do have enough smarts about me to know that the game in question is Super Bowl XLVI (that’s 46 for any non-Romans in the crowd).

The Drudge Report is saying this morning that Super Bowl XLVI may have been the most watched program in TV history. According to those who keep track of such things, the game pulled a 47.8 rating (versus 47.9 last year) in the overnight ratings, the halftime show with Madonna drew a 48.3, the final 15 minutes of the game pulled 52.8, New York City reached 49.7, and in Boston the game was a 56.7 rating blowout. [Editor’s note. Remind journalism professors to teach their students about avoiding elegant variation. --RWP]

One of my daughter’s schoolteacher friends posted on her Facebook page that when Jack Nicholson was asked if he was going to the Super Bowl he said, “I’d rather drink bleach.”

My sentiments exactly.

We’re a lot alike, Jack and I.

In other news, at the end of our church service yesterday the teens stood at the door holding empty Soup Bowls (get it? instead of Super Bowls?) and took up a collection that will be sent to World Vision to help feed hungry children in third-world countries like Haiti and Somalia and Sudan.

Speaking of time and tide...

2012-02-06T08:30:00.004-05:00

I am reminded of King Canute or Cnut or whatever you want to call him.

Here’s a poem I wrote many years ago as though I were he. [Editor's note. Notice my use of the subjunctive mood, which indicates that my being King Cnut is an impossibility. Notice also my use of the possessive pronoun to modify the gerund in the preceding sentence. Finally, notice far fewer exclamation points in the poem below than it contained the other two times I posted it on this blog. --RWP]

Canute (994?-1035)
by Robert H. Brague

I, King of all the Britons, and Denmark mine as well.
My star approaches zenith. In Caesar’s train I dwell.
More kingdoms to be conquered, and all shall be laid low.
And feudal lords shall bear me liege wherever I may go.

And shall I stop at kingdoms? Nay, tarry here and see:
The winds and waves shall hearken, and both bow down to me.
No more shall raging ocean erode this harried shore.
But it shall do my bidding, as Christ’s in days of yore.

No more shall sea advance upon the gray and shifting sand.
Now cease your endless churning! Subside at my command!
It is Divinely ordered. You must obey my will.
In God’s name I command you. Hear and hearken: “Peace! Be still!”

But can I be mistaken? And can I be denied?
My words have no effect! Still onward comes the tide!
The swirling eddy rises! The tide attacks my knees!
It hears commands more regal than this lowly creature’s pleas!

God’s kingdom is eternal, mine but of measured span.
What foolishness emerges from the haughty heart of man.
I am but mortal monarch -- oh, hear my fool’s heart cry --
‘Tis chastened by the deafness of a greater king than I.

I don’t know, somehow it loses something without those exclamation points. Falls flat. Feel free to disagree. [Editor’s note. Click on the Labels section below to view the other two posts. --RWP]

Three irrefutable proofs that time and tide wait for no man

2012-02-04T08:30:00.006-05:00

May it please the court, I place into evidence Exhibit A:

Gandalf the Old:

and Gandalf the Young:

Exhibit B:

President and Mrs. Clinton (Bill and Hillary) arriving at Beekman Arms in Rhinebeck, New York, for their daughter Chelsea’s wedding the following day:

and at their own:

and Exhibit C:

Ladies and gentlemen of the jury, please look to your right. In the sidebar are photographs of your correspondent taken approximately 70 years apart.

Your Honor, may we take a short recess? I am too depressed to continue at this time.

Bubbles burst While-U-Wait

2012-02-03T13:40:00.005-05:00

Groundhog Day, February 2nd, has come and gone. This year any illusions I might have retained from days gone by about the accuracy of meteorologic prognostications by certain oversized rodents came crashing down yesterday morning.

I was in my car around 9:00 a.m. and the sun, which had been up for over an hour and a half, was shining brightly, as it had been doing all morning. I turned my radio on to catch the news.

Prominently featured among the stories was the fact that the world’s most famous groundhog, Punxsutawney Phil of Gobbler’s Knob, Pennsylvania (I don’t know why he isn’t in Punxsutawney and frankly, I don’t care), had seen his shadow and had scampered back into his burrow, thus assuring that six more weeks of winter was in the offing. It was then reported that Atlanta’s local equivalent of Punxsutawney Phil, General Beauregard Lee of Yellow River Game Ranch in Lilburn, Georgia (never mind that heretofore his reporting has been from Stone Mountain), had not seen his shadow and thus we would be enjoying an early spring.

I nearly drove off the road.

Make that I nearly drove off the road, blinded by the sunshine.

We have already been enjoying an early spring. This winter has been much milder than last year’s, and splashes of purple phlox and yellow forsythia and a few jonquils are already showing up here and there. The temperature has even made it into the seventies a time or two. That wasn’t what made me nearly drive off the road.

What made me nearly drive off the road was trying to figure out how General Beauregard Lee could have avoided seeing his shadow when there was nary (all us old Southerners say nary)
a cloud in the sky and I was reaching for my sunglasses.

This put me to thinking that perhaps General Beauregard Lee is nothing more than a mute mammal and it is his human handlers and publicists, in cahoots with the weather departments at the local television stations, who decide what the breathlessly-awaited annual announcement will be.

Yes, Virginia, there may be a Santa Claus, but there is not, alas,
a reliable groundhog in these parts.

I repeat myself. I repeat myself. Did I mention that I repeat myself?

2012-02-02T13:33:00.001-05:00

Click here to see why many have stopped listening to politicians.

One thing leads to another

2012-01-28T08:30:00.010-05:00

On one of my favorite Christian blogs the other day, I was reading a three-post series by a woman others affectionately call Martha of Ireland in which, among other things, she quoted G. K. Chesterton, specifically from his 1908 book “Orthodoxy”:

[Editor’s note. My non-Christian readers may want to skip over this part, but I hope you don't. --RWP]

“This is the thrilling romance of orthodoxy. People have fallen into a foolish habit of speaking of orthodoxy as something heavy, humdrum, and safe. There never was anything so perilous or so exciting as orthodoxy. It was sanity: and to be sane is more dramatic than to be mad. It was the equilibrium of a man behind madly rushing horses, seeming to stoop this way and to sway that, yet in every attitude having the grace of statuary and the accuracy of arithmetic. The Church in its early days went fierce and fast with any warhorse; yet it is utterly unhistoric to say that she merely went mad along one idea, like a vulgar fanaticism. She swerved to left and right, so exactly as to avoid enormous obstacles. She left on one hand the huge bulk of Arianism, buttressed by all the worldly powers to make Christianity too worldly. The next instant she was swerving to avoid an orientalism which would have made it too unworldly. The orthodox Church never took the tame course or accepted the conventions; the orthodox Church was never respectable.

...It is always easy to let the age have its head; the difficult thing is to keep one’s own. It is always easy to be a modernist; as it is easy to be a snob. To have fallen into any of those open traps of error and exaggeration which fashion after fashion and sect after sect set along the historic path of Christendom—that would indeed have been simple. It is always simple to fall; there are an infinity of angles at which one falls, only one at which one stands. To have fallen into any one of the fads from Gnosticism to Christian Science would indeed have been obvious and tame. But to have avoided them all has been one whirling adventure; and in my vision the heavenly chariot flies thundering through the ages, the dull heresies sprawling and prostrate, the wild truth reeling but erect.”

and then a reader (not me) replied:

“Not to be a modernist or snob or worse yet a dull heretic, but do you think orthodoxy has changed since the days of Chesterton, Martha? It doesn’t seem like a whirling adventure. Is it still?”

and Martha said:

“Yes, I think so. It hasn’t really changed; orthodoxy is viewed as the dull, safe, routine consensus of the majority, while the new thing and daring interpretation is seen as bold, lively and a jolt of adrenaline to the system.

But daring interpretations and new lights on old texts have a strange way of being the same old thing dressed up in new clothes, and the cutting-edge modernity of one decade becomes the stale, dated fashion relics of the next. Meanwhile, orthodoxy goes plodding on, swerving around the pothole on the left and the diversion on the right, all the time being sneered at or patted on the head as ‘simple faith for simple folks’ and swimming against the current of the age.”

[Editor’s note. Non-Christian readers who opted to skip may resume reading at this point. --RWP]

...all of which prompted me to stop and read Wikipedia’s article on G. K. Chesterton and while doing that I happened to read that Chesterton’s friend Edmund Bentley invented the clerihew, which diverted my attention to Wikipedia’s article on the clerihew, and that article included links to articles about both Balliol rhymes (about which nothing more will be said here) and double dactyls, which are one of my favorite forms of light verse.

I especially liked this double dactyl by John Hollander:

Higgledy piggledy,
Benjamin Harrison,
Twenty-third president
Was, and, as such,

Served between Clevelands and
Save for this trivial
Idiosyncrasy,
Didn’t do much.

It made me think, naturally, of Newt Gingrich.

“Whoa!” I can hear you thinking, “Hold your horses just a minute! What does a clerihew about Benjamin Harrison have to do with Newt Gingrich?”

I’m glad you asked.

As we all know (or should), Benjamin Harrison, America’s 23rd president, was the grandson of America’s ninth president, the eminently forgettable William Henry Harrison, a Whig who was elected President in 1840 on the slogan, “Tippecanoe and Tyler too” (Tippecanoe was Harrison, who originally gained national fame for leading U.S. forces against American Indians at the Battle of Tippecanoe in 1811, and the “Tyler too” part of the equation was his vice-presidential running mate, John Tyler). Upon the untimely death of William Henry Harrison from pneumonia in April 1841, one month after his inauguration (it is believed that he caught the pneumonia at his inauguration), Tyler became America’s tenth president.

Well, as luck would have it, there was a story in the news this week that two of John Tyler’s grandsons are still alive. Yes! A hundred and seventy years later! Tyler, our most prolific president, was born in 1790 and fathered fifteen children, eight with his first wife, who had died, and seven more with his second wife, Julia Gardiner, thirty years his junior, whom he married during his Presidency. Their youngest, Lyon Gardiner Tyler, was born in 1853 when former President Tyler was 63 years old. Lyon Gardiner Tyler fathered six children of his own, two of them with his much younger second wife, Sue Ruffin, whom he married in 1923 when he was 70. Lyon Gardiner Tyler Jr. was born in 1925 and Harrison Ruffin Tyler in 1928. These are the two presidential grandsons who are still with us today, aged 87 and 83, respectively.

If you didn’t get all that, here is a summary in pictorial form:

So anyway, these two gentlemen were interviewed this week by members of our ever-vigilant press. And this news article reveals that one of them thinks Newt Gingrich is “a big jerk” -- not, as it turns out, because of his political views, but because, as this other news article states, “He needs to stick with the same wife.”

It’s a little late for that. Newt has been married three times. His first wife was Jackie, his second wife was Maryanne, and his current (and, it is hoped by all and sundry, not the least being the surviving grandson of President Tyler, his last) wife is Calista.

How to end this post and tie it all up in a neat package? Hmmm. How’s this?

If Calista goes the way of her predecessors (I trust and pray that she won’t, especially since Newt left the Southern Baptists and joined the Roman Catholics), I’m pretty sure Newt’s number four wife will not be Martha of Ireland.

But you know how one thing leads to another.

Scam

2012-01-25T09:46:00.004-05:00

I received an email yesterday purporting to be from a high school friend with whom I had made contact again about a year ago on Facebook. Let’s call him Tommy Hilfiger (not his real name, although there could be, I suppose, a person somewhere in the world actually named Tommy Hilfiger, but the chances are slim). For purposes of illustration, all email addresses in the following exchanges have been changed. The original email I received read as follows:

Date: Tuesday, January 24, 2012 9:03 AM
From: Tommy Hilfiger
Subject: My AwFul Trip Help...............Tommy Hilfiger
Size: 5 KB

I’m writing this with tears in my eyes, Sorry I did not inform you about my trip. I actually made a quick trip to London and unfortunately attacked and mugged at gun point on the way to my hotel,all cash,credit card and cell were stolen off me but luckily I still have my passport with me.

I’ve been to the embassy and the Police here but they’re not helping issues at all and my return flight leaves anytime from now but I`m having problems settling the hotel bills and the hotel manager won't let me leave until I settle the bills.

I need your urgent help am freaked out

Tommy

My first reaction was, “Poor guy.” My almost immediate second reaction was, “The facts could even be real, but this could be from the thief/mugger himself in an attempt to rip off Tommy’s friends as well.” I wasn’t born yesterday. Far from it.

Right off the bat I knew I wasn’t going to send Tommy any money because, let’s face it, I don’t have any money to send.
I am not without compassion, however, and still believing it could be Tommy (although I had my doubts) I sent a reply just before I left home for the weekly staff meeting at church. It looked like this when I checked my Sent Mail folder later in the day:

Date: Tuesday, January 24, 2012 10:32 AM
From: rwplague@somebrowser.net
To: helfiger_tommy@yahoo.com
Cc: Tommy Hilfiger
Subject: Re: My AwFul Trip Help...............Tommy Hilfiger
Size: 2 KB

I’m on my way out the door to a meeting, but here’s my advice:

Breathe.

Contact your Credit Card issuers immediately to have them cancel your accounts and send new cards to you there so you can pay your hotel bill. At least you have a place to stay until they arrive. Maybe the Embassy can assist you in doing this.

Pray.

Rhymes W. Plague (not my real name either, although there could be, I suppose, a person somewhere in the world actually named Rhymes W. Plague, but the chances, like my own svelte self, are slim)

When my meeting at the church was over, I called Mrs. RWP to tell her I was on my way home, and she said, “Your friend wants you to send him money. Don't sent him any money,” and I replied, “I don't intend to. It’s probably a scam attempt from some con artist. It’s not really from Tommy at all.”

When I arrived home, I read the second email from “Tommy”:

Date: Tuesday, January 24, 2012 10:59 AM
From: Tommy Hilfiger
To: rwplague@somebrowser.net
Subject: Re: My AwFul Trip Help...............Tommy Hilfiger
Size: 10 KB

Glad you replied back, I have nothing left on me right now but am very lucky to have my life and passports with me, it would have been worst if the muggers had made away with my passports.

I think is a good idea to contact my credit card comepany but the hotel manager has made me understand that there credit card machine is faulty so all i need now is $1,520 USD, You can have it wired to my name via any Western Union Outlet around you..... I’ll have to show my passport as ID to pick it up here and i promise to pay you back as soon as I get back home hopefully today. Here is my info where you will wire the money to:

Name: Tommy Hilfiger
Location: 51 Whitehall London, SW1A 2BX
Country: United Kingdom

As soon as it has been done, kindly get back to me with the western union confirmation number... Let me know if you are heading to the Western Union outlet now.

Tommy

Well, that was the end of our correspondence. I went back and examined the emails more closely, and I noticed something odd.

The original email said it came from Tommy Hilfiger at tommy_hilfiger@sbcglobal.net, but my reply was routed instead to a helfiger_tommy@yahoo.com with a CC to Tommy Hilfiger at tommy_hilfiger@sbcglobal.net. One vowel changed. Hmmmm. Very strange and very slick and likely to be overlooked by the casual reader.

I am not your casual reader.

Reapportionment

2012-01-24T07:00:00.098-05:00

It’s not a dirty word.

Depending on whether you support the controlling majority party or the minority party in government, it can be either beautiful or ugly, though. And it is also one more thing: necessary.

As most Americans are aware, our government in the United States is composed of three branches -- the Executive, the Legislative, and the Judicial. The President is head of the Executive branch. The Supreme Court Justices are top dogs in the Judicial branch. The Legislative branch, which makes our laws, consists of two houses, the Senate and the House of Representatives.

In the Senate, every state has two members, no more and no less. This puts all states on an equal footing in the Senate.

The number of members a state has in the House of Representatives, however, depends on that state’s population. Every ten years our country takes a national census. There have been 23 ~~censuses~~ ~~censusi~~ ~~censusim~~ such counts taken in the United States, the first one in 1790.

Over the years since our country’s founding, the size of the House of Representatives was first increased with each passing decade as the population grew. In the first Congress, in 1788, a total of 65 members represented the original 13 states, and with a population of 3,929,000 each member represented about 60,000 persons. By 1913, however, there were 435 members representing 48 states, and with a population of 92,228,000 each member represented on average about 212,000 persons. Then, after the 1920 census was taken, an increase to 483 members was proposed. Since the size of the House of Representatives was fast becoming unwieldy, someone yelled, “Whoa, Nellie!” (not literally) and the number was frozen at 435. It has stayed at 435 ever since.

But the population kept growing and shifting. Some states gained population and some states lost population. In 1959 two states, Alaska and Hawaii, were added, bringing the total to 50. In 2000, our twenty-second census showed that the U.S. population had reached 281,421,000 and each of the 435 elected members represented about 509,000 persons during the past decade. In the twenty-third census, which was completed in 2010, our population reached 308,745,000 and each of the 435 members will represent, on average, about 709,000 persons for the next ten years. Well, at least at the beginning of the period, as the population continues to grow.

By contrast, the United Kingdom had a population of 60,587,000 people in 2006 and each of the 650 elected members of Parliament represents about 93,000 people.

In the U.S., each of the 50 states must re-draw its Congressional district boundaries after every national census so that its people are more or less equally distributed across its districts.

Georgia, where I live, currently sends 13 representatives to Congress. Our districts currently look like this:

As soon as the latest reapportionment takes effect, Georgia will send 14 representatives to Congress and the districts will be redrawn to look like this:

Cherokee County (county seat: Canton) is currently a part of Georgia’s Sixth Congressional District of Georgia (the middle one of the three green areas to the right of the light blue area near the top of the first map), which is currently represented by Rep. Tom Price of Roswell, an obstetrician. We will become a part of Georgia’s Eleventh Congressional District of Georgia (the light blue area to the right of the red area on the second map), which is currently represented by Rep. Phil Gingrey of Marietta, an obstetrician.

Some things never change.

Here is a nice chart you can click on in ever so many places to find out how the U.S. House of Representatives has changed during its history.

[Editor’s note.If you click on the link in the previous paragraph and poke around among the charts, be advised that the “Number of Representatives” figures for the various years are a bit misleading. I can’t make heads or tails of them. Sometimes they are the total number of representatives a state sends, and sometimes they are the number of additional representatives a state will be granted. So the maps are neither fish nor fowl, but some sort of strange combination of the two. If you can sort it all out, let me know. --RWP]

The joy of discovery

2012-01-23T09:35:00.001-05:00

Every day I learn new things.

Today, for example, I have already learned:

* There is a science-fiction book called The Day of the Triffids that was written in 1951 by John Wyndham.

* John Wyndham is the pen name of one John Wyndham Parkes Lucas Beynon Harris.

* An oophorectomy is the operation of removing one or both ovaries.

...and it’s only 9:30 a.m.

Caveat emptor

2012-01-23T07:00:00.024-05:00

According to a comment he left recently on one of my posts, back in 1958 when Putz and I were both in high school Science Clubs and he was a tennis star, his dad bought a 1958 Chevrolet Impala. [Editor’s note. Never try to make sense out of any of Putz’s comments. --RWP]

It was probably after seeing this:

Unlike Putz’s dad, my dad waited and bought a 1959 Chevrolet Impala, better in every respect than a 1958 Chevrolet Impala. Or so a certain portion of the automobile industry, specifically the Chevrolet Division of General Motors, would have had you believe.

Take the taillights, for instance. Take especially the taillights:

It was an example of planned obsolescence, a strategy that has worked successfully in the automobile industry for decades. Proof: When 1960 automobiles came along, nobody wanted 1959 models any more.

Now the tactic has been picked up by several other industries as well. Think cell phones (2G, 3G, 4G, probably OMG), computer operating systems (Windows 3.1, Windows 95, Windows 98, Windows 98 (2nd edition), Windows 2000 Millenium edition, XP, Vista, System/7, and presumably on into the future ad infinitum), and toothpaste (Now with whiteners!, Now with advanced whitening agents!, Now scientifically formulated for tartar control!, Now helps sensitive gums!, Now keeps your breath minty fresh!, Now new and improved!, Now better than ever!).

In fact, think about almost any industry or technology or product and you will find planned obsolescence constantly being shoved down our throats.

Ah, the power of advertising!

And we, apparently, are a nation of sheep who are easily led around by the nose, eagerly taking the bait hook, line, and sinker. [Editor’s note. Talk about your mixed metaphors. --RWP]

Which all goes to prove only one thing: You pays your money, and you takes your chances.

Midday giggle

2012-01-21T12:21:00.002-05:00

I’m reading a very interesting book about anti-gravity and I just haven’t been able to put it down.

Silverback 142, Rhymeswithplague 142

2012-01-21T07:00:00.005-05:00

It isn’t a football score or a basketball score or, Heaven help us, a baseball score. It isn’t the number of blog followers.

Ian of Leeds/Sebring a.k.a Silverback, not to be confused with either the Ian who shoots parrots or the Ian who has Lord Pudding for a papa, posted the other day that he has had visitors from 142 countries, the most recent one having been Réunion. I commented that I had kept track of my little flags too and that my blog had received visitors from 141 countries, the most recent one having been Fiji.

Advantage, Silverback.

Now, happily, I can report that we are tied at 142. This week I had a first-time visitor from Cambodia.

Deuce.

What a perfect time to ~~foist on~~ show you a poem I wrote a long time ago with the unlikely title of “The Ogden Nash Travel Agency”:

The Ogden Nash Travel Agency
by Robert H. Brague

The next time you go to Cambodia,
Be sure that you see Angkor Wat;
The Khmer Rouge will all say hellodia,
But some other natives may not.
Avoid controversial discussion
In the capital city, Phnom Penh;
Prefer Chinese cooking to Russian --
You may want to go there agenh.

When sailing upon the Aegean,
Remark on the dullness of Crete.
To do otherwise is plebian;
’Twill help make your visit complete.
Don’t make the mistake in the Bosphorus
Of calling the place Dardanelles;
A slip here could mean total losphorus:
We’d be laughed at from here to Seychelles.

While backpacking through Micronesia,
You’ll have, we expect, a real ball!
The folk there go all out to plesia;
Some natives wear nothing atoll.
They’ll know that you’re not a wahine (“wah-heeny”)
If you don’t sport an all-over tan.
For modesty, take a bikini;
It’s called the American plan.

A weekend in Mesopotamia
Or one on the coast of Brazil?
Do both! Go on, splurge! We don’t blamia
For wanting to have a real thrill!
So float down the mighty Kaskaskia
Or tour Vladivostok by bus;
Just one little thing we would askia:
Please purchase your tickets from us.

This is now the third time I have included this particular poem on my blog but it is the first time it has included illustrative links. It also appeared once on Billy Ray Barnwell’s blog, but that is neither here nor there. Well, actually, it is there. The most notable customers ever to avail themselves of the services provided by the Ogden Nash Travel Agency are none other than our old friends Lord and Lady Pudding, who are currently touring in the Pacific.

These grapes are sweet ones

2012-01-19T07:00:00.014-05:00

So Lord Pudding of Pudding Towers, Sheffield, Yorkshire, United Kingdom, finally met Katherine de Chevalle of Bay of Plenty, New Zealand, in the flesh. Face to face. They sat down over roast kiwi (I don’t think so) and green tomato chutney, some of which he left on her tablecloth.

Other than that one unfortunate detail, the encounter was reported by both parties to have been a smashing success. He likened the meeting to Dr. David Livingstone meeting Henry Stanley, or Paul McCartney meeting John Lennon. She called it a pleasant lunch and a super couple of hours and allowed as how she was quite sorry to see them (Lord and Lady P.) go.

I am not jealous. I am not jealous. I am not jealous.

What helps make my jealousy easier to bear is the fact that Mrs. RWP and I are the recipients of a lovely painting of grapes by the aforementioned Ms. de Chevalle, who was kind enough to award them to me at the end of a competition on her blog celebrating her having had 20,000 visitors.

One minute they were in New Zealand and the next minute (actual elapsed time courtesy of the postal service: about three weeks) they were in my house. We had them framed:

...and they now share a breakfast room corner with this ceramic plaque...

...which Mrs. RWP won as an infant when her great-uncle entered her name in a church raffle as Baby [Surname] before he even knew what name she had been given.

Our breakfast room corner...

...will soon gain another resident, a counted cross-stitch of a basket of fruit that Mrs. RWP completed in 2008 but which we also only recently had framed:

...and now you know the rest of the story.

I want to mark this auspicious occasion by wishing General Robert E. Lee of Virginia a very happy 205th birthday today.

Mystery woman

2012-01-18T08:00:00.009-05:00

A fellow I knew back in high school, Fred Stone, contacted me a few months ago after one of his nieces happened to run across my blog. Since then, Fred and I have exchanged many e-mails renewing old acquaintance and catching up on happenings of the last fifty-mppfh years. He was one year behind me in school and in those days we attended the same church youth group.

This week he sent me this photo from 1958 of our high school’s science club (click on the photo to make it larger):

Between us, we can name every person but one in the photograph. Standing, from left to right, are Wayne Riley, Marshall Tyson, moi, Mr. Steelman (the science teacher), Bruce Hornell, and John Paul Norvell. Seated, from right to left (just to be different), are Richard Stone, Mary Elizabeth North, Fred (no relation to Richard), Glenda Geyer, and someone neither Fred nor I can identify.

Unless someone can tell us her name, she must forever remain The Mystery Woman.

His guess was Mitzi Gaynor.

That Fred is such a card.

This is my 900th post.

The content of her character

2012-01-16T08:00:00.029-05:00

I’m old enough to remember Mahalia Jackson (1911 - 1972).

She didn’t really know how to sing, but boy, could she sing.
She wasn’t trained, but her voice was powerful. She took breaths in funny places. I once heard her sing “My country (breath) ’tih (breath) zov thee (breath) sweet land (breath) of lih (breath) bar tee (breath) of thee I (breath) sing.”

Southern gospel was what she was known for, songs like “His Eye Is On The Sparrow” and “He’s Got the Whole World In His Hands” and Thomas A. Dorsey’s “Precious Lord, Take My Hand” to name a few. Here’s your trivia fact for the day: Della Reese, at the age of 13, became a backup singer in Mahalia Jackson’s gospel group.

Mostly what got me every time I heard Mahalia Jackson sing, the thing that reached out and grabbed my attention, was her smile and her sparkling eyes. Love just seemed to ooze from her in all directions.

Eventually mainstream America became aware of her, and she became a “phenomenon” of sorts, appearing on such network television shows as Sesame Street, What’s My Line, The Flip Wilson Show, The Ed Sullivan Show, and The Hollywood Palace.

I choose on this Dr. Martin Luther King Jr. Federal Holiday to post about a woman who had a great effect on Dr. King and undoubtedly helped shape him into the force for good that he became.

Here is Mahalia Jackson singing “Without A Song” (6:21) in Berlin in 1967.

Don’t critique her voice. Watch her face.

If you need a little help understanding the lyrics, here they are:

Without a song the day would never end
Without a song the road would never bend
When things go wrong, a man ain’t got a friend
Without a song

That field of corn would never see a plow
That field of corn would be deserted now
A man is born but he’s no good no-how
Without a song

I got my troubles and woe but sure as I know that Jordan will roll
I’ll get along as long as a song is strong in my soul

I’ll never know what makes the rain to fall
I’ll never know what makes the grass so tall
I only know there ain’t no love at all
Without a song.

Games people play

2012-01-14T08:00:00.020-05:00

“You can while away the hours conferrin’ with the flowers, consultin’ with the rain.”

So sang our old friend Scarecrow in The Wizard of Oz.

Of course, he didn’t have a brain.

When I run out of constructive things to do online, I while away the hours playing a game called Bookworm.

What a perfect segue from my last post!

Try it. You might like it. But I warn you:

It’s addicting.
It’s frustrating.
It’s downright infuriating.
It’s all of the above.

It can even be fun, especially when you find you have reached Grand Archivist level and are no longer a lowly Encyclopedia Salesman.

Mrs. RWP, on the other hand, goes for Spider Solitaire and Mahjongg.

Offline, we like Mexican Train Dominoes and Skip-Bo and Phase 10.

What games do you like to play, and why do you like them?

I remind you again that this is a family-friendly blog, so keep your answers G-rated.

I don’t know whether you noticed, but...

2012-01-13T08:00:00.000-05:00

Ever since November, I have been trying to publish a post every single day. I have not always succeeded, and there are some gaps, but I figured if I couldn’t impress you with my talent I would overwhelm you with my sheer verbosity.

The experiment is now at an end.

It is too much for a man of my age and limited brain capacity
to attempt such a feat. I hereby resolve to leave demonstrations of electronic strength and prowess to the younger, hipper crowd.

Besides, Mrs. RWP wants to use the computer.

We are a one-computer family.

We have entered the 21st century, but just barely. We do not text. We do not have an iPad or an iPhone, and we do not listen to iTunes. We do not own anything containing the words Bluetooth or Tivo. We have satellite TV, but we don’t subscribe to any any of the premium channels. We have a page on Facebook, but we don’t Twitter or Tweet or whatever it is the young folks do (I have a feeling they’re doing a lot more than Twittering and Tweeting, but that’s just me).

What I really like to do is curl up with a good book.

Not a Kindle or that other thing. A book.

You remember books. Here’s one printed in 1455:

(Photo by Kevin Eng, 28 May 2009, licensed under the Creative Commons Attribution-Share Alike 2.0 Generic license.)

According to Wikipedia, “The Gutenberg Bible (also known as the 42-line Bible, the Mazarin Bible or the B42) was the first major book printed with movable type in the west and the first major book produced on a printing press anywhere in the world. It marked the start of the Gutenberg Revolution and the age of the printed book in the west. Widely praised for its high aesthetic and artistic qualities, the book has an iconic status. It is an edition of the Vulgate, printed by Johannes Gutenberg, in Mainz, Germany, in the 1450s. Forty-eight copies, or substantial portions of copies, survive, and they are considered by many sources to be the most valuable books in the world.” The copy above has resided in the New York Public Library since 1847.

Compared to the Gutenberg Bible, all subsequently-printed publications are, to use a word Madonna Louise Ciccone used yesterday to describe Stefani Joanne Angelina Germanotta, reductive.

Speaking of reductive, neither one of them will ever hold a candle to Norma Jean Baker (4:49).

Something is rotten in the state of Vrindavan

2012-01-12T06:30:00.015-05:00

In yesterday’s tour through things South Asian, we learned that Rasa Lila, The Dance of Divine Love, takes place one night when the gopis of Vrindavan, upon hearing the sound of Krishna’s flute, sneak away from their households and families to the forest to dance with Krishna throughout the night, which Krishna supernaturally stretches to the length of one Night of Brahma, a Hindu unit of time lasting approximately 4.32 billion years.

I believe this calls for what aficionados of theater and film call suspension of disbelief.

I googled “gopis” and learned that gopi is Sanskrit for “cowherd-girl” and that there are 108 gopis in all. Here is a painting called Krishna Balaram With Gopies in Vrindavan:

This is where my suspension of disbelief began to crumble.

I mean, how many cowherd-girls have enough disposable income to deck themselves out in the manner of the five elegantly dressed, perfectly coifed, bejeweled females in that painting?

None, that’s how many. None.

And if you look closely, all five cowherd-girls look exactly alike. How often does that happen?

Extra points will be awarded if you can name all of the Dionne quintuplets without looking.

I mean no disrespect, but I think the Dionne quintuplets (Yvonne, Annette, Cécile, Émilie, and Marie) look more like cowherd-girls than the cowherd-girls.

I think our little foray into the beliefs of South Asia must come to an end without our having determined whether one Night of Brahma, a Hindu unit of time, actually lasts approximately 4.32 billion years. If you want to explore Hindu units of time further, though, this might be a good place to get your feet wet.

Only after you have committed to memory all of the information about Hindu measurements of time should you attempt to learn anything more about Hinduism. Otherwise, your head will probably explode.

It is a day like all other days, except you are there

2012-01-11T06:30:00.033-05:00

January 11th. Wednesday. The middle of the week blahs. An ordinary day.

If you think there’s nothing about which to post, you have another think coming.

Here is a list of events that happened, people who were born, and people who died on January 11th. There are enough links in there to keep you in posts for years and years.

For example, Muhammed led an army of 10,000 to conquer Mecca in 630. Theodora was crowned Empress of the Byzantine Empire in 1055. Vladislav II became King of Bohemia in 1158. The first recorded lottery in England occurred in 1569. Mt. Etna erupted in Sicily, Italy, in 1693. Ching-Thang Khomba was crowned King of Manipur in 1779. William Herschel discovered Titania and Oberon, two moons of Uranus, in 1787. Alabama seceded from the United States in 1861. The Anglo-Zulu War began in 1879. Romania annexed Transylvania in 1919. Insulin was first used to treat diabetes in a human patient in 1922. Amelia Earhart became the first person to fly solo from Hawaii to California in 1935. Japan declared war on the Netherlands and invaded the Netherlands East Indies in 1942 and also captured Kuala Lumpur. Enver Hoxha declared the People’s Republic of Albania with himself as president in 1946. East Pakistan renamed itself Bangladesh in 1972. Alexander Hamilton and Pierre Mendès France were born (not in the same year). Francis Scott Key and Thomas Hardy died (ditto). In 2010, Miep Gies, the woman who discovered Anne Frank’s diary, died.

Lots of raw material from which to choose.

I have decided to declare January 11th as “Do It Yourself” Day in Blogworld.

Have at it.

[Editor’s note. I happened to fixate on Ching-Thang-Khomba, who was crowned King of Manipur in 1779. Clicking on Ching-Thang-Khomba revealed that his full name was Ningthou Ching-Thang Khomba and that he also was known as Rajarshi Bhagya Chandra, Jai Singh Maharaja and that he lived from 1748 until 1799 and that he was the inventor of the Ras Lila dance, which I had never heard of. So I clicked on Ras Lila Dance and learned that rasa lila, The Dance of Divine Love, takes place one night when the gopis of Vrindavan, upon hearing the sound of Krishna’s flute, sneak away from their households and families to the forest to dance with Krishna throughout the night, which Krishna supernaturally stretches to the length of one Night of Brahma, a Hindu unit of time lasting approximately 4.32 billion years. In the Krishna Bhakti traditions, the rasa-lila is considered to be one of the highest and most esoteric of Krishna’s pastimes. In these traditions, romantic love between human beings in the material world is seen as merely a diminished, illusionary reflection of the soul’s original, ecstatic spiritual love for Krishna, God, in the spiritual world.

See what I mean?

And if you click on the gopis of Vrindivan, there’s just no telling what you may end up discovering. -- RWP]

If a certain person manages to keep the old ticker going for 28 more days...

2012-01-10T06:30:00.050-05:00

...she will have been the Queen of England for 60 years.

Let’s hear it for Her Majesty!

And if she doesn't, this fellow will take her place:

Note that he appears to be listing a bit to starboard at the prospect.

And if for any reason he is unable to complete his reign, the first runner-up will be named ~~Miss America~~ King of all England, and a few other places besides.

The first runner-up is:

(Photo by Robert Payne, 12 June 2010, used under the terms of the Creative Commons Attribution 2.0 Generic license)

Prince William!

He appears to be a little verklempt. Talk amongst yourselves. I’ll give you a topic: Palmolive - it’s neither palm nor olive. Discuss. [Editor's note. This paragraph was brought to you courtesy of Linda Richman, a character of actor Mike Myers on the Saturday Night Live television show. --RWP]

Or maybe Prince William is tight-lipped at being asked to ride in the same carriage as the Duchess of Cornwall. One never knows, does one?

But it’s good to know that the succession process is all taken care of, isn’t it?

In the meantime, on this side of the pond, we wish Her Majesty a long, long life (even longer than it has been already) and congratulate her on tying the 60-year reign of George III (1760 - 1820), although she is still four years short of the 64-year reign of Queen Victoria (1837 - 1901) and twelve years short of the 72-year reign of King Louis XIV of France (1643 - 1715).

Here she is on her coronation day in 1953, with Prince Philip:

This post should make up for my recent U.S.-centric post about 2011 in review. I’m, well, you know.

[Editor’s note. For a recent photo of Her Majesty, go to yesterday’s post (January 9th) and click on the links in the formula for the pascal until you find her. --RWP]

A post for both halves of your brain to start the week off right

2012-01-09T06:30:00.068-05:00

BDFLMNPTV-V-V

It’s not a foreign word. It isn’t even a word at all, so don’t try to pronounce it. (How many of you remember the time on Sesame Street when Big Bird saw ABCDEFGHIJKLMNOPQRSTUVWXYZ and sang “Ab-keddef-gajihkel-monop-quristuv-wixyz, it’s the most remarkable word I’ve ever seen, Ab-keddef-gajihkel-monop-quristuv-wixyz, I wish I knew exactly what I mean”?)

Singers everywhere will recognize the conglomeration of consonants BDFLMNPTV-V-V as a vocal exercise sung on the following musical syllables:

Do-Re-Mi-Fa-Sol-La-Ti-Do-Re-Re-Re,
Re-Mi-Fa-Sol-La-Ti-Do-Re-Mi-Mi-Mi,
Mi-Re-Do-Ti-Do-Ti-La-Sol-Fa-Fa-Fa,
Re-Do-Ti-La-Sol-Fa-Mi-Re-Do-Do-Do.

The accompanist then modulates a half-step upward, and the singers commence their BDFLMNPTV-V-Ving again in the new key, and so on and so forth, until only first sopranos who can hit the high notes without busting a gut are left. I’m kidding, but only slightly. Most choir directors seem to be either sopranos or tenors who refuse to accept the vocal limitations of altos and basses. Altos and basses do not become choir directors.

Of course, there is the ever-popular old standby “Mee-May-Mah-Mo-Mu” and its many variations (“Nee-Nay-Nah-No-Nu” and “Bee-Bay-Bah-Bo-Bu” and, well, you get the idea) using the pentatonic scale.

If you don’t know what the pentatonic scale is, go to the back of the line.

Another popular warmup vocal exercise for singers hereabouts is “Who washed Washington’s white woolen underwear when Washington's washer woman went west?” in which all the words except one are sung on the same tone. The penultimate word is sung a half-step lower than the others. Repeat in the next higher key, following modulation by the accompanist. Again. Again. About thirteen times in all.

If you don’t know what penultimate means, go to somewhere near the back of the line.

Last of all, you mustn’t forget to limber up your body, sort of like this, with less bouncing.

We would begin practicing the anthem for Sunday now, but the rehearsal time has expired.

If you are more interested in math and physics than music, you can use the following formula to determine the frequency of a tuning fork (the frequency of a tuning fork depends on its dimensions and the material from which it is made):

where:

f is the frequency the fork vibrates at in Hertz,
1.875 is the smallest positive solution of cos(x)cosh(x) = -1,
l is the length of the prongs in meters,
E is the Young’s modulus of the material the fork is made from in pascals,
I is the second moment of area of the cross-section in meters to the fourth power,
ρ is the density of the material the fork is made from in kilograms per cubic meter, and
A is the cross-sectional area of the prongs (tines) in square meters.

If you don’t know what Young’s modulus and pascals are, or that cross-sections even have moments, go to somewhere near the back of the line.

For those who simply must know, Young’s modulus, also known as the tensile modulus, is a measure of the stiffness of an elastic material and is a quantity used to characterize materials. It is defined as the ratio of the uniaxial stress over the uniaxial strain in the range of stress in which Hooke’s Law holds.

For your own good, I would discourage you from thinking too much about either the length of the prongs in meters or the cross-sectional area of the prongs in square meters, especially in connection with the stiffness of an elastic material.

And the pascal? Well, the pascal (symbol: Pa) is the SI derived unit of pressure, internal pressure, stress, Young’s modulus and tensile strength, named after the French mathematician, physicist, inventor, writer, and philosopher Blaise Pascal. It is a measure of force per unit area, defined as one newton per square meter. In everyday life, the pascal is perhaps best known from meteorological barometric pressure reports, where it occurs in the form of hectopascals (1 hPa ≡ 100 Pa) or kilopascals (1 kPa ≡ 1000 Pa). In other contexts, the kilopascal is commonly used, for example on bicycle tire labels. One hectopascal corresponds to about 0.1% of atmospheric pressure slightly above sea level; one kilopascal is about 1% of atmospheric pressure. One hectopascal is equivalent to one millibar; one standard atmosphere is exactly equal to 101.325 kPa or 1013.25 hPa or 101325 Pa. The correspondent Imperial unit is pounds per square inch (psi).

The pascal can be expressed using SI derived units, or alternatively solely SI base units, as:

where N is the newton, m is the meter, kg is the kilogram, and s is the second.

Happy now? I do hope both sides of your brain have had a good workout.

Now go take on the world.

From the archives (January 8, 2010): Guess whose birthday it is today!

2012-01-08T14:30:00.006-05:00

Well, let’s see. There’s David Bowie (1947), and Stephen Hawking (1942), and Little Anthony (of Little Anthony and the Imperials who sang, “You don’t remember me, but I remember you, ’twas not so long ago, you broke my heart in two, Tears On My Pillow, pain in my heart caused by you”) (1940), and Yvette Mimieux (she played Rod Taylor’s girlfriend in the year A.D. 802,701 in the 1960 movie The Time Machine) (1939), and Bob Eubanks (emcee of The Newlywed Game) (1938), and Shirley Bassey (1937), and Soupy Sales (1926), and Larry Storch (1923), and Butterfly McQueen (“Lawdy, Miss Scarlett, I don’t know nothin’ ’bout birthin’ babies”) (1911), and Jose Ferrer (1909), and composer Robert Schumann (1810).

Oh, yes, and this fellow, whose name escapes me at the moment. He would have been 75 years old today (1935):

[Editor’s note. Only one change is needed to make this post current: in the final sentence, change 75 to 77. I feel old. --RWP]

Don’t look back or you might turn into a pillar of salt

2012-01-07T06:30:00.096-05:00

Now that we are an entire week -- yes, kiddies, seven whole days -- into this, the happiest of all possible happy new years, I want to introduce you to Dave Barry’s Year In Review: The 2011 Festival of Sleaze so that you can laugh as hard as I did.

So there’s the link up there in the previous paragraph. I’m a man of my word.

The article is five pages long but unfortunately you will not be able to see pages three, four, and five unless you BECOME A SUBSCRIBER, FOR FREE, of the website of The Washington Post. Dave’s article is so hilarious that I recommend that you take the time to do just that (you will be given an opportunity after you finish reading the first two pages) so that you can read what Dave Barry wrote about the entire year 2011 and not just the first couple of months. When you apply, you can lie about your birth date if you like. No one cares.

We do what we can for your reading enjoyment, but there are some things you must do for yourself.

Here is Today’s Question From the field of science and industry:

Would Katherine Graham have thought this was any way to run
a railroad?

One of these is a photo of Katherine Graham and one is not.

What’s Nhu, er, New?

2012-01-06T06:30:00.013-05:00

My blog now has 91 followers, for which and for whom I am grateful.

I’m a bit confused, however.

The latest addition, Suamayphotocopy, doesn’t appear to be a person at all but a list of all the photocopiers known to humankind. In Vietnamese, yet.

And, even more disturbing, the name of the blog, when you get there, is not suamayphotocopy at all. No, my friends, it is suachuamayphotocopy, which borders on the downright deceptive, I’d say.

I appreciate each and every one of my followers, even those of you who are pretending to be a list of photocopiers. As the lyrics of an old hymn go, “Farther along, we’ll know all about it. Farther along, we’ll understand why. Cheer up, my brother [Editor's note. Or sister. --RWP], live in the sunshine. We’ll understand it all by and by.”

I just wish I could read Vietnamese.

In case my quirky sense of humor doesn’t cross the Pacific well, I hasten to add that I am just teasing with this post. I am not upset at you, suamay or suachuamay or whoever you are. You can have any kind of site you like, even one that is a list of photocopiers with Vietnamese notes.

Wait, it’s the site that has Vietnamese notes, not the photocopiers. Isn’t that right?

I hope so.

As Epiphany approaches

2012-01-05T06:30:00.003-05:00

...let us listen to Kathleen Battle and Frederica von Staade sing, in Italian and Latin, the beautiful “Gesù Bambino” by Pietro Yon.

Miss von Staade was heard to say afterward, “Che manicotti grandi avete, nonna!”

And Miss Battle replied, “Il migliore con quale spingerli verso il fondo della scena, il mio caro!”

Here is the English translation:

Miss von Staade: “What big sleeves you have, Grandma!”

Miss Battle: “The better to upstage you with, my dear!”

Here are Pietro Yon’s original Italian lyrics:

Nell’umile capanna
nel freddo e povertá
é nato il Santo pargolo
che il mondo adorerá

Osanna, osanna cantano
con giubilante cor
i tuoi pastori ed angeli
o re di luce e amor

venite adoremus
venite adoremus
venite adoremus
Dominum

O bel bambin non piangere
non piangere, Redentor!
la mamma tua cullandoti
ti bacia, O Salvator

Osanna, osanna cantano
con giubilante cor
i tuoi pastori ed angeli
o re di luce e amor

venite adoremus
venite adoremus
venite adoremus
Dominum

Ah! venite adoremus
Ah! adoremus Dominum
venite, venite
venite adoremus
adoremus
Dominum

Here are English lyrics by Frederick H. Martens (they are not a literal translation of the Italian):

When blossoms flowered ’mid the snows
Upon a winter night
Was born the Child, the Christmas Rose
The King of Love and Light.

The angels sang, the shepherds sang
The grateful earth rejoiced
And at His blessed birth the stars
Their exultation voiced.

O come let us adore Him
O come let us adore Him
O come let us adore Him
Christ the Lord.

Again the heart with rapture glows
To greet the holy night
That gave the world its Christmas Rose
Its King of Love and Light.

Let ev’ry voice acclaim His name
The grateful chorus swell
From paradise to earth He came
That we with Him might dwell.

O come let us adore Him
O come let us adore Him
O come let us adore Him
Christ the Lord.

Here is a literal translation of the Italian:

In a humble hut
In the cold and poverty
Was born the Holy baby
That the world adores

"Hosanna, Hosanna" sing
With jubilant heart
The shepherds and angels
Of the king of light and love

O come let us adore
O come let us adore
O come let us adore
The Lord.

O beautiful baby, do not cry
Do not cry, Redeemer!
Your mother is rocking
Kisses to you, O Saviour

"Hosanna, Hosanna" sing
With jubilant heart
The shepherds and angels
Of the king of light and love

O come let us adore
O come let us adore
O come let us adore
The Lord

Let’s hear it for poetic license.

Editor’s note. I am absolutely stoked (as the young folks say) to learn that the Italian word for sleeves is manicotti. Perhaps pasta e fagioli means cummerbund.--RWP

Who is this man?

2012-01-04T06:30:00.055-05:00

It’s not Jesus. It’s not Zeus. It’s not even Buffalo Bill Cody on his baptismal day.

Give up?

Why, it’s none other than Rabindrath Tagore (1861 – 1941), the Bengali polymath who reshaped his region's literature and music. A Pirali Brahmin from Kolkata (Calcutta), he was the author of Gitanjali and became the first non-European Nobel laureate by earning the 1913 Prize in Literature. Also, as we learned in yesterday’s post, he was the first person to apply the honorific Mahatma (“Great Soul” in Sanskrit) to Mohandas K. Ghandhi.

According to Wikipedia, “In translation his poetry was viewed as spiritual and mercurial; his seemingly mesmeric personality, flowing hair, and other-worldly dress earned him a prophet-like reputation in the West. His elegant prose and magical poetry remain largely unknown outside Bengal.”

And “As an exponent of the Bengal Renaissance he advanced a vast canon that comprised paintings, sketches and doodles, hundreds of texts, and some two thousand songs; his legacy endures also in the institution he founded, Visva-Bharati University.”

And “He composed two national anthems: the Republic of India’s Jana Gana Mana and Bangladesh’s Amar Shonar Bangla.”

You can read all about him (there’s lots more) here.

Here is Jana Gana Mana (4:21) and here is Amar Shonar Bangla (4:22).

Blogging is so broadening.

I tried very hard to find Roseanne Roseannadanna and her uncle, Rabbi Hosanna Roseannadanna, singing Jana Gana Mana but, alas, such a video was nowhere to be found on YouTube.

Bummer.

The Seven Blunders of the World

2012-01-03T06:30:00.007-05:00

Here we are with brand-new baby 2012 on our hands, as well as all the problems and joys that a new baby brings. (For example, today is the day the Republicans in Iowa are holding their caucuses.)

I thought it would be good for us to start teaching baby 2012 now the things that will make it a very good year when it is all grown up. I thought we might start with Gandhi’s Seven Blunders of the World.

Yes, Gandhi. That Gandhi.

I like to think I’m a fairly observant and well-read person, but every day, even at the age of 70, I am still learning new things. I didn’t know beans about The Seven Blunders of the World before I happened across them today. I didn’t know Gandhi was the person who wrote them down. I didn’t even know that Gandhi’s first name was not Mahatma.

That’s right. Mahatma turns out to be an honorific meaning “Great Soul” in Sanskrit, and it was first applied to Mohandas Karamchand Gandhi by Rabindranath Tagore. So says Wikipedia. In India, Gandhi is also called Bapu (“father” in Gujarati) and officially honored as the Father of the Nation.

(Mohandas K. Gandhi, 1869 - 1948)

But enough about Mohandas. You can read more about him on your own if you like. We were teaching baby 2012 about The Seven Blunders of the World, remember?

The Seven Blunders of the World is a list that Mohandas Karamchand Gandhi gave to his grandson Arun Gandhi, written on a piece of paper, on their final day together, shortly before his assassination. The seven blunders are:

Wealth without work.
Pleasure without conscience.
Knowledge without character.
Commerce without morality.
Science without humanity.
Worship without sacrifice.
Politics without principle.

To this list, Arun Gandhi added an eighth blunder, rights without responsibilities.

I think that list is enough to start baby 2012 off in the right direction. It should certainly give the rest of us pause, and much food for thought.

Up to our eyeballs in Christmas cheer

2012-01-02T06:30:00.013-05:00

Gobnait writes thank-you notes to Nuala.

Christmas: It Ain’t Over Till It’s Over

2012-01-01T06:30:00.010-05:00

...and you wanna know something? It ain’t over. Not until January 6th, when it’s Epiphany.

Here is the funniest, saddest, most poignant, most hilarious radio skit I have ever run across. It’s “Family Christmas,” complete with scripted sound effects, from Garrison Keillor (one of America’s treasures) and friends on A Prairie Home Companion.

Unless this one is.

I just can’t decide.

Even more poems by Robert H. Brague

2011-12-31T07:00:00.009-05:00

I didn’t plan to end the year on a somber note, but these poems have been telling me for some time now that they desire a larger audience. I did put them on the blog back in 2007, but most of you weren’t coming here then. Although I wrote these poems in 1975 and 1976, I think they still resonate as we begin 2012.

..........Sonnets for the Space Age, circa 1976
.....................by Robert H. Brague

......................................I

.......Technology has shrunk our modern world;
.......No room today for the miraculous.
.......In space a big blue marble has been hurled,
.......And astronauts report the marble’s us.
.......Computers speed man’s progress on its way
.......Without regard to race or sex or creed;
.......The federal grant’s the order of the day
.......Without regard to truth or cost or need.
.......So equal opportunities abound
.......(Minorities don’t ever fall from grace);
.......And new solutions, almost daily found,
.......Are rushed to cure the ills of Adam's race.
.......But seldom now does prayer storm Heaven’s gates:
.......Inside, the Lord sits patiently and waits.

......................................II

.......There was a time when life was slower-paced
.......And one could get to know his neighbor well.
.......Today each moment’s precious, none to waste.
.......Man’s much too busy hurrying toward Hell.
.......And like a lemming, jostled by the crowd,
.......He thrashes wildly with the drowning men;
.......He downs his drink and laughs a bit too loud,
.......And dashes out into the night again.
.......So helter-skelter, racing madly on,
.......He wears a mask to try to hide the lies;
.......His painted smile denies that time is gone,
.......But something doth betray him ’round the eyes.
.......Exhausted, spent, he plunges past the goal
.......To gain the world and lose his sacred soul.

......................................III

.......Polaris is a missile and a star,
.......The one deployed on restless submarine,
.......The other keeping vigil from afar
.......While nebulae and comets roam between.
.......Much nearer Earth, the evanescent moon
.......Maintains her distance from our planet’s face.
.......Perhaps she senses conflict coming soon,
.......The Armageddon of the human race.
.......So warily she orbits overhead.
.......A quarter-million miles into the void,
.......She too keeps guard. We talk of peace instead,
.......Let our guard down. With warheads unemployed,
.......While newsmen speak of cabinets and kings,
.......Calamity is waiting in the wings.

......................................IV

.......Three heavens stretch above Earth’s little pond:,
.......The daylight blue; the midnight’s starry host;
.......Incalculable distances beyond
.......These two, the one that modern men fear most.
.......(For if there is a Heaven they should gain,
.......A Hell to shun the day they pause to die,
.......Then all their science simply can’t explain
.......How in the merest twinkling of an eye…)
.......So, flippantly declaring it absurd,
.......Men laugh until their laughter turns to tears;
.......But Saul of Tarsus visited that third
.......And dared not speak of it for fourteen years.
.......If not till set of sun come out the stars,
.......Why balk at glories waiting behind Mars?

......................................V

.......No sooner had the missiles disappeared
.......Than waves of bombers rose up in their stead.
.......When all debris and rubble had been cleared,
.......We found almost a hundred million dead.
.......And some who lived were maimed, and some were charred,
.......And some no longer see, or hear, or walk;
.......And many, although outwardly unmarred,
.......No longer smile, no longer even talk.
.......For laughter is a thing of bygone days
.......When children played at imitation war.
.......Today most people stare with hollow gaze
.......Rememb’ring times, once real, that are no more.
.......When men cried, “Peace and safety,” all was lost.
.......We were not ready for the holocaust.

Today does not exist in Samoa

2011-12-30T06:30:00.005-05:00

See that little red circle on the globe?

That’s Samoa.

Today does not exist in Samoa.

I’m telling you the truth.

Well, yes, the sun will come up and all that, but even though yesterday was Thursday, December 29, 2011, today is not Friday, December 30, 2011, in Samoa. It is as though it never happened in Samoa.

You don’t believe me? Read this article from The Christian Science Monitor.

See? You should believe me when I tell you things.

The Putz is back, if only temporarily!

2011-12-29T06:00:00.028-05:00

[Editor’s note. The following comment appeared on one of my recent posts. It is from our old friend Putz, who has stopped blogging. I decided to promote it from comment to full post status. With ruffles and flourishes, and wiping a tear from my eye, I give you, in all his Utarn glory...Putz. --RWP]

i really shoud blog this,><>we were having a wonderful christmas and last night's pageant was fabulous<<>> i was the christmas star this year<><>no lines to read, most of them read by our 5 year old, and then on today, yes christmas day we were at mike our son{barlow buzz} in gunnison for christmas day dinner where we supplied the ham, wonderful when all of a sudden my daughter ran in with her hearing dog<><>now you have to understand that she is unmarried and this is her companion><><><><>rthe dog had been ferously kicked by a pony<><><>head was kicked backwards on his head and was out like a light<><>><><>now us mormons are probably kooky because my daughter wanted me to bless this dog with concecrated oil whic i did and blessd him to heal quickly, when my daugher in law says, he has a broken neck, he cannot live for much longer<><><>well when the vet looked at him, and you can go to the bank on the truth of this<><><>he said there is a little spot on his face by his nose that is bruised but other than that there is nothing wrong with this dog<>><<>what about the neck and he said terriers have very flexable necks and 2 days later he is running around<>><>the head did not swell and that was the only thign the doctor said to look for<>><>so a christmas miracle<>>><><>also what vet would leave his family for a dog on christmas???????

[Editor’s note. Now that’s the old Putz I remember! What a great story! Doctors always attempt to explain away miracles, you know, especially Christmas ones...terriers have flexible necks, that’s a good one! --RWP]

My previous post may have made you laugh...

2011-12-28T07:00:00.001-05:00

...but this story from The Buffalo News may make you cry.

Fast away the old year passes, fa ra ra ra ra, etc.

2011-12-27T07:00:00.011-05:00

As 2011 turns before our eyes into 2012, here, for your entertainment pleasure, is something really weird involving Vivian Leigh, Robert Taylor, World War II, and a Chinese soprano singing “Auld Lang Syne” (4:43).

Over and over and over.

This is probably politically incorrect, but shouldn’t she be saying “Auld RANG Syne”?

Which reminds me of a joke told to me by a 93-year-old woman who happened to be the mother of an eye surgeon who happens to be my son’s father-in-law:

After conducting a thorough eye exam on a Chinese gentleman, the ophthalmologist said, “Sir, I’m sorry to have to tell you this, but you have cataracts” to which the Chinese man replied, “No, doctor, I no have cataracts. I have Rincoln Continentals.”

Moving right along, the above photograph of a 1969 Cadillac in a corn field makes me think that the manufacturer has changed its motto from “Creating a Higher Standard” to “If you build it, they will come.”

It also makes me think of Kevin Costner in Field of Dreams, but that is an entirely different post.

So before I get carried away completely with silliness (I can hear some of you saying, “Too late”), let me just wish you a happy, healthy, prosperous, and peaceful year throughout 2012, the Mayan calendar ending next December being thought by some to indicate that the end of the world will occur next December notwithstanding.

Ring out the old, ring in the new! Or as that Chinese soprano would say....

To all of my friends in Blogland, here’s...

2011-12-25T06:00:00.001-05:00

...not mud in your eye,...

...not looking at you kid,...

...not even Johnny (with apologies to Ed McMahon),...

no, here’s the young Elvis (2:38) to help you make it through the season.

Though if you need the young Elvis (or any of those other people) to help you make it through the season, you’re (a) probably worse off than anybody thought and (b) definitely living in the past.

I’m just sayin’....

Return with us now to those thrilling days of yesteryear!

2011-12-24T06:00:00.003-05:00

No, I’m not talking about this.

I’m talking about this (3:26).

Who needs the Lone Ranger, Tonto, or the strains of Rossini’s “The William Tell Overture” when you can have President Ronald Reagan’s 1981 Christmas address to the nation!

How times (and presidents) have changed since 1981.

Oy to the world!

2011-12-23T05:00:00.033-05:00

Some things are just too funny to ignore!

You’ll plotz*! (4:43)

*A Yiddish word that according to dictionary.com means to collapse or faint, as from surprise, or excitement, but according to yiddishdictionaryonline.com it means to split, crack, burst, or explode (as with laughter, I hope).

The shortest day of the year

2011-12-22T08:31:00.006-05:00

...or, conversely, the longest night of the year, has arrived.

The winter solstice occurred at 5:30 a.m. UTC today. That is, the axial tilt of our planet’s polar hemisphere is farthest away from the star that it orbits.

And by “our planet” I mean Earth. Terra firma. Any inhabitants of other planets who happen to be reading this, I refer you to Emily Latella.

And if you are a Neo-Druid -- I’m not, by the way -- this might be of interest to you as well:

(Photo of sunrise at Stonehenge taken by Mark Grant on Dec. 22, 1985. Released under Creative Commons Attribution 2.5)

Hanukkah thoughts

2011-12-20T16:30:00.029-05:00

(Photo by Roland Scheicher, 1 August 2006)

This year, Hanukkah begins at sundown today -- Tuesday, December 20th -- and ends on December 28th. Next year, Hanukkah will begin on December 8th and end on December 16th. The year after that, Hanukkah will begin on November 27th and end on December 5th. Therefore, Christians and others, please do not wish your Jewish friends a “Happy Hanukkah” long after it is past. They will appreciate the thought but they may look at you strangely.

My wish for you at Hanukkah (and always) is simple:

May your dreidels always land on gimel.*

*My thanks go out to my friend Elizabeth Stanforth-Sharpe in the U.K. for this good wish.

Also, a little gelt wouldn’t hurt.

A matter of great national importance

2011-12-19T11:30:00.004-05:00

I want to set the record straight.

The rumor (or rumour, if you’re in a British Commonwealth country) is untrue.

Contrary to popular and even unpopular opinion, I am not moonlighting over at dictionary.com, which thought may have crossed your mind if you happen to have read the article “Why are people from the Netherlands called Dutch?” there. Now you know, Carolina.

But that is not the matter of great national importance, except, perhaps, to the Dutch.

An even more important question than “Why are people from the Netherlands called Dutch?” (sorry, Carolina) is this one from the motion picture My Fair Lady in which Rex Harrison as Professor Higgins asks “Why Can’t a Woman Be More Like a Man?” (4:54).

The music is by Frederick Loewe and the lyrics are by Alan Jay Lerner. For those of you who never click on video links, here is a transcript:

PROFESSOR HIGGINS:
Why can’t a woman be more like a man?
Men are so honest, so thoroughly square;
Eternally noble, historically fair.
Who, when you win, will always give your back a pat.
Why can’t a woman be like that?

Why does every one do what the others do?
Can’t a woman learn to use her head?
Why do they do everything their mothers do?
Why don’t they grow up, well, like their father instead?

Why can’t a woman take after a man?
Men are so pleasant, so easy to please.
Whenever you're with them, you’re always at ease.

Would you be slighted if I didn’'t speak for hours?

COLONEL PICKERING:
Of course not.

PROFESSOR HIGGINS:
Would you be livid if I had a drink or two?

COLONEL PICKERING:
Nonsense.

PROFESSOR HIGGINS:
Would you be wounded if I never sent you flowers?

COLONEL PICKERING:
Never.

PROFESSOR HIGGINS:
Well, why can’t a woman be like you?

One man in a million may shout a bit.
Now and then, there’s one with slight defects.
One perhaps whose truthfulness you doubt a bit,
But by and large we are a marvelous sex!

Why can’t a woman take after a man?
’Cause men are so friendly, good-natured and kind.
A better companion you never will find.

If I were hours late for dinner would you bellow?

COLONEL PICKERING:
Of course not.

PROFESSOR HIGGINS:
If I forgot your silly birthday, would you fuss?

COLONEL PICKERING:
Nonsense.

PROFESSOR HIGGINS:
Would you complain if I took out another fellow?

COLONEL PICKERING:
Never.

PROFESSOR HIGGINS:
Why can’t a woman be like us?

[dialog]

PROFESSOR HIGGINS:
Why can’t a woman be more like a man?
Men are so decent, such regular chaps;
Ready to help you through any mishaps;
Ready to buck you up whenever you’re glum.
Why can’t a woman be a chum?

Why is thinking something women never do?
And why is logic never even tried?
Straightening up their hair is all they ever do.
Why don't they straighten up the mess that’s inside?

Why can’t a woman behave like a man?
If I was a woman who’d been to a ball,
Been hailed as a princess by one and by all;
Would I start weeping like a bathtub overflowing,
Or carry on as if my home were in a tree?
Would I run off and never tell me where I’m going?
Why can’t a woman be like me?

[end of transcript]

Poor old Professor Higgins.

He’s clueless.

I say “Vive la différence!”

Roll over, Beethoven

2011-12-16T11:55:00.002-05:00

Ludwig Van Beethoven (1770-1827) Composing His "Missa Solemnis", 1820, Josef Karl Stieler

...and tell Tchaikovsky the news. (3:36)

My, how times have changed.

Happy birthday, Ludwig.

Another poem by Robert H. Brague

2011-12-14T09:20:00.016-05:00

..........................December, 1972

............Peace on earth, good will toward men.
............They’re bombing North Vietnam again --
............B-52’s lost this week total ten --
............Peace on earth, good will toward men.

............It came upon a midnight clear,
............That glorious song of old,
............Yellow-skinned children huddle in fear
............Against the wind and the cold
............And wonder what new horror
............Will the midnight blackness bring,
............And the whole earth gives back the song
............Which now the angels sing.

............Has Johnny talked to Santa Claus?
............They’re talking about a bombing pause.
............Inaugural plans are proceeding well;
............Pat will wear yellow. War is hell.
............Do you think man has an immortal soul?
............Do you think they’ll blackout the Super Bowl?

............Silent night, holy night,
............Napalm gives a lovely light;
............Holy Infant, so tender and mild,
............How does it feel to destroy a child?

............Peace on earth, good will toward men.
............They’re bombing North Vietnam again --
............B-52’s lost this week total ten --
............Peace on earth, good will toward men.

[Editor’s note. The impetus for this poem was an evening newscast on television. The reader -- I can’t remember whether it was Harry Reasoner or Howard K. Smith -- was just finishing a story about the hustle and bustle of Christmas shopping with the words, “Peace on earth, good will to men.” He paused ever so briefly to indicate he was done, then launched (a little too nonchalantly, it seemed to me) into his next item with the words, “They’re bombing North Vietnam again.” I noticed the strange juxtaposition of topics, as well as the end rhyme, and his next sentence just compounded the effect: “B’52s lost this week total ten,” or something similar. The poem just kind of took off on its own after that. Pat Nixon did indeed wear yellow in January to the inauguration of her husband’s second term as President. Originally I wrote, “Pat will wear pink” because I liked the alliteration better, but I was struck by the horrifying coincidence of the interest in the color of Mrs. Nixon's dress and the color of the skin of the children waiting for the bombs to fall, and I changed it. --RWP]

Thirteen shopping days until Christmas

2011-12-12T08:45:00.004-05:00

...and I think we’re finished with our shopping except to obtain more wrapping paper and ribbon. The merchants are reporting flat sales this year as people deal with this ~~depression~~ ~~recession~~ unexpected economic situation in which we find ourselves.

But let’s keep the main thing the main thing. Christmas is not about the merchants, it’s about the birth of Christ.

One of my favorite Christmas songs is called “Bethlehem Morning” and here is a young Sandi Patty singing it in 1988 (4:17).

That song bears listening to again, but it isn’t 1988 any more. Here is a more recent rendition of the same song by the same singer, a bit heavier now, parenting with her second husband a blended family of eight children, and apparently singing more slowly now also as this clip is nearly a whole minute longer (5:10).

Here are the lyrics:

Lift up your heads
No need to mourn
His hand is stretched out still
For unto us a child is born
His promise to fulfill
Jerusalem! He cried for you
He did not come to us in vain
His loving arms are open wide for you
And he will come again

Bethlehem morning
Is more than just a memory
For the Child that was born there
Has come to set us free
Bethlehem sunrise
I can see Him in your eyes
For the Child that was born there
His spirit never dies
His star will never grow dim
And it's a brand-new dawn
A new Jerusalem
And we will reign
We will reign with him

Bethlehem morning
Is more than just a memory
For the Child that was born there
Has come to set us free
Bethlehem sunrise
I can see it in your eyes
For the Child that was born there
Is the King of kings
And the Lord of lords
And He will come again

Sandi Patty is known for being able to hit high notes. She has said, “To be honest, my range has changed a bit over the years but my mom says it’s about four octaves (F below middle C to high F above double high C). Really, singing high is just like screaming on pitch.”

Years ago, Mrs. RWP and I used to listen to Atlanta radio station WPCH (Peach Radio, of course, it’s Georgia) in the car on the way to church back in the days when Peach still aired Christian music for two hours on Sunday mornings. On one particularly memorable Easter Sunday, we heard the following song for the very first time. Recounting the experience of Mary Magdalene at the empty tomb, it has remained my very favorite Sandi Patty song:

“I’ve Just Seen Jesus” sung by Sandi Patty and Larnelle Harris (6:30).

I think, for the Christian, every day is Christmas and every day is Easter.

Speaking truth to power

2011-12-10T07:00:00.028-05:00

We interrupt your Advent observance to bring you an important message.

Here is Nigel Farage speaking truth to power on November 16, 2011 (2:39).

Here he is again on November 26 (3:11).

Here he is back in February speaking in the European Parliament (1:24).

Nick Farage may not be a polite man, but he says things that need to be said.

Such frankness and forthrightness is heard here in the U.S. too, with one stark difference. The Democrats say terrible things about the Republicans, and the Republicans say terrible things about the Democrats. But they speak only to representatives of the media, and only on occasions when those with whom they differ are not present. Here in the former colonies, our politicians never seem to speak to one another, face to face, except perhaps once every four years after the new candidate of the David party and the new candidate of the Goliath party have been chosen. Then they participate in what we quaintly refer to as a quadrennial presidential debate.

On the floor of the United States Senate and the House of Representatives, the unwritten rule all too often is one from our kindergarten days: “If you can’t say something nice about somebody, don’t say anything at all.” And so very little of substance gets accomplished. The members of the British House of Commons may start their harangues with the words, “The right honourable gentleman,” but they are not polite. Nigel Farage is lacking in certain social graces, but he speaks truth to power.

Good for them and good for him. If the emperor is not wearing any clothes, someone needs to inform the people who came to watch the parade. In the land of the blind, as you know, the one-eyed man is king.

There is hope here in the former colonies. The message that something is rotten in the state of Denmark (figuratively speaking) is slowly being heard. Even the most politically comatose among our citizenry are beginning to realize that something has gone awry. Even what one radio talk-show host calls “the mooching class,” by whom he means many of the people who were mesmerized by Barack Obama in 2008 and voted for Hope and Change, are beginning to realize that something is off-kilter. The fact that a Marxist is leading the pack does not resonate with them, however.

Here is, in my opinion, America’s equivalent of Nick Farage, only more polite, in a speech from 2009 (9:46).

And here he is again, speaking in 2010 (3:36).

If we pay more attention to him, maybe David will actually bring down Goliath in our 2012 elections.

Because Newt Gingrich is also speaking truth to power. In America, the power resides in the hands of the people who vote in elections.

(Photo by Matthew Gargano, 2011)

My 869th post

2011-12-09T07:00:00.138-05:00

The number 869 has special meaning to me. During World War II, my dad was a machinist's mate on the U.S. Navy vessel PCE-869. The letters PCE stand for Patrol Craft Escort, which type of ship escorted patrol craft (duh!) and hobnobbed with sub (for submarine) chasers. In later years my dad had nightmares in which human body parts floated to the surface of the sea after he and his shipmates set off depth charges. (From Wikipedia:
“A depth charge is an anti-submarine warfare (ASW) weapon intended to destroy or cripple a target submarine by the shock of exploding near it. Most use explosives and a fuse set to go off at a preselected depth in the ocean. Depth charges can be dropped by either surface ships, patrol aircraft, or from helicopters. The depth charge has now largely been replaced by anti-submarine homing torpedoes.”)

Dad joined the Navy in 1942 and was on the PCE-869 from 1943 to 1945. His last months before receiving an honorable discharge were spent at Quonset Point Naval Station in Rhode Island. He was 36 years old when he enlisted, older even than the captain of his ship. Everybody on board called him “Pop” because most of them were young whippersnappers not yet dry behind the ears, too big for their britches, all of 18 or 20 years old. He didn’t mind; in fact, he rather liked it.

When I found the photo of Dad’s ship, the site also had a place for a list of the crew. There was only one name listed, Father Frank Toste. I googled his name only to learn that he died in July of this year at the age of 86. (World War II did end 66 years ago, after all, and my Dad would be 105 if he were still alive.)

Father Frank Toste, from what I gather, was a fascinating fellow. He was born March 20, 1925, in Providence, Rhode Island, and died July 6, 2011, in New Bedford, Massachusetts. He entered the priesthood in 1960, was teacher of Drama and Drama Department Head at Notre Dame High School in Bridgeport, Connecticut (1960 - 1965); Assistant Headmaster and Department Head of the Theatre Department at Saint Peter's High School in Gloucester, Massachusetts (1965 - 1970); and Founder and Department Head of the Drama/Communication Arts Department Teacher in all areas of Theatre within the Department including Film and Television at Peabody Veterans Memorial High School in Peabody, Massachusetts (1970 - 1990). He then retired to Cocoa, Florida, but returned to the north in 2010. He had done graduate work in Theatre at Ohio University (1983) and graduate work in Filmmaking at UCLA (1983), received a Master of Arts in Drama from Harvard (1991), and was a doctoral candidate in Filmmaking at the Union Institute in Cincinnati (2000). To me, the most interesting paragraph in his obituary was:

“Always an avid stage and screen participant, Father Toste received certificates in Cinema from the School of Cinema/Television at the University of Southern California and the Feagin School of Drama and Radio in New York City. He was most proud of his affiliation with the film, ”Love Story,” in which he had a speaking role and met the co-stars of the film, Ryan O’Neil and Ali MacGraw. Fr. Toste was also an Equity Actor and a technical advisor for the long-standing television series M.A.S.H. and appeared in “Oliver’s Story,” and was on stage at the North Shore Music Theatre in Beverly. He was a long-term member of the Screen Actors Guild.”

I read in another place that he was Technical Advisor on M.A.S.H. for the character of Lt./Capt. Father Francis J. Mulcahy as played by William Christopher.

Ever the ’net surfer, I then discovered that some of Father Toste’s former drama students from Peabody had posted comments on Facebook about their favorite teacher. One of the threads asked people to relate, if they remembered, some of the funny things he was always saying. Lots of people responded. What blew me away (UK readers: American for “astonished me”) was that one of the quips they remembered was something I heard my Dad say many times:

“I see,” said the blind man, as he picked up his hammer and saw.

I know. Groan. Lame joke. But it must have been considered hilarious back in the day, and I could just picture my Dad and his shipmates interacting daily in the confined passageways of the PCE-869. I don’t know who said it first, my Dad or the young man who became Father Frank Toste or somebody else, but for a moment, I was a kid again and my Dad was close.

Some of us who are living and breathing can still remember the service of our fellow countrymen so many years ago and we are grateful. Father Frank Toste, the only one of Dad’s shipmates whose name I know, I honor you and the entire crew of the PCE-869 today.

[Editor’s note. A few hours after finishing this post, I suddenly realized that I know the name of one other sailor from the PCE-869 as well: Leroy Behrens of Round Rock, Texas, in whose living room I sat in September 1958 with my Dad and new stepmother on a trip from Coppell, Texas, that deposited me in the dormitory at Southwestern University at Georgetown, Texas. It had been 13 years since Dad and Leroy had seen each other, and they talked much about their days in the Navy. They never saw each other again. --RWP]

How green was my Libya

2011-12-07T07:00:00.005-05:00

The current total number of those little flag-thingies I have saved from the visitors list is 141, the latest one being the flag of the Cayman Islands:

That’s one you don’t see every day.

It’s amazing how similar some flags are.

For example, the flag of the United States:

and the flag of Malaysia:

are very similar.

Or compare Poland’s flag:

_____

with Indonesia’s:

............................................._____ (This dadblamed line should be one line higher to indicate the bottom of the flag -- white on white is hard to see -- but how to make it go there must remain one of life’s unsolved mysteries)

Then there’s Ireland and Italy...

and Yemen and the Netherlands...

and Belgium and Romania...

and Serbia and the Netherlands...

and Australia and New Zealand...

I wouldn’t say the confusion caused by all these similarities is insurmountable, but it certainly puts the vex in vexillologist.

So, dear reader, if you declared yourself to be a sovereign nation and wanted to design a flag for the new Republic of You, what would it look like? (Give colors, emblems, and so forth, and keep it clean, please!)

Get ready for your 15 minutes of fame

2011-12-05T07:00:00.024-05:00

Listed below are the names, gender (if known), and location on planet Earth (if known) of the select subset of the species homo sapiens who have become followers of this rhymeswithplague blog. You are:

1. Frances Garrood (female, United Kingdom)
2. Punk Chopsticks (female, Malaysia)
3. ica (female, Jakarta, Indonesia)
4. Bimbing Adj (male)
5. aku lupa namaku (female, Bali)
6. susan t (female)
7. PEÇAS INDIANAS EM GESSO OU PEDRA (Porto Alegre, Brazil)
8. talita (female, Brazil)
9. an.hoyt
10. Julianne Chatelain (female)
11. Grace Nelson (female)
12. Sharad Kishore (male)
13. Harfis (male, Medan, Indonesia)
14. ankita lal (female)
15. True Crime Story: "Fighting the Devil" (Jeannie Walker, female, New York, USA)
16. Brackers (male, Waterloo, Ontario, Canada)
17. Mas Huri (male)
18. Theanne and Baron (female, Florida, USA)
19. HarFi$ KouMan (male, Medan, Indonesia)
20. Émile Couture
21. Harfis
22. Glenda (female, Southeast USA)
23. Talli Roland (female, London, UK)
24. Achi (male, Chungli, Taiwan)
25. Kasakin Alexey (male)
26. Denix (male)
27. Kold_Kadavr_flatliner (male, Kansas, USA)
28. Nathanael Fields (male)
29. cakapbisa (male)
30. Liberty Forrest (female, Northamptonshire, UK)
31. John Gray (male, Trelawnyd, Wales, UK)
32. Jewels (female, Ontario, Canada)
33. Masia Mum (female, London, UK and Ibi, Spain)
34. Brian (male, Tortosa en Catalonia, Spain)
35. Snowbrush (male, Oregon, USA)
36. Marinela Reka (female, London, UK)
37. babyuser_88
38. Crazed Nitwit (female, Seattle, Washington, USA)
39. Harper
40. Katherine DeChevalle (female, Bay of Plenty, New Zealand)
41. Nedine Says (female, USA)
42. tony (male, Hebden Bridge, Yorkshire, UK)
43. shadows (female)
44. bARE-eYED sUN
45. SIMPHONY (female, Argentina)
46. Brad the Gorilla (male, Seattle, Washington, USA)
47. mahouny,pacoss (a.k.a mahmout cinan, male, Turkey)
48. ahmed ishtiaque (male)
49. Buford Pickleberry (male, Des Moines, Iowa, USA)
50. Loren Christie (female, New York, USA)
51. penny (a.k.a. Penelope Smith a.k.a Jinksy, female, UK)
52. Pat - Arkansas (female, Jacksonville, Arkansas, USA)
53. Egghead (a.k.a Vonda, female, Oregon, USA)
54. Lula's daughter (female)
55. Carolina (female, Netherlands)
56. Richie (male, Mena, Arkansas, USA)
57. jhull8 (female)
58. jesik contreras (female, Barranquilla, Atlantico, Colombia)
59. ВашаДаша (female, Саратов, Russia)
60. Mimi Foxmorton (female, Syracuse, New York, USA)
61. mukidmallick
62. Chris
63. leidy_a_h0313
64. prettycutiefab_sei
65. gavinboggitt (male?)
66. reneevizmanos (female?)
67. Hollie Thompson (female)
68. kiarasherwoood
69. eparfett-smith
70. anna martinez (female)
71. kapil4friend
72. alexislundgren (female)
73. Josimara lindinha
74. sswaroopa sanap
75. AmyLovesPandas
76. Ken (male)
77. Mirriam (female)
78. Angua.von.U
79. cathywicked (female)
80. A Lady's Life (female, British Columbia, Canada)
81. Jeannelle (female, Iowa, USA)
82. Pam (female, Georgia, USA)
83. (no identity whatsoever)

There are a few mysteries. If you are a sharp-eyed reader you will note that the sidebar says there are 86 of you, but I have been able to find only 83 of those little thumbnail photographs. Either Blogger is wrong or something is rotten in the state of Denmark-Blogstein. Some of you may have died (in which case, you are not reading this). Some of you who are still alive may have abandoned me long ago (in which case, you are not reading this). Some of you who are alive and who comment more or less regularly are conspicuous by your absence from the list. Some, like Buford Pickleberry and Brad the Gorilla, haven’t published a post of their own in two or three years.

I still miss Dr. John Linna of Neenah, Wisconsin. R.I.P., Dr. John.

All in all, you are a varied and diverse lot. And if some of you feel like enlightening me further concerning your gender or your whereabouts, I am interested in learning.

There is one other thing.

I salute you.

Photo circa 1930 from from Hulton-Deutsch Collection / Corbis

This evening’s program

2011-12-03T07:00:00.038-05:00

...will begin shortly. First, though, a little housekeeping is necessary.

The management requests that you turn off all electronic devices and that you place your cell phone in vibrate mode. As always, and as a courtesy to our artists, flashbulbs are not permitted during the performance. Texting is strictly prohibited. If you persist, an usher will relieve you of your play-pretty and you will be able to retrieve it at the box office after the program after producing three forms of proper identification. Persons who insist on talking loudly during tonight’s performance will be taken to the lobby and spanked. Later, upon returning to their vehicles, they will discover that all the air has been let out of their tires.

One last reminder: Ladies, please remove your hats.

With that out of the way, please sit back and enjoy this evening’s program (4:17)....

If you’re happy and you know it, say “Honolulu”

2011-12-02T08:53:00.004-05:00

According to an article in today’s online edition of the Daily Mail, Men’s Health magazine has named America’s ten happiest and ten saddest cities.

Men’s Health admits that the diagnosis is “more statistical than psychological.” The saddest and happiest Americans were determined by calculating suicide and unemployment rates in 100 cities across the country. Then the percentage of households that use antidepressants and the number of people who report feeling down all or most of the time were factored in.

Voila! Before you could say “Emmett Kelly” the results were in. Mesdames et messieurs, ze rezultz of ze research show zat ze ’appiest cities in America are:

1. Honolulu, Hawaii
2. Manchester, New Hampshire
3. Fargo, North Dakota
4. Omaha, Nebraska
5. Boston, Massachusetts
6. Madison, Wisconsin
7. Sioux Falls, South Dakota
8. St. Paul, Minnesota
9. Burlington, Vermont
10. Plano, Texas

and ze saddest ones are:

1. St. Petersburg, Florida
2. Detroit, Michigan
3. Memphis, Tennessee
4. Tampa, Florida
5. Louisville, Kentucky
6. St. Louis, Missouri
7. Birmingham, Alabama
8. Miami, Florida
9. Reno, Nevada
10. Las Vegas, Nevada

~~Poppycock!~~ ~~Balderdash!~~ Your honor, I object. ~~Zare~~ There are at least two flies in the ointment. First, Men’s Health magazine may have used the wrong criteria for determining sadness and happiness. Second, Men’s Health magazine may have used the wrong 100 cities. There may be happier Americans and sadder Americans who weren’t even considered. There may be other flies in the ointment as well, but these sprang to mind.

Furthermore, “happy” and “sad” are determined by individual persons, not by panels of researchers in magazines. For example, two of my grandchildren were born in St. Petersburg, Florida, and another two were born in Birmingham, Alabama, and those were among my happiest days ever. On the other hand, I can think of many places I would rather be than North Dakota (or Nebraska or New Hampshire or Massachusetts or Wisconsin or South Dakota or Minnesota), especially with winter coming on.

A poem by Robert H. Brague

2011-12-01T07:00:00.024-05:00

................................The Writer

....................With words alone, he paints
....................from the palette of his mind,
.........................mixing,
.........................blending,
.........................combining
.........................hues and tints
....................until he sees the exact shade
....................he wants.

....................With words alone, she chips away
....................rough edges of meaning,
.........................chiseling,
.........................hewing,
.........................gouging
..............................the solid rock
....................until the long-sought shape
....................emerges.

....................With words alone, she pins and drapes
....................original ideas
....................over the naked manikin page,
.........................tucking in a bit of material
.....................................................................................here,
....................snipping off
....................a dangling thread
there,
....................dropping thoughts
....................as easily as
....................hemlines.

....................With words alone, he composes
....................irresistible music,
.........................charming,
.........................seducing the ear,
.........................searching for a particular chord,
....................the one right sound his words must make
....................for echoes
.......................to linger.

O Come, O Come, Emmanuel

2011-11-29T09:19:00.004-05:00

This past Sunday evening, the first Sunday in Advent, Mrs. RWP and I sat down with ten other families in our church’s fellowship hall and made Advent wreaths. The one we made looks not unlike the one in the photograph above if you take away everything red or gold. Then each family lit one purple candle and our pastor led in several prayers to which we responded, “Lord, have mercy” and we sang “O Little Town of Bethlehem” and after our pastor spoke for a little while we all repeated the Lord’s Prayer together. It was a sweet time.

We were encouraged to take our Advent wreaths home with us and on succeeding Sunday evenings during Advent to light two candles, then three (the third one, pink, represents joy), and so forth, until the evening the Christ Child is born.

“Ho hum,” you may be saying. “Same old same old. So what?”

So what is that it is not same old same old for us. This is the first time in both of our 70+ years that either of us has ever observed Advent. We both have been Christians for most of those years, but we attended churches that considered observance of Advent unnecessary, superfluous, meaningless, an empty tradition.

We have discovered that we disagree. We find it beautiful and inspiring, with the emphasis in exactly the right place -- anticipating with hope and joy the coming of the Redeemer.

Here is an essay (it happens to have been written by a Roman Catholic writer) called “The End of Advent” that is worth reading. It first appeared in 2007.

This year, let’s not be so eager for the Christmas goodies (I can almost hear the seagulls in Finding Nemo crying, “Mine! Mine!” as they dive for fish) that we miss Advent.

Ist das nicht ein mellow sound? Ja, das ist ein mellow sound.

2011-11-28T08:29:00.000-05:00

For your Advent listening pleasure, here is an a cappella rendition of Es Ist Ein Ros Ensprungen (1:32) from 2007, complete with a natural echo chamber.

Now that Thanksgiving is behind us (in more ways than one)

2011-11-26T08:21:00.007-05:00

...we have a whole month of stuff like this (3:44) to look forward to.

I dislike “The Little Drummer Boy” (advocates salvation by works) and “Rudolph, the Red-Nosed Reindeer” (doesn't mention Bethlehem in 6 B.C. even once) and the barking dogs version of “Jingle Bells” (links general non-religious midwinter activities with University of Georgia football fans everywhere), but I especially abhor renditions of “O Holy Night” by the untalented. This one, however, is a definite put-on and had me laughing so hard I had tears rolling down my face. But it could have been real. That is the really scary part. Only later did it occur to me that enjoying it so much might be sacrilegious.

In case you too are wondering, I have installed lightning rods over my little portion of Blogland.

Who are you thanking?

2011-11-24T10:25:00.006-05:00

Listen. Watch. The Lincoln Minster School Choir makes it clear (2:26).

The song “Now Thank We All Our God” (a translation from the German “Nun danket alle Gott”) is a Christian hymn that was written circa 1636 by Lutheran pastor Martin Rinkart (1586–1649) in Eilenberg, Saxony, Germany. It was translated into English in the 19th Century by Catherine Winkworth.

Martin Rinkart came to Eilenburg, Saxony at the beginning of the Thirty Years War. The walled city became the refuge for political and military fugitives, but the result was overcrowding, and deadly pestilence and famine. Armies overran it three times. The Rinkart home was a refuge for victims, even though he was often hard-pressed to provide for his own family. During the height of a severe plague in 1637, Rinkart was the only surviving pastor of four who had served Eilenberg, and he conducted as many as 50 funerals in a day. He performed more than 4000 funerals in that year, including that of his wife.

Still he could write:

Now thank we all our God, with heart and hands and voices,
Who wondrous things has done, in Whom this world rejoices;
Who from our mothers’ arms has blessed us on our way
With countless gifts of love, and still is ours today.

O may this bounteous God through all our life be near us,
With ever joyful hearts and blessèd peace to cheer us;
And keep us in His grace, and guide us when perplexed;
And free us from all ills, in this world and the next!

All praise and thanks to God the Father now be given;
The Son and Him Who reigns with Them in highest Heaven;
The one eternal God, whom earth and Heaven adore;
For thus it was, is now, and shall be evermore.

In tough economic times, in times of political unrest and terroristic threats, in war, famine, pestilence, and even the face of death, can we do less?

[Editor's note. Just for the record, I wrote this post a day or two before this presidential faux pas occurred. President Obama should have been reading my blog. -- RWP, Nov. 26, 2011]

A penny for your thoughts

2011-11-22T08:48:00.000-05:00

Mayflower in Plymouth Harbor by William Halsall (1882)

Wikipedia has this to say about the Mayflower:

“The Mayflower was the ship that transported the English Separatists, better known as the Pilgrims, from a site near the Mayflower Steps in Plymouth, England, to Plymouth, Massachusetts, (which would become the capital of Plymouth Colony), in 1620. There were 102 passengers and a crew of 25–30.

“The vessel left England on September 6, 1620 (Old Style)/ September 16 (New Style), and after a grueling 66-day journey marked by disease, which claimed two lives, the ship dropped anchor inside the hook tip of Cape Cod (Provincetown Harbor) on November 11/November 21. The Mayflower was originally destined for the mouth of the Hudson River, near present-day New York City, at the northern edge of England’s Virginia colony, which itself was established with the 1607 Jamestown Settlement. However, the Mayflower went off course as the winter approached, and remained in Cape Cod Bay. On March 21/31, 1621, all surviving passengers, who had inhabited the ship during the winter, moved ashore at Plymouth, and on April 5/15, the Mayflower, a privately commissioned vessel, returned to England. In 1623, a year after the death of captain Christopher Jones, the Mayflower was most likely dismantled for scrap timber in Rotherhithe, London.

“The Mayflower has a famous place in American history as a symbol of early European colonization of the future United States. According to popular history, English Dissenters called Pilgrims undertook the voyage to escape religious persecution in England. The story of the Mayflower as symbol of religious freedom is a staple of any American history textbook.”

I’ve saved the best for last.

Here is a list of the passengers.

Now here’s that penny...

Old songs are good

2011-11-20T21:56:00.003-05:00

...but sometimes new ones are even better.

Here’s a new Christmas carol by a man named Donald Moore. He wrote it in 2010.

“Carol of the Star” (2:39)

Here are our old friends, the Mormon Tabernacle Choir

2011-11-18T09:59:00.004-05:00

...singing another of my favorite Christmas carols. This one is from Poland, and it is called “Infant Holy, Infant Lowly.” (4:10)

Listen closely to the words, as they apply all year ’round, not just at the Christmas season...

They even apply on Thanksgiving Day when you’re stuffing yourself with turkey.

I know I’m rushing the season

2011-11-16T08:31:00.008-05:00

...but I think every day should be Christmas.

I love the poem “In the Bleak Midwinter” by Christina Rossetti (1830 - 1894).

I love the tune called CRANHAM.

I love that CRANHAM was composed by Gustav Holst (1874 - 1934) during the time he lived in Cranham, a village in Gloucestershire, England, in a house now known as Midwinter.

I love that Rossetti’s poem has been set to Holst’s tune.

I love the sound made by the choir and congregation of Gloucester Cathedral (3:29).

I love that even though Israel is a land of warmth and palm trees and that the three wise men or magi or kings or whatever they were are always pictured as riding on camels across arid deserts, Christians in northern climes have managed to project their winter weather patterns into the Christmas story.

I love that Jesus was probably born in March or April, since spring -- the time lambs are usually born -- was the only time of year that shepherds stayed in the fields all night to assist the ewes rather than herding the flocks into the sheepfolds, and that early Christians chose to observe the birth of the Savior in December because they were less likely to be detected while the Roman Empire was celebrating Saturnalia.

If you love any of these things, even though it isn’t even Thanksgiving yet, click anywhere on this post.

Riddles science has not been able to solve

2011-11-15T08:26:00.002-05:00

Why Putz types with his fists and elbows instead of his fingers.

Why there is (are?) both chocolate and vanilla.

Why the San Francisco Forty-niners coaches moved rookie Bruce Miller from defensive lineman, the position he played during his entire collegiate career at the University of Central Florida, to offensive back.

Why Kim Kardashian married that basketball dude and then divorced him after only 72 days of wedded bliss.

The effect of ~~wellch~~ Welsh poetry on Man-in-the-Moon Marigolds.

How The Learning Channel gets away with broadcasting programs like Sister Wives and Hoarders and American Muslims and Say Yes to the Dress and Cake Boss.

Whether the person who put the tribbles in the quadritriticale was related to the person who put the overalls in Mrs. Murphy’s chowder.

Why Frances Garrood, English writer, isn’t richer and even more famous.

.,vERY fEW nORMALA peopLPLEPLE

2011-11-14T09:50:00.005-05:00

...and I mean vERY fEW read this blog.

Another quarter has been heard from, and when I say another quarter I mean Putz. The Putz. Mr. David H. Barlow of Ephraim/ Manti/Tooele (pick one), Utah.

His blog, I would say, is an acquired taste. Much like mine. Much like yours, probably.

On October 31st, Putz entered the following qwertygram (and it was quite good) into our little contest:

........quiz wizz erneszt rutgerts totally yaps under icky
........octopusses putting albatrosses summerially destroyed
........forever, joking karl laughs zealously creating vibes
........BADLY near manchester

but then, strangely and for no good reason that I could discern, he became embarrassed and decided to withdraw from Blogworld altogether because an English writer named Frances Garrood had also submitted a qwertygram. Putz left another comment on my blog:

........oh oh oh no i have just embarassed myself by publishing
........a comment below someone as famous as frances, the most
........well know author in all of england{at least to me she is}
........how will i ever live this down with all my miss spelling ........grammatical fopahs and mouth wide open with my foot
........in it<><><>that does it, i am through talking through
........posts blogs and comments<><>goodby world

and he returned to his own blog and posted the following:

Oct 31, 2011
goodby world, see ryhymes with bob for reason

which I’m pretty sure regular readers of his blog but not of mine probably found very puzzling. He has posted nothing since, except to join Carolina and Jinksy in voting “yes” to the question of whether I should start my pole dancing career as soon as possible and post photos of my pole dancing actions.

Until now.

Yesterday, in a comment on his own post, Putz said:

when i say goodbtworld see bob for a reason, it might very well be his train of thought lately.,,.,.this wellch poetry seems to appeal to very few normal people><<>.,vERY fEW nORMALA peopLPLEPLE

I HAVE BEEN INTRIGUED , HOWEVER WITH SOME OF HIS NEWEST COMMENTORS, BETTER THAN THE PRESENT NFL FOOTBALL I HAVE BEEN WATCHING

I must confess that this has left me perplexed. On the one hand, Putz accuses you, my readers, of not being nORMALA peopLPLEPLE [sic] but on the other hand he turns around and says he is intrigued with some of my newest commentors, many of whom, I hasten to point out, actually seemed to enjoy my wellch [sic] poetry post.

Honestly, there is just no pleasing some ~~peopLPLEPLE~~ people.

But I say let bygones be bygones. Let’s all hie ourselves over to Putz’s blog and leave comments encouraging him to return to our cold (I do not say cruel) corner of Blogworld, because he is sorely missed.

And if you should find Putz’s blogging style difficult to follow at times, keep plugging away at it. It has a way of growing on you. Eventually it will even make sense.

P.S. -- I have decided that what Putz meant is that ALL of you are perfectly normal, but that TOO FEW of you, only 84 at present, follow my blog. Also, I would point out that miss spellings and grammatical fopahs do not make a person either normal or abnormal, just intriguing.

If I am wrong, I do not wish to be corrected.

And if you ask me, the only one around here who isn’t normal is quiz wizz erneszt rutgerts.

Your feet sure do show it ’cause they’re Longfellows*

2011-11-11T07:00:00.011-05:00

Lots of bloggers are blogging today about Veterans Day in the U.S. and Remembrance Day in the U.K. and I thought I would do something different, something to get your mind off yesterday’s post, something a little more suited for the parlors of ladies and gentlemen everywhere -- poetry!

Not just any poetry, mind you. Esoteric forms of Welsh poetry.

Yes, you read that correctly. Esoteric forms of Welsh poetry.

[Editor’s note. That asterisk at the end of the title of this post is there to remind me to tell you that when I was young we had a little ditty reserved for those special moments when someone would be talking and inadvertently make a little rhyme. We would chant: “You’re a poet and don’t know it, but your feet sure do show it ’cause they're Longfellows” and then we would laugh and laugh. --RWP]

I discovered a blog the other day called Imaginary Garden With Real Toads and on it a post called I Gymryd Anadl. It introduced me to the toddaid, a type of Welsh poem. In case you didn’t know it, there are many types of Welsh poems.

Poking around in Wikipedia, I also found an entry called Traditional Welsh Poetic Meters where I learned that the traditional Welsh poetic meters consist of twenty-four different types of poetic meter, called Y Pedwar Mesur ar Hugain. They are all written in cynghanedd of varying degrees of complexity.

Say what?

Although called “traditional,” they were compiled -- and later redefined at least once -- in the Late Middle Ages and omit some of the older forms such as the englyn milwr. Only a few of them were widely used by the professional poets (Beirdd yr Uchelwyr), and the use of some of the more complicated ones is confined to occasional poems of technical virtuosity dating to the end of the Middle Ages.

I know you miss the englyn milwr as much as I do, and also the Beirdd yr Uchelwyr.

As I was saying, there are twenty-four traditional Welsh poetic meters. You just know I am now going to tell you what they are:

1. Awdl-gywydd
2. Byr-a-thoddaid
3. Cadwynfyr
4. Clogyrnach
5. Cyhydedd Fer
6. Cyhydedd Hir
7. Cyhydedd Naw Ban
8. Cyrch-a-chwta
9. Cywydd Deuair Fyrion
10. Cywydd Deuair Hirion
11. Cywydd Llosgyrnog
12. Englyn Proest Cyfnewidiog
13. Englyn Proest Cadwynog
14. Englyn Unodl Crwca
15. Englyn Unodl Union
16. Gorchest Beirdd
17. Gwawdodyn Byr
18. Gwawdodyn Hir
19. Hir-a-thoddaid
20. Rhupunt Byr
21. Rhupunt Hir
22. Rhupunt Hwyaf
23. Tawddgyrch Cadwynog
24. Toddaid

See how erudite we are becoming?

We will ignore the first 23 of the traditional Welsh poetic meters, however, and examine only the last one, number 24, the Toddaid.

Thanks be to God.

A toddaid is a couplet (two lines) of uneven length, often written in quatrain (four-line) form. In each couplet, line one contains ten syllables and line two contains nine syllables. The rhyme is internal (occurring at a place other than at the end of the line). Specifically, the fifth syllable of the first line must rhyme with the fourth syllable of the second line in each couplet. When the toddaid is extended into quatrain form (two couplets), there must also be an end rhyme in the final syllables of lines two and four.

Isn’t that simple?

Let’s review.

Here is the pattern for the couplet, where each character represents a syllable and the capital letters represent the syllables that rhyme:

xxxxAxxxxx
xxxAxxxxx

Here is the pattern for the quatrain form:

xxxxAxxxxx
xxxAxxxxB
xxxxCxxxxx
xxxCxxxxB

Got that?

By now, following the pattern, anyone (even you) should be able to write a toddaid.

Therefore, give it the old college try and then show your fellow ~~victims~~ readers the result in the comments section.

Oh, one other thing. Since I am a caring and compassionate person, I hereby suspend the requirement that the toddaid be created in the Welsh language. For this little exercise, we will use English. Teacher’s pet Carolina in Nederland is the sole exception. She may write her toddaid in Dutch if she likes, but she must then translate it into English, making sure to maintain the required number of syllables and the rhyme scheme.

Here’s a toddaid of my own:

[Editor’s note 2. Are you kidding? I ain’t got no time to come up with no fool toddaid. As for the example of one that appeared on that I Gymryd Anadl post:

For we must not hide from the coming day,
locked away, far from the living earth;
The whole of humanity must be joined,
and each value the coin of rebirth.

it has the correct number of syllables in each line as well as the required end-rhymes of the second and fourth lines, but it does NOT contain either of the required internal rhymes in the couplets (well, it does, but not in the syllables indicated), so it is technically not a toddaid, I don’t care what I Gymryd Anadl says. --RWP]

[Editor’s note 3. If this post doesn’t drive away those dadblamed devotees of pole dancing (notice the alliteration, class), nothing will. --RWP]

[Editor’s note 4. Do not grumble and complain about today’s writing assignment. Just remember, I could have asked you to write cynghanedd of varying degrees of complexity. --RWP]

[Editor’s note 5. Writing a toddaid is an act done on purpose. No one has ever inadvertently written a toddaid, not even people with big feet. --RWP]

[Editor’s note 6. I believe I have set a new personal record for editor’s notes in a single post. --RWP]

The voters have spoken

2011-11-10T08:00:00.002-05:00

(Photo by Elislike, used under the terms of GNU Free Documentation License, Version 1.2)

Note. My personal code prevents me from doing anything illegal, immoral, or fattening. This squeaked in under the wire.

Vote early and often

2011-11-09T07:00:00.010-05:00

Yesterday I was a poll worker (and not, as my daughter-in-law’s mother thought, a pole dancer) here in Cherokee County once again. Although I served at the Macedonia precinct last November, this time I was assigned to the Dixie precinct, which is called that not out of some lingering allegiance to the old Confederacy but because a dirt track called Dixie Speedway where stock cars race is nearby. Altogether, Cherokee County is divided into 44 precincts for its 214,346 residents.

The turnout was light and there were only two items on the ballot:

1. Should Cherokee County allow alcohol sales on Sunday?
2. Should the existing one-cent Special-Purpose Local-Option Sales Tax designated to be used for maintaining existing schools and building new ones (E-SPLOST for short, as in Education Special-Purpose Local-Option Sales Tax) be extended for ten more years?

I’ll tell you how I voted.

I voted NO on the Sunday alcohol sales, not because I am a teetotaling prude who isn’t willing to let other people have a little fun and the freedom to do what they please but because, well, here’s the way I see it: If our local drinking/drunk population is either so financially strapped or so perennially looped that they can neither afford nor stay upright long enough to hie themselves over to their local neighborhood package store on a Saturday and purchase enough ~~demon rum~~ ~~hard stuff~~ libations of the bubbly sort to last them until Monday, things are far worse in this country than any of us thought. Besides, package store owners are an overworked bunch and deserve at least one day off each week like everybody else.

I voted YES on the E-SPLOST because, well, just because. When my children were in school they were the beneficiaries of the foresight of previous voters, and I would like to do my part to help provide the best possible education for future generations of Cherokee County schoolchildren.

Next year we will have at least three and possibly even five elections (if runoffs are necessary), including a presidential preference primary in March, a Republican and Democratic primary to choose the respective parties’ candidates in July, and the general election for President, Senators, Congressional Representatives, and I don’t know what all, in November.

I promise you this, my fellow citizens. Unless I am in a hospital, a jail, a cemetery, or otherwise unavoidably detained, I promise you that I will continue to be a ~~pole dancer~~ poll worker to the best of my ability each and every time the opportunity arises.

May God bless the United States of America.

[Editor's note. This just in. With 100% of the precincts reporting, Sunday alcohol sales were approved by a two-to-one margin (66 per cent to 34 per cent), and the School Sales Tax was also approved by almost the same margin (63 per cent to 37 perent). The sad part is that only about 6,000 people went to the polls in Cherokee County yesterday (I’m including the cities of Canton and Woodstock), compared to more than 40,000 who participated in the November 2010 election and more than 93,000 who participated in the 2008 election when we were selecting a new President. I guess the rest of the populace didn’t care one way or the other whether liquor was sold or taxes were continued or children were educated. --RWP]

Trademarks?

2011-11-07T07:00:00.000-05:00

What’s that thing called that, when you pour hot liquids into it they stay hot and when you pour cold liquids into it it they stay cold?

Oh, yes, that’s right. I remember now.

A vacuum flask.

Not a Thermos.

Thermos is a trademark. More about Thermos later.

There are lots of brand names that have become genericized (is that a word?) to the point that we call the general item by a particular manufacturer’s appellation.

We say Kleenex™ when we want a tissue.

We say Saran Wrap™ when we mean clear plastic stuff that sticks more to itself than to the things it’s supposed to be covering.

We say Scotch tape™ when any old adhesive thingy would do (except maybe Saran Wrap™).

We say Pringles™ when we mean potato chips.

We Hoover™ the floor even if we’re using an Electro-Lux™.

Here in the southern U.S., the word “Coke™” is used by many to mean any carbonated cola drink, not just the ones produced by the Coca-Cola™ company, which is headquartered in Atlanta because its product was invented here. In Georgia, it’s an article of faith that only Coca-Cola™ is acceptable and that only Yankees drink Pepsi™. I worked with a fellow who once walked out of a restaurant in Pennsylvania when he couldn’t get a Coca-Cola™.

There are lots of examples of the misuse of trademarks, but let’s get back to Thermos.

You’ll notice I didn’t say Thermos™ (with the little trademark indicator).

There’s a reason for that. It’s because the general public won. Keep reading.

According to Wikipedia, the vacuum flask was invented by Scottish physicist and chemist Sir James Dewar in 1892 and is sometimes referred to as a Dewar flask, or Dewar bottle, after its inventor. The first vacuum flasks for commercial use were made in 1904 when a German company, Thermos GmbH, was formed. Thermos, their trademark for their flasks, remains a registered trademark in some countries but was declared a genericized trademark in the U.S. in 1963 as it is colloquially synonymous with vacuum flasks in general. (emphasis mine).

I’m looking forward to the day when I become colloquially synonymous with blogs in general.

The tipping point

2011-11-04T17:39:00.023-04:00

Today, people in the northern hemisphere find themselves at the midway point between the autumnal equinox and the winter solstice (you people in the southern hemisphere find yourself somewhere else). With fall half gone and winter not quite here yet, last week’s big snowstorms in the northeastern part of the U.S. notwithstanding, some of us don’t know whether we’re coming or going, weatherwise. We’re between Scylla and Charybdis, between the devil and the deep blue sea, between a rock and a hard place, climatalogically speaking.

It’s a delicate balance. One is never sure how to dress, for example. Today's high temperature is around 70 degrees Fahrenheit but tonight’s low is expected to be in the 20s. Our sasanqua camellias and encore azaleas are still blooming ~~their guts out~~ profusely today but they could all be dead by tomorrow.

For that matter, so could we. We could lay our heads on our pillows tonight and just not wake up in the morning.

No one likes to think about death and dying, but it happens to us all. One day you’re here and the next day you’re not, just like the contestants on Project Runway. At some point in every person’s life cycle, there comes a time when it’s all downhill from there. Or uphill, depending on whether you're a glass-half-empty or a glass-half-full sort of person. That time, that place from which there is no recovery, is called the tipping point. [Editor’s note. Okay, so maybe it’s not, but work with me, people, I’m trying to sound profound here. --RWP]

I’m sure you younger people don’t waste a minute thinking about your eventual demise and just want to get on with the partying, but for us old codgers the thought of it (our eventual demise, not yours) occupies more and more of our waking hours.

I want to see my grandchildren grow up, get married, and have children of their own. If it were possible, I’d like to see my great-grandchildren grow up, get married, and have children of their own as well. But it’s just not possible, unless the scientists make some really great advances quickly.

I am hoping to be around for the U.S.’s semi-quincentennial celebration in 2026. I’ll be 85 then. By the year of our country’s tercentennial in 2076, though, the likelihood of my being here to help celebrate is slim to none since I would be 135 years old.

Some of you reading this may make it. Take Punk Chopsticks, for example. She’s a 17-year-old girl who once lived in Brooklyn but now lives in Malaysia who reads this blog. In 2076 she’ll be, let’s see, divide by 7, carry the 4, a mere 82 years old.

I’m 70 now and grateful to have lived this long. I hope to be around for quite a few more years. My grandfather lived to be nearly 96 and I want to beat his record.

But I could go to sleep tonight and not wake up tomorrow, and so could you.

I’m not trying to be morbid, just realistic.

Each and every last one of us has a tipping point.

The earth gets to go around its orbit over and over and over. You and I get to go around ours just once.

Make it count.

And Punky, if you’re still here in 2076, raise a glass for me. You’ll recognize my glass. It’ll be the one that’s half-full.

[Editor’s note. Reader Elizabeth S. from England expanded my words “make it count” in her comment and said just what I was trying to convey: “Make it count. Shout it from the rooftops. Live every moment with abundance,never fail to tell people how much you care about them, to appreciate this beautiful, amazing world and the astounding people within it, each with significant, special, individual stories to tell, to build meaningful memories in the hearts of both yourself and those who will be left behind and to celebrate every precious, valuable second as though it was your last. Make it count.” Thank you, Elizabeth. --RWP]

There’s more than one way to skin a cat, er, write a qwerty

2011-11-01T20:00:00.005-04:00

In a comment added to his own blogpost that started all the activity in my preceding post (over 30 comments at this point, some of which are -- full disclosure -- my own), Dr. FTSE suggested a new game. Specifically, he wrote:

“Now then folks, for your next homework...a 26-line poem where the first word of each line starts with the QWERTY letters...in reverse order if you like.”

First of all, may I suggest that that is two games, or three, or four, as we now have the following options staring us in the face:

1. A qwertygram (a 26-word passage using the familiar QWERTY...VBNM pattern.
2. A reverse qwertygram (a 26-word passage starting at the other end of the familiar QWERTY pattern and working backward; that is MNBV...YTREWQ.
3. A qwertoem (a 26-line poem in which the first letter of each line starts with the QWERTY letters).
4. A reverse qwertoem (I think you have enough information by now to figure out what this is by yourself).

Class, if any of you need need to leave the room for a few minutes to clear your head, do it now. We will wait for you.

While they’re gone, the rest of us will listen to this (2:27).

There now, wasn’t that fun? You there, in the back, stop rolling your eyes.

Some seem to be taking longer to clear their heads than others. While we’re waiting for the stragglers, let’s listen to that song again, sung this time in a more laid-back style by Perry Como with backup singers that could be the Lennon Sisters. It is guaranteed to remove all tension from your body for the rest of the day.

Okay, now that everyone has returned, we will continue.

We have a fifth option!

“Wait a cotton-pickin’ minute,” you may be saying. “I’ve had quite enough of QWERTY.” Maybe you are sick unto death of QWERTY. Maybe you wish you had never heard the word QWERTY. Maybe you wish never to hear the word QWERTY again. Be careful what you wish for! Remember Philip Nolan!

Anyway, as I was saying, we have a fifth option, and it is DVORAK!

Not Dvořák the Czech composer. I’m talking about Dvorak the computer keyboard. Here is the layout:

Yes! That’s right! QWERTY ain’t the only keyboard in town!

So let’s review.

We have eight options in all, four with a QWERTY keyboard and four with a DVORAK keyboard.

The pattern for a qwertygram or qwertyoem is QWERTYUIOPASDFGHJKLZXCVBNM.

The pattern for a reverse qwertygram or reverse qwertyoem is MNBVCXZLKJHGFDSAPOIUYTREWQ.

The pattern for a dvorakgram or dvorakoem is PYFGCRLAOEUIDHTNSQJKXBMWVZ.

The pattern for a reverse dvorakgram or reverse dvorakoem is ZVWMBXKJQSNTHDIUEOALRCGFYP.

Knock yourselves out. Just identify in your comment what it is that you have created, a qwertygram, a reverse qwertygram, a qwertoem, a reverse qwertoem, a dvorakgram, a reverse dvorakgram, a dvorakoem, or a reverse dvorakoem.

In case anyone is counting, I have coined four words in the past two days: qwertygram, qwertoem, dvorakgram, and dvorakoem.

There are padded rooms in mental institutions for people like me.

QWERTY? QWERTY???

2011-10-31T09:23:00.008-04:00

My friend Jinksy who lives in England told me about an interesting challenge this morning over at This Is Getting Very Silly (Dr. FTSE’s blog).

The challenge is simply this (though few things are ever very simple):

When you can’t think what to write, here’s a neat way to beat writer's block. Just look at your keyboard, then write a 26-word passage that makes sense, using as the first letter of each word the letters on your keyboard taken in order, left to right, top row to bottom row.

If you can do that, writes Dr. FTSE, you can do anything.

QWERTYUIOPASDFJKLZXCVBNM is the pattern on my keyboard, but if your keyboard is different, use your pattern.

My contribution, possibly the opening lines of my smashing new best-seller, The Adventures of Quentin and Kevin, was:

Quentin, waxing eloquent, raced toward Yvonne’s upstairs, inconsolable over Penelope's abominable situation despite Friday’s germs hovering jauntily. Kevin languished, Zen-like, xenophobically coveting Veronica’s Norwegian behind mightily.

Oops, the N and B seems to have exchanged places when I wasn’t looking. Oh, well.

Emboldened, I decided to try again. My second offering was an excerpt from my other potential blockbuster, Nothing Makes Sense Any More:

“Quit whining,” Edward reluctantly told Yakima’s ubiquitous imbecile, Percy, “only people at Seattle drink filthy gin.” Hoping, John kissed Loretta. Zany xylophonist Charles visited bassoonists near Manhattan.***

Basically, what this challenge proves most is that there’s no fool like and old fool (I’m talking about me, not Dr. FTSE).

But I would love to see what deathless prose you can come up with! Put it on Dr. FTSE’s blog, then copy your offering into a comment here on this post.

Now, get busy!

***Belatedly, I see that my second offering (the one that started “Quit whining...) is a little botched in the O and P area. If I change the name Percy to Oliver and delete the word “only” the result is a true qwertygram (a word I just invented):

“Quit whining,” Edward reluctantly told Yakima’s ubiquitous imbecile, Oliver, “people at Seattle drink filthy gin.” Hoping, John kissed Loretta. Zany xylophonist Charles visited bassoonists near Manhattan.

And if we combine my original qwertygram (Quentin, waxing...) with the one from Frances Garrood in the comments, we have the beginnings of a truly intriguing story:

Quentin, waxing eloquent, raced toward Yvonne’s upstairs, inconsolable over Penelope’s abominable situation despite Friday’s germs hovering jauntily. Kevin languished, Zen-like, xenophobically coveting Veronica’s Norwegian behind mightily.

Quentin was easily rendered tipsy. Yvonne understimated Ian’s orange punch. Andrea, senseless, dropped floorwards. Gavin held Jennifer, kissed, laughing zanily (xxx). Caroline’s vodka befuddled Nathan’s mother.

Wow, in just two paragraphs we have been introduced to Quentin, Yvonne, Penelope, Kevin, Veronica, Ian, Andrea, Gavin, Jennifer, Caroline, and Nathan’s mother. Nathan, however, is nowhere in sight.

I have changed the working title of my novel to Caroline’s Vodka. It has a certain ring to it, like Angela’s Ashes.

Question of the day

2011-10-29T07:00:00.001-04:00

Now that the rules for succeeding to the British throne have been changed to let birth order take precedence over gender (that is, girls will now precede their younger brothers instead of being pushed to the back of the pack), I am dying to know one thing that wasn’t mentioned in any of the news stories:

Is the decision retroactive? What I mean is, does it affect the living, or only the future-born?

Specifically, what I’m getting at is this. If something horrible should happen to Prince Charles, Prince William, and Prince Harry (I mean besides being related to the Duchess of Cornwall), will the next monarch be Prince Andrew or Princess Anne? Has the Princess Royal, Anne Elizabeth Alice Louise Windsor-Mountbatten Phillips Laurence, vaulted from tenth in line to fourth? If so, would that mean her children, Peter Phillips and Zara Phillips, have also leapfrogged ahead of not only Andrew but also the Princesses Eugenie and Beatrice? Or was all this trouble gone to for the sole benefit of the offspring, if and when there are any, of the Duke and Duchess of Cambridge, the recently wed William and Kate? Most importantly, should Prince Edward, the Earl of Wessex, produce a documentary film about it? And if he does, would anyone except his wife, the former Sophie Rhys-Jones, care?

I am undoubtedly one of ~~millions~~ ~~hundreds~~ probably around a dozen people on this planet who will not be able to sleep until these questions are answered.

Daphne, Elizabeth, Ian, other Ian, Y.P. et al, I’m counting on you to clear up the mystery.

(Photo by Agência Brasil and used under the Creative Commons License Attribution 2.5 Brazil)

56 shopping days until Christmas

2011-10-28T07:00:00.015-04:00

...and the main thing to remember is:

Christmas is not your birthday.

The inimitable Putz (and I mean that sincerely) and his family out in Utah perform the Christmas story in their home every year on Christmas Eve. This week he posted the script of his family’s delightful re-enactment (in three parts) on his blog for all the world to see. As an early incentive for your own observance of the holiday, I now present you with links to it ~~them~~ the three parts. If it is not exactly St. Luke’s version, I strongly suggest that, in keeping with the spirit of the season that all too soon will be upon us, you pretend not to notice.

Part 1 - the actual script of the barlow christmas pageant.

Part 2 - christmas is coming goose is getting fat.

Part 3 - continuation 3rd part, christmas story enhanced.

I find I do have one thing to say:

Thank you, Barlow family!

I knew that!

2011-10-27T07:00:00.029-04:00

Here are the answers to yesterday’s quiz:

1. Wonder Bread

2. Cassius Clay (He was from Louisville, Kentucky. Because he said things like “I am the greatest!” and “Float like a butterfly; sting like a bee” he was known as The Louisville Lip.)

3. He is us. (The cartoonist was Walt Kelly.)

4. Good night, Chet. (Chet Huntley and David Brinkley were news anchors on NBC-TV.)

5. When you brush your teeth with Pepsodent.

6. Maynard G. Krebs (The television program was The Many Loves of Dobie Gillis. The Skipper was on Gilligan’s Island.)

7. Pants on fire.

8. The American way.

9. It’s Howdy Doody time. (Buffalo Bob Smith asked the question at the beginning of every program and the kids in the peanut gallery would shout out the answer.)

10. Oh, my! (from The Wizard of Oz.)

11. Over 30. [Editor’s note. Reader Snowbrush in Oregon has pointed out that the admonition not to trust anyone over 30 is not attributed to Bob Dylan but to Jerry Rubin. He is correct. I knew something didn’t sound right about this question but couldn’t put my finger on it. Jerry Rubin was one of the Chicago 7 along with Abby Hoffman, Tom Hayden (a future husband of Jane Fonda), and others who were jailed at the time of the disturbances surrounding the 1968 Democratic Convention in Chicago. If you don’t remember that time, count yourself among the fortunate. Bob Dylan was a person who wanted to sing very badly, and he did. --RWP]

12. Joe Namath (and they weren’t stockings, they were pantyhose.)

13. A little dab’ll do ya.

14. On Blueberry Hill. (Fats Domino and Pat Boone both had hits with this song.)

15. Mary Martin (She also starred on Broadway in South Pacific and The Sound of Music, and she was the mother of Larry Hagman, who played J.R. Ewing on Dallas.)

16. John, Paul, George, Ringo

17. Who wrote the book of love?

18. Cause I eats me spinach. (I’m Popeye the Sailor Man.)

19. Smile, you’re on Candid Camera. (with Allen Funt and Fannie Flagg. One of them wrote Fried Green Tomatoes at the Whistle Stop Cafe and was a former Miss Alabama.)

20. Melt in your mouth, not in your hand.

How many did you get right?

Boomer generation quiz

2011-10-26T07:00:00.007-04:00

This one has been around the email circuit a few times now, but on the off chance you have never seen it, I’m including it in my post today.

There are 20 questions. The average score is said to be 12.

Needless to say, I got all 20 right. And that is odd, because I am not even a Boomer. (Note to the clueless: A “baby boom” occurred in the U.S. in the post-World War II years, when births exceeded three million annually from 1946 through 1964. Hence, children born during that period are referred to as “the boomer generation.” I was born in 1941.)

Good luck, youngsters!

1. What builds strong bodies 12 ways?
A. Flintstones vitamins
B. The Buttmaster
C. Spaghetti
D. Wonder Bread
E. Orange Juice
F. Milk
G. Cod Liver Oil

2. Before he was Muhammed Ali, he was...
A. Sugar Ray Robinson.
B. Roy Orbison.
C. Gene Autry.
D. Rudolph Valentino.
E. Fabian.
F. Mickey Mantle.
G. Cassius Clay.

3. Pogo, the comic strip character said, “We have met the enemy and...
A. It’s you.”
B. He is us.”
C. It’s the Grinch.”
D. He wasn’t home.”
E. He’s really me and you.”
F. We quit.”
G. He surrendered.”

4. Good night, David.
A. Good night, Irene.
B. Good night, Gracie.
C. Sleep well.
D. See you later, alligator.
E. Good night, Chet.
F. Until tomorrow.
G. Good night, Steve.

5. You’ll wonder where the yellow went...
A. When you use Tide.
B. When you lose your crayons.
C. When you clean your tub.
D. If you paint the room blue.
E. When you brush your teeth with Pepsodent.
F. If you buy a soft water tank.
G. When you use Lady Clairol.

6. Before he was the Skipper’s Little Buddy, Bob Denver was Dobie’s friend...
A. Stuart Whitman.
B. Randolph Scott.
C. Steve Reeves.
D. Maynard G. Krebs.
E. Corky B. Dork.
F. Dave the Whale.
G. Zippy Zoo.

7. Liar, liar...
A. You’re a liar.
B. Your nose is growing.
C. Pants on fire.
D. Join the choir.
E. Jump up higher.
F. On the wire.
G. I’m telling Mom.

8. Meanwhile, back in Metropolis, Superman fights a never-ending battle for truth, justice, and...
A. Wheaties.
B. Lois Lane.
C. TV ratings.
D. World peace.
E. Red tights.
F. The American way.
G. News headlines.

9. Hey, kids! What time is it?
A. It’s time for Yogi Bear.
B. It’s time to do your homework.
C. It’s Howdy Doody Time.
D. It’s time for Romper Room.
E. It’s bedtime.
F. Time for The Mighty Mouse Hour.
G. Scoopy Doo Time.

10. Lions and tigers and bears...
A. Yikes!
B. Oh, no!
C. Gee whiz!
D. I’m scared!
E. Oh, my!
F. Help! Help!
G. Let’s run!

11. Bob Dylan advised us never to trust anyone...
A. Over 40.
B. Wearing a uniform.
C. Carrying a briefcase.
D. Over 30.
E. You don’t know.
F. Who says, “Trust me.”
G. Who eats tofu.

12. NFL quarterback who appeared in a television commercial wearing women’s stockings...
A. Troy Aikman
B. Kenny Stabler
C. Joe Namath
D. Roger Staubach
E. Joe Montana
F. Steve Young
G. John Elway

13. Brylcream...
A. Smear it on.
B. You’ll smell great.
C. Tame that cowlick.
D. Grease ball heaven.
E. A little dab’ll do ya.
F. It’s a dream.
G. We’re your team.

14. I found my thrill...
A. In Blueberry muffins.
B. With my man, Bill.
C. Down at the mill.
D. Over the windowsill.
E. With thyme and dill.
F. Too late to enjoy.
G. On Blueberry Hill.

15. Before Robin Williams, Peter Pan was played by...
A. Clark Gable.
B. Mary Martin.
C. Doris Day.
D. Errol Flynn.
E. Sally Fields.
F. Jim Carrey.
G. Jay Leno.

16. Name the Beatles.
A. John, Steve, George, Ringo
B. John, Paul, George, Roscoe
C. John, Paul, Stacey, Ringo
D. Jay, Paul, George, Ringo
E. Lewis, Peter, George, Ringo
F. Jason, Betty, Skipper, Hazel
G. John, Paul, George, Ringo

17. I wonder, wonder, who...
A. Who ate the leftovers?
B. Who did the laundry?
C. Was it you?
D. Who wrote the book of love?
E. Who I am?
F. Passed the test?
G. Knocked on the door?

18. I’m strong to the finish...
A. Cause I eats my broccoli.
B. Cause I eats me spinach.
C. Cause I lift weights.
D. Cause I’m the hero.
E. And don’t you forget it.
F. Cause Olive Oyl loves me.
G. To outlast Bruto.

19. When it’s least expected, you’re elected, you’re the star today...
A. Smile, you’re on Star Search.
B. Smile, you won the lottery.
C. Smile, we’re watching you.
D. Smile, you’re on Candid Camera.
E. Smile, the world sees you.
F. Smile, you’re a hit.
G. Smile, you’re on TV.

20. What do M & M’s do?
A. Make your tummy happy!
B. Melt in your mouth, not in your pocket.
C. Make you fat.
D. Melt your heart.
E. Make you popular.
F. Melt in your mouth, not in your hand.
G. Come in colors.

I’ll reveal the correct answers in my next post!

[Editor’s note. Reader Snowbrush in Oregon has pointed out that the saying in #11 is not attributed to Bob Dylan but to Jerry Rubin. He is correct. I knew something didn’t sound right about that question but couldn’t put my finger on it. Jerry Rubin was one of the Chicago 7 along with Abby Hoffman, Tom Hayden (a future husband of Jane Fonda), and others who were jailed at the time of the disturbances surrounding the 1968 Democratic Convention in Chicago. If you don’t remember that time, count yourself among the fortunate. --RWP]

842

2011-10-25T07:00:00.015-04:00

This is my 842nd post. Ever. It has never happened before and it will never happen again.

842 is an interesting number. 8 is 2 cubed, 4 is 2 squared, and 2 is, well, 2. As in “tea for” and “on the aisle” and “if by sea.” It is how many it takes to tango and how many heads are better than one, unless one of them is a cabbage head. 842 just missed being a perfect square, the product of 29 times 29 being 841.

In the year 842, lots of interesting things happened.

In Europe, Charles the Bald and Louis the German signed a treaty on February 14th.

Cerball mac Dúnlainge became king of Osraige.

The Oaths of Strasbourg, an alliance of Louis the German and Charles the Bald against emperor Lothar, were sworn and recorded in the vernacular languages.

Ramiro I succeeded Alfonso II as king of Asturias.

Uurad was succeeded by Bred, then Ciniod as King of the Picts.

Charles the Bald married Ermentrude.

In the Byzantine Empire, three year old Michael III succeeded Theophilus (emperor) as emperor of Byzantium.

In Asia, the reign of caliph Al-Mu'tasim, the caliph of Abbasid, ended on January 5th with his death, and the Uyghurs left the Mongolian plateau.

Emperor Saga of Japan (b. 786), Alfonso II of Asturias (b. 759), Theophilus, Byzantine Emperor (b. 813), and Liu Yuxi, Chinese poet, philosopher, and essayist (b. 772), all died.

Where else could you learn such fascinating information?

Oh, yeah -- Wikipedia.

Page 2.

Charles the Bald was extremely prolific, producing 14 children with his two wives. He and Ermentrude, daughter of Odo I, Count of Orléans, had nine:

1. Judith (844–870), married firstly with Ethelwulf of Wessex, secondly with Ethelbald of Wessex (her stepson) and thirdly with Baldwin I of Flanders;
2. Louis the Stammerer (846–879);
3. Charles the Child (847–866);
4. Lothar (848–865), a monk who became Abbot of Saint-Germain;
5. Carloman (849–876);
6. Rotrud (852–912), a nun who became Abbess of Saint-Radegunde;
7. Ermentrud (854–877), a nun who became Abbess of Hasnon;
8. Hildegard (born 856, died young); and
9. Gisela (857–874).

and after Ermentrude died in 869, Charles married his second wife, Richilde of Provence, who was descended from a noble family of Lorraine, in 870. They had five more:

10. Rothild (871–929), married firstly with Hugues, Count of Bourges and secondly with Roger, Count of Maine;
11. Drogo (872–873);
12. Pippin (873–874);
13. A son (born and died 875); and
14. Charles (876–877).

One more thing: It has been suggested that Charles the Bald’s nickname was used ironically and not descriptively; that he was not in fact bald, but rather that he was extremely hairy.

As Paul the Golden-Throated used to say, and now you know the rest of the story.

On the other hand, there are times when swearing is definitely appropriate

2011-10-24T08:11:00.006-04:00

Here is a famous (in the U.S., anyway) scene from The Carol Burnett Show (4:57) in which Tim Conway destroys his castmates during a “Mama’s Family” sketch by refusing to let the scene continue until he can finish a story about a circus elephant.

For the benefit of any Nederlanders and Enzedders and Yorkshirians out there (you know who you are) who might not know, Tim’s habit of inserting unscripted material during tapings of Carol’s shows before a live audience became legend.

I thought a good laugh might help you start your week.

And, yes, the fellow on the other end of the couch is Dick Van Dyke.

Here’s a scene of Tim with Harvey Korman (2:48). Although it is probably mostly scripted, it is every bit as funny as the first clip. In fact, I find it downright hilarious.

Thus spake Zarathustra.

If you show me your Nook, I'll let you see my Kindle

2011-10-22T09:35:00.015-04:00

My reading continues.

After finishing The Road and The Help, I decided to read Angela’s Ashes, which won the 1997 Pulitzer Prize for Frank McCourt (1930 - 2009). I liked the Irishness of it, but it turned out to be naughty in places.

After finishing Angela’s Ashes, I started Run With the Horsemen by Dr. Ferrol Sams of Fayetteville, Georgia, and I also have his Whisper of the River at the ready. But I interrupted reading the novel to read a little volume of his entitled The Widow’s Mite that contains eight short stories, my favorite kind of reading. With short stories, the commitment of time and energy is less and the satisfaction of having completed one is more frequent.
I highly recommend two volumes of short stories in particular,
A Good Man Is Hard To Find and Everything That Rises Must Converge, both by another Georgia author, the one and only Flannery O’Connor (1925 - 1964). A third and much more diverse read is Clifton Fadiman’s anthology, The World of the Short Story: A 20th Century Collection. But I digress.

The stories in The Widow’s Mite turned out to be quite funny but also quite naughty in places.

I am going to ask you a question, but I don’t want you to answer me (that is called a rhetorical question, kiddies). Why do we call descriptions of sex organs or sexual activities or anything remotely having to do with sex -- “adult”? The preoccupation with that part of our lives (pleasurable as it is) seems more adolescent than adult to me. Maybe I’m a prude (don’t answer that either) but here’s what I say: Have as much sex as you like, just don’t talk or write about it or take pictures of it. But if you do, please refrain from posting them on your favorite social networking site for all the world to see.

I think what I really object to most in books is the coarseness of the language. Hearing it is bad enough, but must I see the words in print also? I know that many people use words regularly that I find objectionable, and I’m all for freedom of speech, but if I ruled the world the first thing I would do is encourage (I do not say force) people to find some way to expand their vocabularies. Slang will take you only so far. There are many other descriptive words that have more than four letters and aren’t even Anglo-Saxon.

Television programming is no better. Our time in front of the television of late has been reduced to watching cooking shows and home improvement shows and shows about real estate and priceless antiques and veteran after returning veteran surprising his or her children and we must not forget extreme home makeovers for what seem to be deserving families and feats of athletic prowess in more sports and between more teams than you even knew existed.

That’s another reason we've taken to reading.

It’s a vicious, never-ending cycle, and somebody has to do it.

Just be careful, little eyes, what you see. But I find that I’m much too old for Bert and Nan and Flossie and Freddie.

Mission Impossible, or It’s my parody and I’ll cry if I want to

2011-10-20T16:53:00.007-04:00

Good evening, Mr. Phelps.

According to the dictionary I checked, a parody is a humorous or satirical imitation of a serious piece of literature or writing. Those pomes in the preceding post were all parodies.

Let me refresh your memory. The parodies began:

A. “In Kiwi-land did...”
B. “Alas, poor...”
C. “Nothing could be...”
D. “Whose drugs...”
E. “anyone lived...”

Here, all jumbled up, are the authors of the works I parodied:

1. Robert Frost
2. E. E. Cummings
3. John Gluck, Wally Gold, and Herb Weiner
4. Samuel Taylor Coleridge
5. Gus Kahn and Walter Donaldson
6. William Shakespeare

Your assignment, should you choose to accept it, is twofold: First, tell me the titles of the works I parodied. Second, match the authors to the genuine articles.

The sharp-eyed among you will note that the preceding post contained five parodies but I listed six authors or author-groups. The extra one is not extraneous. It belongs with this post. Can you tell me why?

A final test: Name the people in the photo below.

This tape will self-destruct in five seconds.

Poetry night

2011-10-18T11:04:00.002-04:00

[Note. The Mills Brothers used to sing, “You always hurt the one you love, the one you shouldn’t hurt at all.” It is not my intention to hurt anyone with the verses in this post; I’m just having a little fun. But just in case I overstepped the mark somewhere, I ask your forgiveness in advance. These are very likely the first of more that may be coming later. Or maybe not. I can’t really say because I don’t know. Inspiration can’t be turned on and off like a faucet, you know. If you would like to be included in future poetry nights, let me know! Also, if you definitely do not want to be included, let me know that too! But I hope everyone enjoys the pomes (I do not say that they rise to the level of poems) and knows the originals and maybe even will saunter over to check out someone’s blog for the first time. --RWP]

In Kiwi-land did Katherine
A veritable hive create
Where Ralph, a bureaucrat, doth grin
And worms do worm and spiders spin
And tankers leak and artists win
And bees do pollinate.

Alas, poor Pudding, I knew him, Elizabeth,
Though not very well.
A fellow of infinite jest, of most excellent fancy;
He hath made me laugh a thousand times;
And now, an awful smell
Pervades his site
(To die, to dream, perchance to sleep):
The man’s become enamored of a sheep.

Nothing could be finer
than to muck for Carolina
in the morning.
Naloma, Willem, Evie too,
(her horses) do what horses do
at dawning.
If I were a stable-boy for only a day,
I’d grab a rake and here’s what I’d say:
Nothing could be finer
than to muck for Carolina
in the morning.

Whose drugs these are I think I know.
His house is in the village though;
He will not see me stopping here
To fill my stash with stuff for Snow.
The woods are lovely, dark and deep.
But I have promises to keep,
And miles to go so Snow can sleep.
And miles to go so Snow can sleep.

anyone lived in a pretty putz town
(with up so floating many bikes down)
spring<<>>summer<<>>autumn<<>>winter
he blogged his didn’t denied his did
children guessed (but only a few
and down they forgot as up they grew
autumn<><>winter<><>spring<><>summer
crossing guard’s great but blogging’s a bummer

Responsible leaders everywhere agree...

2011-10-15T09:56:00.004-04:00

We don’t need any silly two-party political system. All we really need is:

Trust us.

[Note. These three very similar photographs all appeared in yesterday’s edition of the Drudge Report. Although they were used to illustrate three different news stories, I could not miss the subliminal message; it spoke volumes to me. --RWP]

There’s no business like show business

2011-10-13T07:45:00.001-04:00

If God should ever decide to save the world through tap dancing, this just might do the trick (3:47).

I mean, it’s impossible to get into trouble and tap dance at the same time.

Think of all the wars that would be prevented, all the crimes that would never be committed, all the rapes that would never occur, all the tears that would never be shed.

Just don’t hold your breath.

Hail to thee, blithe spirit, bird thou never wert

2011-10-12T08:52:00.007-04:00

Good morning, dear hearts and gentle people.

Just when I thought I was making progress, Shooting Parrots left the following comment on my previous post:

“You may be keeping up with the posts target, but your sentence ratio has just fallen dramatically.”

While what he says may be true, talk about raining on someone’s parade.

But that’s okay, D.H. and G.P., because I am a bigger person than to take umbrage over something so inconsequential in the overall scheme of things.

Speaking of which, contemplating the overall scheme of things (the past, the present, the future) can prove quite daunting, and some are better at it than others. I am certainly no Pollyanna, but I am not a doomsday prophet either. I prefer to listen to happy music from days gone by unencumbered by scenes of a post-apocalyptic future.

Alas, it was not to be. I found this clip (2:15). Bob Crosby is probably spinning in his grave. (For those of you who care about such things, bandleader and singer George Robert “Bob” Crosby (1913 - 1993) was the younger brother of singer Harry Lillis “Bing” Crosby (1903 - 1977).)

Nevertheless, and be that as it may, let us gird up our loins and march with confidence toward the Emerald City.

There. My sentence ratio is back on track, and my paragraph ratio has shown marked improvement.

Do not write run-on sentences they are hard to read

2011-10-11T08:47:00.010-04:00

It is already the 11th of October and I have written only five posts so far this month, I am still keeping up (more or less) with my average of one post approximately every two days but somehow it feels like life is going faster and faster and I am blogging less and less because for instance this morning at eleven I need to be in a town fifteen miles away at our church’s weekly staff meeting with the pastor and it is already a quarter to nine and here I am sitting in front of the computer in my bathrobe, I didn’t hire on to be “staff” I hired on to be “pianist” but then the church hired a youth pastor who unfortunately is no longer there and that is a story in itself which I won’t go into just now and then it acquired an associate minister, note that I do not say “hired” in her case because the woman volunteered her time after having just retired from a ministerial career in the mountains of North Carolina and upon moving to our area contacted the local district superintendent to see whether a small church might like to have the services of an unpaid associate minister and she has since taken over responsibility for visiting the ill and the homebound, and voila!, just like that, we had a “staff” which is now required to have weekly meetings and which also includes the church’s administrative assistant who has been there since long before I arrived, and although my official title is “pianist” I also choose the hymns every week along with a prelude, offertory, and postlude, the titles of which all have to be given to the administrative assistant by Tuesday afternoon or Wednesday morning so that they can be printed in the weekly bulletin, I have also sung several solos, put together the Nine Lessons and Carols program at Christmas, transposed music for a teenaged player of the euphonium, accompanied a cellist, and currently I am trying to find time to work with the children’s department volunteer (who is not part of the “staff”) to teach a handbell arrangement of “Away in a Manger” to the children for this year’s Christmas program and also to teach the children to play the handbells in the first place, I don’t know what else may come along, I know this post doesn’t say much of a substantive nature but it does boost my total for the month.

An overtly (or not so much) Christian post

2011-10-08T09:21:00.014-04:00

I love good a capella singing. For those of you who are neither musical nor Italian, a capella is an Italian phrase meaning “in the manner of the chapel.” And if you are not aware of how music was performed in Italian chapels, what a capella means to the modern musician is “unaccompanied.”

No organ. No piano. No violins. No trumpets. No flutes. No saxophones. No big brass band. Nothing. Nada. Zilch.

Unaccompanied.

Also, for the younger generation, absolutely no guitars. No drums. No electronic keyboards. No, not one.

What is left?

Human voices. What a concept.

Snowbrush is now saying, “just like in the Church of Christ back in Mississippi, which I left for a great many reasons, none of which have to do with a capella singing.”

The thing about a capella singing is that when it’s good it is really good, and when it’s bad it is really bad.

I found some that, in my humble opinion, is really good.

Here is a Mennonite choir called Altar of Praise Chorale singing in 2010 a song called “Who Am I?” that was written back in 1965 by a man named Rusty Goodman (3:43).

They may not have super-professional, highly-trained voices (in the operatic sense), but they know how to do a capella. They blend. Their consonants are impeccable. They stay on pitch. Regardless of what you think of the lyrics, give it a listen.

If you find that you like neither the words nor the music, just enjoy the scenery.

Ironic points of light

2011-10-07T09:24:00.010-04:00

I have this cyberfriend, Snowbrush from Oregon by way of Mississippi, whom I have never met. He is an atheist and I am a Christian. Sometimes he says cruel things about God and Christ and Christians (he would call them true things). It’s all right. He is still my friend. We just happen to disagree on a number of things. Snowbrush and I are the non-Irish, non-political version of Ronald Reagan and Tip O'Neill, sort of.

When I saw his latest post, I thought about a poem written by
W. H. Auden after Hitler invaded Poland more than 70 years ago:

SEPTEMBER 1, 1939
by W.H. Auden

I sit in one of the dives
On Fifty-second Street
Uncertain and afraid
As the clever hopes expire
Of a low dishonest decade:
Waves of anger and fear
Circulate over the bright
And darkened lands of the earth,
Obsessing our private lives;
The unmentionable odour of death
Offends the September night.

Accurate scholarship can
Unearth the whole offence
From Luther until now
That has driven a culture mad,
Find what occurred at Linz,
What huge imago made
A psychopathic god:
I and the public know
What all schoolchildren learn,
Those to whom evil is done
Do evil in return.

Exiled Thucydides knew
All that a speech can say
About Democracy,
And what dictators do,
The elderly rubbish they talk
To an apathetic grave;
Analysed all in his book,
The enlightenment driven away,
The habit-forming pain,
Mismanagement and grief:
We must suffer them all again.

Into this neutral air
Where blind skyscrapers use
Their full height to proclaim
The strength of Collective Man,
Each language pours its vain
Competitive excuse:
But who can live for long
In an euphoric dream;
Out of the mirror they stare,
Imperialism's face
And the international wrong.

Faces along the bar
Cling to their average day:
The lights must never go out,
The music must always play,
All the conventions conspire
To make this fort assume
The furniture of home;
Lest we should see where we are,
Lost in a haunted wood,
Children afraid of the night
Who have never been happy or good.

The windiest militant trash
Important Persons shout
Is not so crude as our wish:
What mad Nijinsky wrote
About Diaghilev
Is true of the normal heart;
For the error bred in the bone
Of each woman and each man
Craves what it cannot have,
Not universal love
But to be loved alone.

From the conservative dark
Into the ethical life
The dense commuters come,
Repeating their morning vow;
'I will be true to the wife,
I'll concentrate more on my work,'
And helpless governors wake
To resume their compulsory game:
Who can release them now,
Who can reach the dead,
Who can speak for the dumb?

All I have is a voice
To undo the folded lie,
The romantic lie in the brain
Of the sensual man-in-the-street
And the lie of Authority
Whose buildings grope the sky:
There is no such thing as the State
And no one exists alone;
Hunger allows no choice
To the citizen or the police;
We must love one another or die.

Defenseless under the night
Our world in stupor lies;
Yet, dotted everywhere,
Ironic points of light
Flash out wherever the Just
Exchange their messages:
May I, composed like them
Of Eros and of dust,
Beleaguered by the same
Negation and despair,
Show an affirming flame.

Fifty-four years ago today,...

2011-10-04T09:11:00.011-04:00

...on October 4, 1957, a Friday morning, at around 7:45 a.m. Central Daylight Time, my mother died in St. Joseph’s Hospital in Fort Worth, Texas. She was 47.

I was 16. I was at home alone getting ready to leave for school. I had been a Senior for about a month. My dad had left the house about 6:15 that morning to ride in a car pool to work at the General Dynamics aircraft factory, about 34 miles away, with three other men from our community. I may have the mileage wrong. Dad had worked there for ten years. I think the car pool stopped by St. Joseph’s on the way home from work Wednesday afternoon so that my dad could have a short visit with my mother.

I had not seen her since the preceding Sunday afternoon because she had wanted me to concentrate on my school work. We did not own a car and depended completely on others for transportation. There was no public transit between our rural community and downtown Fort Worth, which I think was about 14 miles away. Someone had taken my dad and me after church to the hospital for a visit. Mama had been there for about a month at that time, and her condition was worsening. When I was seven or eight years old, she learned that she had breast cancer and underwent a mastectomy of her right breast and the removal of lymph nodes from her right side and armpit. In those days people said if you lived five years after cancer surgery, you were cured. After seven years had gone by, Mama’s abdomen began to swell and more cancer was discovered. The doctors at St. Joseph’s inserted an irradiated gold needle into her abdomen -- I’m unclear as to what was really going on, whether it involved cobalt or some other form of early radiation therapy -- but she was unable to tolerate it, so they stopped the treatment and said she had about a year of life left.

I was dressed and waiting for Mrs. Brockett, a teacher who lived on our lane, to come by and take me to the high school, which was two miles away. The telephone rang about 7:30; I picked it up and said, “Hello?”

A female voice said “Mr. Brague?” and since my dad had gone to work and I was the only Mr. Brague around I said “Yes.” The voice identified herself as someone from St. Joseph’s Hospital and said, “If you want to see your wife you need to get here soon because she’s not going to last very much longer.” I said, “I’m her teenaged son. You want to talk to my dad.” I gave her the telephone number where he could be reached at General Dynamics and hung up the phone.

Everything after that is a blur.

I didn’t go to school that day. I don’t remember that I talked to Mrs. Brockett but I must have. I sat there weeping and remember being especially devastated that I hadn’t seen my mother for five days and that she died alone. After an hour or so a couple of neighbor women came in and began sweeping the floors and dusting the furniture and washing the dishes. My dad came home about midday, I think, though I have no idea how he got there.

Mama had decided a few months earlier to have a closed-casket funeral service because she had lost so much weight from the disease and didn’t want people gawking at her. My father and I did not go to the funeral home or any wake on either Friday night or Saturday. Mama’s funeral was Sunday afternoon at 3:00 p.m. at the Methodist Church in Mansfield. I do remember that Rev. Ernest Piott spoke and Mrs. Ruth Sprinkle Morris, Doug’s wife, sang “Lead, Kindly Light” and the Albert Hay Malotte version of “The Lord’s Prayer.” I don’t know who played the organ, probably white-haired Miss Cora Galloway, who had retired and whose place I had taken a couple of years earlier.
I know Mama is buried in the Emerald Hills Cemetery in the town of Kennedale, and I know I went there that Sunday afternoon, but I cannot remember going or being there.

Mrs. Sally Huffman, the lady I called my “other other,” told me later that she had almost called me Thursday after school to see if I would like to go to the hospital that evening to visit Mama, but something came up and she didn’t make the call.

I still wish she had.

When I returned to school on Monday (because my dad insisted that life must go on and we mustn’t take excessive time grieving), people were talking about something called Sputnik that had happened on Friday. I had no idea what they were talking about.

If I have written of this before, please forgive me. There are some wounds that time does not heal.

Parting
by Emily Dickenson

My life closed twice before its close;
It yet remains to see
If immortality unveil
A third event to me

So huge, so hopeless to conceive
As these that twice befell.
Parting is all we know of heaven,
And all we need of hell.

Too funny!

2011-10-03T07:00:00.004-04:00

Even though the following (a) isn’t original with me and (b) has been around the block a few times already, it is too good not to share again:

Excerpts From a Dog’s Diary vs. Excerpts From a Cat’s Diary

Dog:

Day number 180
8:00 am - OH BOY! DOG FOOD! MY FAVORITE!
9:30 am - OH BOY! A CAR RIDE! MY FAVORITE!
9:40 am - OH BOY! A WALK! MY FAVORITE!
10:30 am - OH BOY! A CAR RIDE! MY FAVORITE!
11:30 am - OH BOY! DOG FOOD! MY FAVORITE!
12:00 noon - OH BOY! THE KIDS! MY FAVORITE!
1:00 pm OH BOY! THE YARD! MY FAVORITE!
4:00 pm - OH BOY! THE KIDS! MY FAVORITE!
5:00 PM - OH BOY! DOG FOOD! MY FAVORITE!
5:30 PM - OH BOY! MOM! MY FAVORITE!

Day number 181
8:00 am - OH BOY! DOG FOOD! MY FAVORITE!
9:30 am - OH BOY! A CAR RIDE! MY FAVORITE!
9:40 am - OH BOY! A WALK! MY FAVORITE!
10:30 am - OH BOY! A CAR RIDE! MY FAVORITE!
11:30 am - OH BOY! DOG FOOD! MY FAVORITE!
12:00 noon - OH BOY! THE KIDS! MY FAVORITE!
1:00 pm OH BOY! THE YARD! MY FAVORITE!
4:00 pm - OH BOY! THE KIDS! MY FAVORITE!
5:00 PM - OH BOY! DOG FOOD! MY FAVORITE!
5:30 PM - OH BOY! MOM! MY FAVORITE!

Day number 182
8:00 am - OH BOY! DOG FOOD! MY FAVORITE!
9:30 am - OH BOY! A CAR RIDE! MY FAVORITE!
9:40 am - OH BOY! A WALK! MY FAVORITE!
10:30 am - OH BOY! A CAR RIDE! MY FAVORITE!
11:30 am - OH BOY! DOG FOOD! MY FAVORITE!
12:00 noon - OH BOY! THE KIDS! MY FAVORITE!
1:00 pm OH BOY! THE YARD! MY FAVORITE!
1:30 pm - oooooooh. bath. bummer.
4:00 pm - OH BOY! THE KIDS! MY FAVORITE!
5:00 PM - OH BOY! DOG FOOD! MY FAVORITE!
5:30 PM - OH BOY! MOM! MY FAVORITE

Cat:

DAY 752 - My captors continue to taunt me with bizarre little dangling objects. They dine lavishly on fresh meat, while I am forced to eat dry cereal. The only thing that keeps me going is the hope of escape, and the mild satisfaction I get from ruining the occasional piece of furniture...tomorrow I may eat another houseplant.

DAY 761 - Today my attempt to kill my captors by weaving around their feet while they were walking almost succeeded. Must try this at the top of the stairs. In an attempt to disgust and repulse these vile oppressors, I once again induced myself to vomit on their favorite chair...must try this on their bed.

DAY 765 - Decapitated a mouse and brought them the headless body in attempt to make them aware what I am capable of, and to try to strike fear into their hearts. They only cooed and condescended about what a good little cat I was...not working according to plan.

DAY 768 - I am finally aware of how sadistic they are. For no good reason I was chosen for the water torture. This time however it included a burning foamy chemical called “shampoo.” What sick minds could invent such a liquid? My only consolation is the piece of thumb still lodged between my teeth.

DAY 771 - There was some sort of gathering of their accomplices. I was placed in solitary throughout the event, however, I could hear the noise and smell the foul odor of the glass tubes they call “beer.” More importantly, I overheard that my confinement was due to my power of “allergies.” Must learn what this is and how to use it to my advantage.

DAY 774 - I am convinced the other captives are flunkies and maybe snitches. The dog is routinely released and seems more than happy to return. He is obviously a half-wit. The bird on the other hand has got to be an informant, and he speaks with them regularly. I am certain he reports my activities. Due to his current placement in the elevated cell his safety is assured. But I can wait. It is only a matter of time.

--Author Unknown

Brrrrr

2011-10-02T08:02:00.003-04:00

While England is sweltering in the hottest October day ever recorded, we here in the Hew Hess of Hay, at least in the north Georgia part of it I call home, are shivering. Normal beginning-of-October morning temperatures here are in the 60 to 70 degree (Fahrenheit) range, but this morning we awoke to high 30s and low 40s.

It undoubtedly has to do with global warming and I just know it’s all George Bush’s fault.

Potayto, Potahto, Tomayto, Tomahto

2011-09-30T08:00:00.011-04:00

Just as there is only one Cher and only one Elvis (but truth in blogging compels me to tell you that there actually are three Elvises -- Elvis Presley, Elvis Costello who was born Declan Patrick MacManus, and Elvis Stoyko the ice-skater from Canada; I do not say that there are multiple Chers), there was also only one Ella and only one Louie. In case you are unfamiliar with them, they were Ella Fitzgerald (1917 - 1996) and Louis Armstrong (1901 - 1971).

Here they are collaborating on “Let’s Call the Whole Thing Off” (4:18), a song written by George and Ira Gershwin (who were born Jacob and Israel Gershowitz) for the 1937 film Shall We Dance where it was introduced by Fred Astaire and Ginger Rogers as part of a celebrated dance duet on roller skates.

Israel Gershowitz (Ira Gershwin) should not be confused with Israel Balin (Irving Berlin). Did you know that Jack Benny’s real name was Benny Kubelsky and Tony Curtis’s real name was Bernie Schwarz? Or that Marilyn Monroe was Norma Jean Baker and John Wayne was Marion Morris? But I digress.

I do apologize for the unflattering caricatures of Ella and Louie in the video clip. I do not apologize, however, for the music.

Speaking of a celebrated dance duet on roller skates, here are the one and only Fred and Ginger (1:01). At least this time Ginger didn’t have to do everything backwards and in high heels. Here they are in a more traditional role without the wheels (2:27).

You say potato, I say 馬鈴薯

2011-09-29T07:00:00.002-04:00

As I begin my fifth year of blogging, what better way to pique (not peak) your interest than by being thoroughly and completely incomprehensible?

Please do not be so rude as to mutter under your breath, “Why should today be any different?”

According to Wikipedia, “Chinese, the Chinese languages, or the Sinitic languages (汉语/漢語 Hànyǔ; 华语/華語 Huáyǔ; 中文 Zhōngwén) is a language family consisting of languages which are mostly mutually unintelligible to varying degrees.”

Good, then, we’ll use Chinese.

Actually, there is method in my madness (as opposed to my madness being completely random).

Many of you know that I have another blog called Billy Ray Barnwell Here that was the vehicle to get my unusual book of the same name before the eyes of an adoring public. When I set the blog up, I encouraged people to leave their comments on the topmost post rather than on the individual chapters because this would make it easier for Billy Ray Barnwell to respond.

All was going smoothly until March 28, 2010, when someone named 宥軒 said, and I quote:

“小聊天室彰化聊天室豆豆聊聊天080人聊天室尋夢元聊天咪咪色貼咪咪情色區哈比成人網金瓶成人影片交流區金平梅近親相姦免費影片松島楓看波波貼圖區波波線上美女拳波波線上遊網波波線上戲網波霸美女貼圖區玩女人視訊網玩女人試看片玩女人影片直播色情片直播免費影片芭比成人情色花王影片哈比淫色網哈免費小遊戲洪爺色情免費影片洪爺色情網站影片洪爺色論壇洪爺免費直播片學生妹做愛自拍影片夫妻聯誼視訊美女豆豆聊天室”

I suspected 宥軒 was not a real reader at all and that his or her comment was pornography because a lot of pornographic Chinese comments were showing up on the internet around that time. So I ignored it.

After a year, though, I couldn’t stand it any longer. I decided to find out what 宥軒’s comment said. On April 18, 2011, Billy Ray Barnwell left a comment of his own:

“More than a year has elapsed since the preceding comment showed up, and curiosity, which as we all know eventually killed the cat, finally got the better of me, so using an online translator, I now know who my visitor who speaks Chinese is and what he or she said. Ready?

Yu-Hsuan Chang Hwa said ... small chat room chat room chat room 080 chat Peas dream element erotic chat areas Mimi Mimi Habib color paste gold bottle adult video adult net exchange area close relative Jinping Mei Matsushima Feng rape free videos Bobo Bobo map area to see beautiful women boxing online network wave wave line upstream of the online game network map area beautiful big breasts video network playing a woman playing a woman playing a woman Look at the film live porn video live free adult erotic video Barbie film Kao Habib kinky color screen Hung Yeh Ha free game porn free porn video movie Hung Hung Yeh Yeh Yeh Hung-color forum free live films making film school girl sex video beautiful couple friendship chat room Peas

and all I have to say to Yu-Hsuan Chang Hwa is A you have problems and B you definitely could use a good shrink, probably in more ways than one.”

So it was not real pornography; it was just silly. I did learn, however, that people in China use the word Peas instead of quotation marks.

Something very odd has happened, though. Neither Yu-Hsuan Chang Hwa nor anyone else, Chinese or otherwise, has ever left another comment on Billy Ray Barnwell Here. And that’s a shame, too, because it is a Rolls-Royce.

Where else but here on rhymeswithplague could you read silly Chinese pseudo-pornography and see a photograph of a 1979 Rolls-Royce Silver Shadow II on the same post?

It’s a portent, a harbinger, a foretaste of things to come.

And how old are you today, little blog?

2011-09-28T07:00:00.012-04:00

Cartoon time

2011-09-26T07:00:00.011-04:00

Well, hello again, boys and girls! It’s a beautiful day in the neighborhood. Won’t you be my neighbor?

Oh, wait, that was a different show.

Children today watch Spongebob Squarepants and The Fairly Oddparents and lots of other idiotic cartoons, but in my day the pièce de résistance among animated series, the one we couldn’t wait to see, even when we grew older, was (wait for it, here it comes):

Rocky & Bullwinkle!

Just in case Rocket J. Squirrel and Bullwinkle Moose may have slipped under your radar, here in four parts is an episode called “Goof Gas Attack”:

“Rocky and Bullwinkle: Goof Gas Attack - Part 1” (7:24)

“Rocky and Bullwinkle: Goof Gas Attack - Part 2” (7:02)

“Rocky and Bullwinkle: Goof Gas Attack - Part 3” (7:04)

“Rocky and Bullwinkle: Goof Gas Attack - Part 4” (7:03)

So there you have it, not only something hilarious from yesteryear that was able to tickle the funny bones of children and adults alike but also more evidence that helps explain why I am the way I am.

All right, class, your test today consists of the following question:

Whose voice, or a reasonable facsimile thereof, was used for the character Captain Peter Peachfuzz? (Hint: Near the end of his career, he appeared in the movie ~~Chitty Chitty Bang Bang~~
Mary Poppins.)

And now, if you are very quiet while teacher is grading your papers, perhaps next time you can watch Dudley Do-Right.

Warning! Warning! No diabetic persons allowed!

2011-09-25T07:00:00.006-04:00

If you haven’t met your sugar intake quota yet for today, spend the next fifteen minutes watching these clips:

"Till the End of Time" (1:40)

"Melodie D'Amour (2:25)

"May You Always" (2:53)

"Harbor Lights" (2:21)

"Here Comes My Baby Back Again" (2:34)

"Star Carol" (3:00)

The Lennon Sisters were a singing group consisting of four siblings: Dianne (born December 1, 1939), Peggy (born April 8, 1941), Kathy (born August 2, 1943), and Janet (born June 15, 1946). The group were a regular on the weekly television program, The Lawrence Welk Show, for many years. The original quartet were the eldest four in a family of twelve siblings. In 1992, younger sister Mimi replaced second sister Peggy who retired. Oldest sister Dianne (DeeDee) has now retired as well. The current group, which still appears in Branson, Missouri, and at Welk resorts, consists of Mimi, Janet, and Kathy.

Do the math. The original four -- Dianne, Peggy, Kathy, and Janet -- are now 72 (almost), 70, 68, and 65 respectively. This would seem impossible, but it is true. Here are Kathy and Janet talking to Kathy Lee Griffin and Hoda Kotb on the Today show in 2009. They don’t look like women in their sixties to me, but perhaps they have paintings in their cellars that tell a different tale. (For the literary-challenged, that was a reference to Oscar Wilde’s The Picture of Dorian Gray.)

One thing is certain. The Lennon Sisters are a far cry from the likes of Madonna and Britney Spears and Lady Gaga and Amy Winehouse.

Oh, one other thing is also certain:

Your system may not be able to tolerate any more sugar for at least a week.

Equinoctial Hodgepodge

2011-09-22T09:29:00.010-04:00

I am old and getting older every day, and I can’t remember whether I showed you these photographs before. It may have something to do with today being the autumnal equinox, but then again, it may not. If I did show the photographs to you before, please be advised that I am about to show them to you again.

Here are 17 members of the Class of 1958 of Mansfield High School, Mansfield, Texas, at the class’s 50th-year reunion in 2008. Forty-six of us received our diplomas together on a May evening 53 years ago, but some have died and some, like me, weren’t able to attend the reunion. I can name every single person in the photograph. If you click on the photograph, though, you can see them better -- Linda Lee H. and Johnny Paul H. and Roland C. and Ona Faye R. and Patsy Joan H. and Glenda V. and Johnie Mac D. and Darrell R. and Judith C. and John G. and Alene B. (standing) and Patsy Darlene R. and Barbara Ann P. and Carol D. and Brenda Sue H. and Sally B. and Jimmie Sue R. (seated).

(Click photo to enlarge it)

And here, from either the fall of 1954 or the spring of 1955, is the Mansfield High School Tiger Marching Band, a motley crew if there ever was one. I can’t even begin to name everyone in this photo, but I do remember many of them.

(Click photo to enlarge it, then click on the enlargement to enlarge the enlargement)

At the left is the band’s founder and first director, Miss Sally Pearce of Rochester, New York. Trumpet was her major instrument, but she had come to Texas to get her master’s degree at TCU in Fort Worth and write a thesis about The History of the Double Bass Viol (which she also played). She organized the band the year I was in seventh grade and stayed with us for three years (I was in ninth grade when the photo was taken). She was succeeded by a Mr. Thomas McDonald of Arkansas who also became the choir director at the local Methodist Church where I was organist. After two years with Mr. McDonald, the band’s director during my senior year was Mr. Richard Weir, who would get so angry on the practice field that he would curse out loud and kick people’s behinds.

In my junior year, the band finally acquired brand-new uniforms to replace those ancient black ones, which not only had looked like police uniforms but also were already quite well-worn by the time we acquired them. Our new uniforms were a sight to behold: gold jackets, black trousers with gold stripes down the sides, and tall black hats with white plumes and silver chain chinstraps.

Unfortunately, we looked better than we sounded. Mansfield’s band in those early days had about 45 members, and during our halftime shows at the Friday night football games, if even a few band members were absent no one in the visitors’ stands could tell what our formations were supposed to be. Everyone in the home stands always knew what our field formations were supposed to be, because we could make only two: A big M for Mansfield and a football with laces down the middle.

The saxophone section in the lower right of the photo were all members of the class of 1958, as were the three people behind them. In front are Diane P. and Marshall T. and Bruce H., and behind them are Johnie Mac D. (he’s also in the reunion photo in the middle of the back row, wearing a red shirt), Jerry W. and another Judith, Judith G. It pains me to have to tell you that Marshall, Bruce, and Judith are all dead now. Bruce was the first member of our class to expire. A Methodist minister, he drowned during a flood while trying to help rescue people.

I can’t quite make out the sousaphone player behind Judith, but standing next to him is none other than your correspondent at age 14.

One other person in the reunion photograph is in the band photo as well. John G., the tall fellow third from right in the back row of the reunion photo, is near the left end of the middle row in the band photo.

All my memories are a far cry from this band, the JSU (Jacksonvile State University) Marching Southerners (12:44), in which two of my children marched during their college years. The clip is from 2010.

To conclude our time together, let us all sing "Marching to Pretoria"....

Now go make an egg stand on its end.