Wednesday, February 28, 2007
French Toast
Because I didn't have enough of a caffeine addiction already, I decided to kick it up a notch. I recently discovered that there's something I like better on french toast than cinnamon...I use my coffee grinder to grind up beans as fine as I can and mix it into the egg batter I put on the french toast. Delicious with the right coffee beans. If I could find some of that Izzy's ice cream with the grounds in it, I'd drop a scoop on the side and have it all with my morning cup of coffee.
February Biking and A Piercing Question
February totals were 401.56 miles, 1322:22.5 minutes and 35,765.5 adjusted calories. 8 miles short of last month, but there were 3 fewer days and I had several days in Chicago, so my per day average was a bit better. Weekends are up to 36/24, so the long distance ride is sneaking up to something approaching what I'll be doing when it actually seems warm enough to join the bike group on a ride. And I started fiddling with the incline this week, cranking it up to 3% for 2 minutes every fiften minutes. Doesn't really use many more calories, but I can certainly feel it in my legs. Damn fake hills.
Since I started this particular training program, I've done about 950 miles (almost exactly). I'm not sure where that would put me if I had left from home, but probably somewhere about Minnetonka, as the snow and the cold would have stopped me after 30 miles.
Random, unrelated discussion point. Minnesota wants to make kids have their parents along for piercings. But there's an exception in the bill for ear piercing. Can someone please tell me why ear piercing gets an exception as opposed to a belly button piercing or a nose piercing? If you're Indian, do you have to have your parents along for a nose piercing given it seems to be more culturally acceptable to have a nose piercing if you're Indian?
Tuesday, February 27, 2007
A Bear Named What
A Bear Named What
Once upon a time there was a princess who lived in a faraway land, a cold land, called Eagan. Her name was Princess Eryn. Princess Eryn lived in a big castle made out of wooden blocks, each block having six sides, and each side having a colorful number or letter. While the walls of her castle were great for spelling out messages like, “I SEE YOU” and “I AM 4 TODAY” or even “DID YOU FART”, they did very little to keep her warm and cozy on cold, Eagan nights.
She guessed that perhaps she could burn the blocks to stay warm, after all, there was a fireplace. But then she would have no where to live.
So, day in and day out Princess Eryn sat in her cold, wooden, block castle and rearranged the letters. “IS IT WARMER OVER THERE” one day, and “I AM COLD” the next and “BRRRR” on yet another day, although that time she ran out of enough Rs to show just how cold she was. She was at least eight Rs cold, certainly not just four.
Just when it seemed like she would have to start burning blocks, there came a knock at the front door. Princess Eryn lifted her head off the wood block she used as a pillow, crawled out from under the wood block she used as a blanket, and went to open the wood block that was her front door.
“Who’s there?” asked Princess Eryn.
“A big green and white bear,” was the reply.
“A big green and white bear who?”
“Um…just that, no more,” said the voice.
Princess Eryn threw open the block door, and sitting there was a large, green and white bear, just as he had said. “No, no…” chastised Princess Eryn, “Your joke will never do.”
“Sorry,” said the bear.
“Here,” Princess Eryn said, her teeth chattering a little in the cold breeze. “You go inside, shut the door, and I will knock.”
The bear did as he was told, and when Princess Eryn knocked, he opened the door.
“No!” she exclaimed. “You have to say, ‘Who’s there?’”
“But I knew it was you,” said the bear.
”I could have run away.”
“But you live here.”
“Maybe there was a fire!”
“There’s a fire!?” exclaimed the bear, looking around, then running past the princess and out of the castle.
“No. There could have been a fire. And I could have run away. So it could have been someone else at the door.”
“Why would you run away from an imaginary fire?” asked the bear. “Can’t you just put it out with imaginary water? Or call the imaginary fire department?”
“Go inside,” order Princess Eryn through gritted teeth, which at least kept them from chattering. “And when you hear me knock, say ‘Who’s there?’”
“You do understand,” said the bear, “that to hear you knock implies that I know it is you, and puts us right back where we were.”
“Fine. Go inside, and when you hear a stranger knock, say, ‘Who’s there?’”
“How will I know it’s a stranger and not you?”
“You won’t. You will have to ask.”
“What?”
“Who’s there?”
“Cargo.”
“Cargo? What?”
“No it doesn’t. A car goes beep beep!” The green and white bear grinned a goofy grin and looked at the block castle. “Would you happen to have a spot of hot chocolate in there?”
Princess Eryn, still a little irritated about having the knock knock joke turned on her glowered at the bear and said, “If there were hot chocolate in there do you think I would be standing out here chattering my teeth?”
“Probably not,” replied the bear. “But one can never tell.”
“Come in anyway,” said Princess Eryn. “I’m lonely, and maybe you’ll settle for a glass of iced tea.”
The big green and white bear came in and sat down on a wood block bench while Princess Eryn took some iced tea out from behind the wood block refrigerator.
“I noticed your rather unique home while I was visiting your neighbors,” said the bear. “I was hoping perhaps you could help me.”
“How’s that?” asked the princess, handing the bear a glass of iced tea that actually had ice on top.
The bear looked at it dubiously. “I’ve lost something important, and I could really use it back.”
“My blocks are not for sale. Not at any price!”
“I don’t want to buy your blocks,” replied the bear. “I was rather hoping you might help me by using your blocks to find my name.”
“You’ve lost your name?”
“I have.”
“Are you sure?”
“Absolutely.”
“It’s not something like ‘Big Green and White Knock Knock Smarty Pants Bear’, is it?”
“It could be, I guess. But I’ve always been of the opinion that I’ll recognize it if I see it, and that doesn’t seem right.”
“Seems right to me. But if you say it doesn’t suit you, you probably know best. So how can my blocks be of use?”
“Well, I thought if you spelled my name, I might recognize it.”
“Wouldn’t I have to know your name to spell it?” asked the princess.
”A bit of a conundrum,” sighed the bear.
“Is it Frank?” asked the princess, spelling out FRANK with some wood blocks.
“No, that’s not it,” replied the bear.
“Bill?” she pushed BILL into place.
“Not Bill,” replied the bear.
“Aloysius?” asked Princess Eryn, mentally kicking herself for picking such as a big name as she pushed ALOYSIUS into place.
“Not that either,” the bear looked relieved.
“Winnie?” she flipped and pulled until WINNIE was showing.
“Sounds familiar….but no.”
“This could take all day,” said the princess, slouching against a block and breathing a bit heavily. “And I don’t have the muscles to push blocks all day. Hey! Maybe your name is DID YOU FART,” she pointed at the side of the castle. “That would sure save us some time and effort.”
“I saw that when I was at your neighbors’ house,” said the bear. “It’s definitely not DID YOU FART. When I said ‘Yes’ they packed me up and shipped me over here.”
“Hmmm….” Pondered the princess, moving a few feet further from the bear. “Perhaps we have to break the task down into its constituent parts.”
The bear looked confused. “You mean, like use all the same letters. As in AAAAAA?”
“No, that’s ‘consistent’ parts.”
“Then you mean when each block is signed by a famous person and guarantees me life, liberty and the pursuit of happiness?”
“No, those would be ‘constitution’ parts.”
“When none of them are in the water?”
“Those would be ‘continental’ parts. Constituent parts are just like the blocks. They’re the smallest parts you can identify in something.”
“You mean the font?” asked the bear.
“No!”
“The kerning?”
“No! The letters!”
“Oh, right. Like letters are the smallest parts of a word.” affirmed the bear.
“Exactly.”
“Syllables are small,” opined the bear.
“Not as small as letters,” lectured the princess. “And they don’t fit on wood blocks.”
“Those are very large blocks…”
“Do you want to find your name?” threatened Princess Eryn. The big green and white bear quieted down. Princess Eryn pushed the A from ALOYSIUS out to a spot of its own. “Look familiar?”
“No.”
She pushed it away and replaced it with the B from BRRRR. “How about that?”
“That does tickle the memory bone,” said the bear. “But maybe it’s because bear starts with a B.”
“Could B,” said the Princess. The bear rolled his eyes. “But for right now, let’s go with it.” She pushed the A back over next to the B to spell BA.”
“Ba….” Mouthed the bear. “Good name for a sheep. But not for a bear.”
“Well, BB is right out,” said the princess.
“Why?” asked the bear.
“You just don’t see that,” she said. “Not unless your parents were really mean. Some letters just don’t show up together too often, especially at the beginning or end of a name.”
“What about Dafydd?”
“Are you from Wales?”
“I think I’d remember that.”
“Then we’ll ignore that one. I doubt we’d see BC or BD either.” She pushed over the E from WINNIE. “Maybe BE-N?”
“No,” said the bear, “Not BE.”
“And not BF, BG, or BH…” she rolled over a block so that the I from DID YOU FART was available. “Could your name be Bill? Or Binky?”
“No,” said the bear. “Not BI.”
The princess sighed. “Nor BJ, BK, BL…wait.” She pushed over the L from COLD. “Blake? Blair?”
“Nope,” said the bear. “Not Blake. Not Blair. No BL.”
The princess stretched and cracked her back. “Not BM or BN…” She grabbed the O from DID YOU FART. “BO…Bonkers!”
“Maybe I am, but it’s not my name. That O looks really nice, though.”
“Excellent!” Princess Eryn stared at the letters and pushed over the A again. “BOA?”
The bear thought long and hard about BOA. He hissed a little, just to try it on for size, then dismissed it. “No. I would have to slither a lot if my name was Boa. I really don’t like to slither. It gets the white fur all dingy.”
The princess found another B and pushed it over. “Hey!” she exclaimed. “Say ‘knock knock’.”
“Knock knock,” said the big green and white bear.
“Who’s there?” asked the princess, presenting the letters on the three wood blocks with a big flourish.
“B…O…B.”
The princess flourished much faster.
“Oh, Bob! Yes, Bob! Bob’s here!” exclaimed the bear, jumping up and down. “Bob’s here!”
Once she knew his name, and the bear was no longer a stranger, or a big green and white smarty pants bear – at least not often – Bob and the Princess Eryn became the best of friends. Bob was pleased to have his name and a place to live where your friends didn’t turn you out on your ear just for a little farting. The princess was happy to have a friend, and a big furry one at that, with lots of excess warmth. He was a much better blanket and pillow than any wood block had ever been. And when Bob and the Princess Eryn found you could get a cup of hot chocolate at the local coffee shop, to go no less, they lived as happily ever after as a princess and a big green and white bear named Bob in a wood block castle ever could.
Once upon a time there was a princess who lived in a faraway land, a cold land, called Eagan. Her name was Princess Eryn. Princess Eryn lived in a big castle made out of wooden blocks, each block having six sides, and each side having a colorful number or letter. While the walls of her castle were great for spelling out messages like, “I SEE YOU” and “I AM 4 TODAY” or even “DID YOU FART”, they did very little to keep her warm and cozy on cold, Eagan nights.
She guessed that perhaps she could burn the blocks to stay warm, after all, there was a fireplace. But then she would have no where to live.
So, day in and day out Princess Eryn sat in her cold, wooden, block castle and rearranged the letters. “IS IT WARMER OVER THERE” one day, and “I AM COLD” the next and “BRRRR” on yet another day, although that time she ran out of enough Rs to show just how cold she was. She was at least eight Rs cold, certainly not just four.
Just when it seemed like she would have to start burning blocks, there came a knock at the front door. Princess Eryn lifted her head off the wood block she used as a pillow, crawled out from under the wood block she used as a blanket, and went to open the wood block that was her front door.
“Who’s there?” asked Princess Eryn.
“A big green and white bear,” was the reply.
“A big green and white bear who?”
“Um…just that, no more,” said the voice.
Princess Eryn threw open the block door, and sitting there was a large, green and white bear, just as he had said. “No, no…” chastised Princess Eryn, “Your joke will never do.”
“Sorry,” said the bear.
“Here,” Princess Eryn said, her teeth chattering a little in the cold breeze. “You go inside, shut the door, and I will knock.”
The bear did as he was told, and when Princess Eryn knocked, he opened the door.
“No!” she exclaimed. “You have to say, ‘Who’s there?’”
“But I knew it was you,” said the bear.
”I could have run away.”
“But you live here.”
“Maybe there was a fire!”
“There’s a fire!?” exclaimed the bear, looking around, then running past the princess and out of the castle.
“No. There could have been a fire. And I could have run away. So it could have been someone else at the door.”
“Why would you run away from an imaginary fire?” asked the bear. “Can’t you just put it out with imaginary water? Or call the imaginary fire department?”
“Go inside,” order Princess Eryn through gritted teeth, which at least kept them from chattering. “And when you hear me knock, say ‘Who’s there?’”
“You do understand,” said the bear, “that to hear you knock implies that I know it is you, and puts us right back where we were.”
“Fine. Go inside, and when you hear a stranger knock, say, ‘Who’s there?’”
“How will I know it’s a stranger and not you?”
“You won’t. You will have to ask.”
“What?”
“Who’s there?”
“Cargo.”
“Cargo? What?”
“No it doesn’t. A car goes beep beep!” The green and white bear grinned a goofy grin and looked at the block castle. “Would you happen to have a spot of hot chocolate in there?”
Princess Eryn, still a little irritated about having the knock knock joke turned on her glowered at the bear and said, “If there were hot chocolate in there do you think I would be standing out here chattering my teeth?”
“Probably not,” replied the bear. “But one can never tell.”
“Come in anyway,” said Princess Eryn. “I’m lonely, and maybe you’ll settle for a glass of iced tea.”
The big green and white bear came in and sat down on a wood block bench while Princess Eryn took some iced tea out from behind the wood block refrigerator.
“I noticed your rather unique home while I was visiting your neighbors,” said the bear. “I was hoping perhaps you could help me.”
“How’s that?” asked the princess, handing the bear a glass of iced tea that actually had ice on top.
The bear looked at it dubiously. “I’ve lost something important, and I could really use it back.”
“My blocks are not for sale. Not at any price!”
“I don’t want to buy your blocks,” replied the bear. “I was rather hoping you might help me by using your blocks to find my name.”
“You’ve lost your name?”
“I have.”
“Are you sure?”
“Absolutely.”
“It’s not something like ‘Big Green and White Knock Knock Smarty Pants Bear’, is it?”
“It could be, I guess. But I’ve always been of the opinion that I’ll recognize it if I see it, and that doesn’t seem right.”
“Seems right to me. But if you say it doesn’t suit you, you probably know best. So how can my blocks be of use?”
“Well, I thought if you spelled my name, I might recognize it.”
“Wouldn’t I have to know your name to spell it?” asked the princess.
”A bit of a conundrum,” sighed the bear.
“Is it Frank?” asked the princess, spelling out FRANK with some wood blocks.
“No, that’s not it,” replied the bear.
“Bill?” she pushed BILL into place.
“Not Bill,” replied the bear.
“Aloysius?” asked Princess Eryn, mentally kicking herself for picking such as a big name as she pushed ALOYSIUS into place.
“Not that either,” the bear looked relieved.
“Winnie?” she flipped and pulled until WINNIE was showing.
“Sounds familiar….but no.”
“This could take all day,” said the princess, slouching against a block and breathing a bit heavily. “And I don’t have the muscles to push blocks all day. Hey! Maybe your name is DID YOU FART,” she pointed at the side of the castle. “That would sure save us some time and effort.”
“I saw that when I was at your neighbors’ house,” said the bear. “It’s definitely not DID YOU FART. When I said ‘Yes’ they packed me up and shipped me over here.”
“Hmmm….” Pondered the princess, moving a few feet further from the bear. “Perhaps we have to break the task down into its constituent parts.”
The bear looked confused. “You mean, like use all the same letters. As in AAAAAA?”
“No, that’s ‘consistent’ parts.”
“Then you mean when each block is signed by a famous person and guarantees me life, liberty and the pursuit of happiness?”
“No, those would be ‘constitution’ parts.”
“When none of them are in the water?”
“Those would be ‘continental’ parts. Constituent parts are just like the blocks. They’re the smallest parts you can identify in something.”
“You mean the font?” asked the bear.
“No!”
“The kerning?”
“No! The letters!”
“Oh, right. Like letters are the smallest parts of a word.” affirmed the bear.
“Exactly.”
“Syllables are small,” opined the bear.
“Not as small as letters,” lectured the princess. “And they don’t fit on wood blocks.”
“Those are very large blocks…”
“Do you want to find your name?” threatened Princess Eryn. The big green and white bear quieted down. Princess Eryn pushed the A from ALOYSIUS out to a spot of its own. “Look familiar?”
“No.”
She pushed it away and replaced it with the B from BRRRR. “How about that?”
“That does tickle the memory bone,” said the bear. “But maybe it’s because bear starts with a B.”
“Could B,” said the Princess. The bear rolled his eyes. “But for right now, let’s go with it.” She pushed the A back over next to the B to spell BA.”
“Ba….” Mouthed the bear. “Good name for a sheep. But not for a bear.”
“Well, BB is right out,” said the princess.
“Why?” asked the bear.
“You just don’t see that,” she said. “Not unless your parents were really mean. Some letters just don’t show up together too often, especially at the beginning or end of a name.”
“What about Dafydd?”
“Are you from Wales?”
“I think I’d remember that.”
“Then we’ll ignore that one. I doubt we’d see BC or BD either.” She pushed over the E from WINNIE. “Maybe BE-N?”
“No,” said the bear, “Not BE.”
“And not BF, BG, or BH…” she rolled over a block so that the I from DID YOU FART was available. “Could your name be Bill? Or Binky?”
“No,” said the bear. “Not BI.”
The princess sighed. “Nor BJ, BK, BL…wait.” She pushed over the L from COLD. “Blake? Blair?”
“Nope,” said the bear. “Not Blake. Not Blair. No BL.”
The princess stretched and cracked her back. “Not BM or BN…” She grabbed the O from DID YOU FART. “BO…Bonkers!”
“Maybe I am, but it’s not my name. That O looks really nice, though.”
“Excellent!” Princess Eryn stared at the letters and pushed over the A again. “BOA?”
The bear thought long and hard about BOA. He hissed a little, just to try it on for size, then dismissed it. “No. I would have to slither a lot if my name was Boa. I really don’t like to slither. It gets the white fur all dingy.”
The princess found another B and pushed it over. “Hey!” she exclaimed. “Say ‘knock knock’.”
“Knock knock,” said the big green and white bear.
“Who’s there?” asked the princess, presenting the letters on the three wood blocks with a big flourish.
“B…O…B.”
The princess flourished much faster.
“Oh, Bob! Yes, Bob! Bob’s here!” exclaimed the bear, jumping up and down. “Bob’s here!”
Once she knew his name, and the bear was no longer a stranger, or a big green and white smarty pants bear – at least not often – Bob and the Princess Eryn became the best of friends. Bob was pleased to have his name and a place to live where your friends didn’t turn you out on your ear just for a little farting. The princess was happy to have a friend, and a big furry one at that, with lots of excess warmth. He was a much better blanket and pillow than any wood block had ever been. And when Bob and the Princess Eryn found you could get a cup of hot chocolate at the local coffee shop, to go no less, they lived as happily ever after as a princess and a big green and white bear named Bob in a wood block castle ever could.
Monday, February 26, 2007
Non-blogger Friends
I would be remiss if I didn't wish Erik the Hairy Swede congratulations on his Vegas-like, Friday afternoon (February 23rd) wedding. I forgive him for not bringing coffee even though it was his day. He and Bike Classic Holly have been living in sin (a perfectly appropriate state to live in, much like Maryland, or Massachusetts, but maybe not like Texas) probably since I started work at our shared employer, when he was like 20 or so. Now the "when are you going to have kids" and "When will you have the next one?" phases may begin.
One of my co-workers asked today, "What comes after, 'When are you going to have another?'" There is, of course, "When are you going to have another?" again. But he had completely forgotten about, "When is your kid going to settle down?" and, "I bet you're really anxious to have grandkids." Those are twofers.
Here's a funny video of Ming and his son. I always wondered why I had to keep going back to the company drawers for replacement markers. Now I know who's to blame.
One of my co-workers asked today, "What comes after, 'When are you going to have another?'" There is, of course, "When are you going to have another?" again. But he had completely forgotten about, "When is your kid going to settle down?" and, "I bet you're really anxious to have grandkids." Those are twofers.
Here's a funny video of Ming and his son. I always wondered why I had to keep going back to the company drawers for replacement markers. Now I know who's to blame.
Quotes
I made Overheard in Minneapolis with a quote I overheard about past lives and artichokes. Just so you know I'm not all writing just to my blog without appreciating others.
Saturday, February 24, 2007
Jelly's Donut
You may be wondering about the kid's stories. Hopper, and now this one. I decided a few months ago that it was sort of stupid that I hadn't written Eryn any stories she could call her own, considering I had a Master's in writing. I hadn't given any thought to publishing any of them, and I have a Creative Commons license on the site, and no story will ever make it into a book without illustrations, and I'm a seriously bad artist, so I don't see any harm in putting them out here for anyone to read to their kid(s). Eryn's particularly fond of this one. That's a picture of her on National Donut Day. Note that the author of Arnie the Doughnut is in no way associated with, or gave blessing to, my story.
Jelly's Donut
When Jill was young, really just a baby, her favorite food in the whole world was a big jar of grape jelly. Her parents would feed her squashed peas, squashed carrots, and sometimes squashed squash, and like the good little girl that she was, she would eat every bite. But as soon as she was done, she would point at the refrigerator with a tiny finger and grunt, “elly, elly, elly…” Even before she could say “dessert”, she knew what dessert was and what she wanted for dessert.
Her parents would sigh and ask her if she wouldn’t rather have something else. Maybe an ookie, or a piece of ake. But Jill would just keep pointing at the refrigerator, insisting, “elly, elly, elly!” until they gave in.
Jill wanted grape jelly so much and so often that after a while her parents quit calling her “Jilly”, as some parents are wont to do with a little girl named Jill, and took to calling her “Jelly” instead.
Jelly’s mother and father thought she might outgrow her jelly phase. But over the years she only learned to love it more. When she was two, she discovered it was great on crackers. At three, she embraced peanut butter and jelly sandwiches. At four, she went back to eating it straight out of the jar.
Whenever Jelly’s father went to leave the recycling at the end of the driveway, he would watch for neighbors first, just so they couldn’t see him carrying a big bag full of empty jelly jars, each of them licked cleaner than if they’d been run through the dishwasher.
“This has got to stop!” said Jelly’s mom. “Jelly can’t start kindergarten eating nothing buy grape jelly. They don’t serve jars of jelly at the school cafeteria.”
“She doesn’t eat just jelly,” said Jelly’s dad. “She eats her vegetables and her fruits and her meats and dairy. She just likes to finish off with a spot of jelly.”
“A jar is not a spot!” exclaimed Jelly’s mom. “And they won’t have even that much at school. We need to find her another dessert.”
“I’ll try something new tomorrow,” said Jelly’s dad.
So the next day, Jelly’s father took her out for dinner. When dinner was over, a bunch of people came out in funny hats and sang her a birthday song, which confused Jelly, because it wasn’t even her birthday. But they left behind a huge bowl full of twenty-one scoops of ice cream in all the colors of the rainbow. Jelly carefully stuck one finger in a large scoop of chocolate, and then stuck the finger in her mouth. Then she made a face. And not a good face, like the kind you would normally see on a kid with a finger covered in chocolate ice cream, but a squinchy face, like a kid who just drank lemonade without any sugar.
Dad bought Jelly a jar of grape jelly at the supermarket on the way home.
“I’ll try,” sighed Jelly’s mom.
So the next day Jelly’s mom took Jelly out for dinner. But instead of going to a restaurant, they went to a bright store full of long, white dresses, which was attached to a bakery full of large white cakes, each cake topped with two little people.
“Isn’t she a bit young…” began the woman behind the counter.
“It’s arranged,” interrupted Jelly’s mother. “Just give her some cake.”
The woman gave Jelly a big slice of marbled cake, simply oozing white frosting in all manner of swirls and whorls. Jelly ran a finger through the frosting, leaving behind a little furrow. She popped the frosting in her mouth. Then spit it in her hand.
Mom bought Jelly a jar of grape jelly at the supermarket on the way home.
Jelly’s grandfather was visiting that night when Jelly and her mother came home and understood the seriousness of the situation. “I’ll try,” Jelly’s grandfather volunteered.
So the next day, Jelly’s grandfather took Jelly out for dinner. Later, he and Jelly came home. Jelly looked as happy as a clam, while grandpa quickly made excuses and headed up the stairs to the guest bedroom.
“I’m old,” he said. “And tired,” he added. “And I should be in bed,” he finished. Then he ran upstairs like a man much younger than 74.
Jelly’s parents sighed.
“So did you have a good dinner?” Jelly’s father asked.
“Yes I did,” replied Jelly.
“And did you clean your plate?” asked Jelly’s mother.
“Yes I did,” replied Jelly.
“And did you have dessert?” asked Jelly’s mother and father together.
Instead of replying, Jelly pulled a big white box out from behind her back and opened it. Inside were a dozen delicious looking donuts.
Jelly’s mother clapped her hands. Jelly’s father did a little danced and shed a few tears of happiness. Jelly handed them each a donut as they looked in the mood to celebrate. They all got very serious and touched their donuts together, as if to wish good cheer, good luck, and many more donuts in the future. All three of them took a big bite.
Jelly’s mother’s face fell.
Jelly’s father’s face teared up again, but not as happy as a moment ago.
Jelly’s face broke into a great, big grin. Through a mouth stuffed with donut she exclaimed, “Elly-filled!”
Jelly's Donut
When Jill was young, really just a baby, her favorite food in the whole world was a big jar of grape jelly. Her parents would feed her squashed peas, squashed carrots, and sometimes squashed squash, and like the good little girl that she was, she would eat every bite. But as soon as she was done, she would point at the refrigerator with a tiny finger and grunt, “elly, elly, elly…” Even before she could say “dessert”, she knew what dessert was and what she wanted for dessert.Her parents would sigh and ask her if she wouldn’t rather have something else. Maybe an ookie, or a piece of ake. But Jill would just keep pointing at the refrigerator, insisting, “elly, elly, elly!” until they gave in.
Jill wanted grape jelly so much and so often that after a while her parents quit calling her “Jilly”, as some parents are wont to do with a little girl named Jill, and took to calling her “Jelly” instead.
Jelly’s mother and father thought she might outgrow her jelly phase. But over the years she only learned to love it more. When she was two, she discovered it was great on crackers. At three, she embraced peanut butter and jelly sandwiches. At four, she went back to eating it straight out of the jar.
Whenever Jelly’s father went to leave the recycling at the end of the driveway, he would watch for neighbors first, just so they couldn’t see him carrying a big bag full of empty jelly jars, each of them licked cleaner than if they’d been run through the dishwasher.
“This has got to stop!” said Jelly’s mom. “Jelly can’t start kindergarten eating nothing buy grape jelly. They don’t serve jars of jelly at the school cafeteria.”
“She doesn’t eat just jelly,” said Jelly’s dad. “She eats her vegetables and her fruits and her meats and dairy. She just likes to finish off with a spot of jelly.”
“A jar is not a spot!” exclaimed Jelly’s mom. “And they won’t have even that much at school. We need to find her another dessert.”
“I’ll try something new tomorrow,” said Jelly’s dad.
So the next day, Jelly’s father took her out for dinner. When dinner was over, a bunch of people came out in funny hats and sang her a birthday song, which confused Jelly, because it wasn’t even her birthday. But they left behind a huge bowl full of twenty-one scoops of ice cream in all the colors of the rainbow. Jelly carefully stuck one finger in a large scoop of chocolate, and then stuck the finger in her mouth. Then she made a face. And not a good face, like the kind you would normally see on a kid with a finger covered in chocolate ice cream, but a squinchy face, like a kid who just drank lemonade without any sugar.
Dad bought Jelly a jar of grape jelly at the supermarket on the way home.
“I’ll try,” sighed Jelly’s mom.
So the next day Jelly’s mom took Jelly out for dinner. But instead of going to a restaurant, they went to a bright store full of long, white dresses, which was attached to a bakery full of large white cakes, each cake topped with two little people.
“Isn’t she a bit young…” began the woman behind the counter.
“It’s arranged,” interrupted Jelly’s mother. “Just give her some cake.”
The woman gave Jelly a big slice of marbled cake, simply oozing white frosting in all manner of swirls and whorls. Jelly ran a finger through the frosting, leaving behind a little furrow. She popped the frosting in her mouth. Then spit it in her hand.
Mom bought Jelly a jar of grape jelly at the supermarket on the way home.
Jelly’s grandfather was visiting that night when Jelly and her mother came home and understood the seriousness of the situation. “I’ll try,” Jelly’s grandfather volunteered.
So the next day, Jelly’s grandfather took Jelly out for dinner. Later, he and Jelly came home. Jelly looked as happy as a clam, while grandpa quickly made excuses and headed up the stairs to the guest bedroom.
“I’m old,” he said. “And tired,” he added. “And I should be in bed,” he finished. Then he ran upstairs like a man much younger than 74.
Jelly’s parents sighed.
“So did you have a good dinner?” Jelly’s father asked.
“Yes I did,” replied Jelly.
“And did you clean your plate?” asked Jelly’s mother.
“Yes I did,” replied Jelly.
“And did you have dessert?” asked Jelly’s mother and father together.
Instead of replying, Jelly pulled a big white box out from behind her back and opened it. Inside were a dozen delicious looking donuts.
Jelly’s mother clapped her hands. Jelly’s father did a little danced and shed a few tears of happiness. Jelly handed them each a donut as they looked in the mood to celebrate. They all got very serious and touched their donuts together, as if to wish good cheer, good luck, and many more donuts in the future. All three of them took a big bite.
Jelly’s mother’s face fell.
Jelly’s father’s face teared up again, but not as happy as a moment ago.
Jelly’s face broke into a great, big grin. Through a mouth stuffed with donut she exclaimed, “Elly-filled!”
Michele Bachmann's Secret Mid-East Plan
Dump Michele Bachmann has a seriously funny map up as regards her knowledge of the secret plans for Iraq. While you're over there, if you've never followed her exploits, be sure to read a few stories like bathroomgate and appreciate that our state bird is the loon.
Bicycle Book Quoting
No, not excerpts from books about how to bicycle. A new service, bicycles in literature:
"But the bicycle, with its recently invented brakes and pneumatic tires, was seen by doomsayers as just another nail in the coffin of civilization. Women were riding bicycles, contributing to the decline of morals and accelerating the collapse of social harmony. New-fangled sports, rambling, and cycling threatened rank, order, and culture. Leon Bloy perceived this link when he told an editor in 1900 that 'la bicyclette tuera le livre' [Scooter: the bicycle will kill the book] (Ceci tuera cela [Scooter: this will kill that])." - Apocalypses: Prophecies, Cults, and Millennial Beliefs through the Ages by Eugen Weber, pg. 22-23
"The area around the lower-Amazon city of Santarem is an exception. West of town, the Tapajos pours into the Amazon from the south, creating an inland bay that at high water is fifteen miles wide and a hundred miles long. The flood rises high enough to cover low river islands in knee-deep water, leaving their trees to stand out like miracles in mid-channel. Fishers from town ride their bicycles into little boats, parking the bikes while working by hanging them in the offshore trees." - 1491: New Revelations of the Americas Before Columbus by Charles C. Mann, p. 292.
"But the bicycle, with its recently invented brakes and pneumatic tires, was seen by doomsayers as just another nail in the coffin of civilization. Women were riding bicycles, contributing to the decline of morals and accelerating the collapse of social harmony. New-fangled sports, rambling, and cycling threatened rank, order, and culture. Leon Bloy perceived this link when he told an editor in 1900 that 'la bicyclette tuera le livre' [Scooter: the bicycle will kill the book] (Ceci tuera cela [Scooter: this will kill that])." - Apocalypses: Prophecies, Cults, and Millennial Beliefs through the Ages by Eugen Weber, pg. 22-23"The area around the lower-Amazon city of Santarem is an exception. West of town, the Tapajos pours into the Amazon from the south, creating an inland bay that at high water is fifteen miles wide and a hundred miles long. The flood rises high enough to cover low river islands in knee-deep water, leaving their trees to stand out like miracles in mid-channel. Fishers from town ride their bicycles into little boats, parking the bikes while working by hanging them in the offshore trees." - 1491: New Revelations of the Americas Before Columbus by Charles C. Mann, p. 292.
Friday, February 23, 2007
War With the Newts
Karel Capek's War With the Newts was written in 1936 (wiki, amazon) and is about exactly what the title suggests, humankind's war with a race of newts. While this sounds like a stupid premise for a book, it is perhaps one of the best science fiction books I've ever read. It is inspired. Mankind discovers a race of newts trapped in a bay and kept at a population minimum by hungry sharks and the Newts' lack of access to sharp tools. Recognizing their potential, they are given sharp knives and liberated from their bay to serve mankind as slave labor, retrieving pearls, building new land, fixing shoreline, and doing all manner of ocean-related labor.That's not the inspired part. The inspired part is that War With the Newts skewers everything. Karel Capek reads like Vonnegut, only dryer, and in my opinion, better, poking fun at humanity in general, the military-industrial complex (remember, 1936 - well before Ike coined the term, Capek is obviously criticizing it), German eugenics, German anti-semitism (pre-WWII), national defense and the arms race, international squabbling, the rich, the poor, movies, Americans, utopianism, lynching (seriously - I'll quote below - you can bundle it up with American criticism, because that's obviously who he's targeting), political office, sexual politics, science, several nationalities in general (the newts parody their captors), learning, humanity as Newts and Newts as humanity, popular culture, and his own book (in the last chapter - very Tom Jones). And the satire looses little over 70 years. I'm surprised this book was never even mentioned in any of the lit classes I had that used science fiction, nor by any of my science fiction obsessed professors.
Here's a footnote quote example. You don't have to read Philip Dray's book At the Hands of Person's Unknown (a history of lynching in the U.S.) to realize how spot on this was in 1936:
"This may be the place to report that, especially in the American press, reports cropped up from time to time of girls who claimed to have been raped by Newts while bathing. In consequence, there occurred increasingly frequent instances in the United States of Newts being caught and lynched, mostly by burning at the stake. In vain did scientists protest against this popular custom by pointing out that on anatomical grounds such an offense on the part of salamanders was physically impossible; but a lot of girls swore that they had been molested by Newts, and this settled the matter for any right-minded American. Later the popular burning of Newts was restricted by being licensed only on Saturdays and only under the supervision of the Fire Department."
1491: New Revelations of the Americas Before Columbus
1491: New Revelations of the Americas Before Columbus was well worth my time. Charles C. Mann doesn't set out to show that current anthropology and archaeology are wrong. Rather, he sets out to show that like almost everything else, it has ceased to be black and white (which it once seemed to be - answers were cast in stone, and only the finer points were argued) and become many shades of gray. New theories are everywhere in archaeology, from the number of individuals inhabiting the new world - Florida coasts thick with fires and villages, likewise the Amazon, once thought virtually uninhabitable - to the number of natives killed off by European disease before the Europeans ever arrived in number (maybe even 98-99%), to questions about the land bridge and when immigration actually happened, and by what route, to the genetic engineering of crops and the complete terraforming of the land, to the level of sophistication and extent of the cities. 1491 addresses many of the new frontiers in the archaeology of the new world and how these changes in the perception of new world history affect archaeologists, native americans, and conservationists. And Mann puts forward numerous examples of convincing incidents to back up these new theories - mounds made of millions and millions of pottery shards, charred soil still giving added agricultural production in the Amazon today, linked islands of growth, and birth and death patterns post contact as disease spread from coast to coast on both continents until it bottlenecked in Panama.The Wikipedia article is fairly in depth if you're interested, but not willing to commit to 350 pages.
Wednesday, February 21, 2007
Lord Protector
Pooteewheet and I managed to make it onto the early adopter program for Netflix's streaming video system. We get an hour of video a month for each dollar we spend on our normal account. While that might sound cool, it has the disadvantage of giving me twenty-four by seven access to crappy movies that I might otherwise never watch. Gone are the days when all three of our movies are in outward rotation, stuck in the U.S. Mail, or Eryn locks down a video by simply refusing to relinquish the copy of Chicka Chick 1-2-3. Gone are the days where I just give up on television because I've already seen all the crap on the SciFi channel...twice. Now I have access to an unending stream of crap, brand new crap. Without careful moderation, I could develop a virtual, digital, crack habit.
For example, the other evening, left to my own devices while Pooteewheet worked on taxes, and tired of reading, I watched Lord Protector, formerly known as The Dark Mist (1996). It's never a good sign when a movie has to change its title just to trick people into watching it again. Presumably the same people who were too stupid to avoid it the first time. It's like when Homer Simpson changed his name to Max Power, but not as clever because Lord Protector is a stupid name for a movie, likely to attract only ex-British history majors who subsequently made poor career choices. Unfortunately for me, I majored in British History and English with a focus on British Literature.
Lord Protector was bad. Look at Rottentomatoes.com. It doesn't even have any reviews. And that's more than it has under the title The Dark Mist. They can't even be troubled to know it's the same movie. Picture The Princess Bride crossed with Bard's Tale (the video game...if you've never seen it, picture a movie about a wise-cracking bard and you're 90% of the way there), if it were made by humorless Canadians. Toss in a few cheesy special effects, reminiscent of a Buck Rogers episode, or even old-school, Kirkadian Star Trek, and mix liberally with a plot line drawing from everyone else. I offer examples of the poaching:
Dungeons and Dragons: the movie, the game, the Tom Hanks after school special...take your pick. Lord Protector is about a group of "chosen": a leader, a healer, a fighter, a mage, a bard, and an assassin/thief. The lead character is obsessed with filling in all the roles, as they need the character diversity to complete their quest to stop the evil mist, even though it's not entirely clear why they're all necessary. They'd have been better off rerolling dice on the screen until they had a few natural 18's. It would have been less obvious. And if they were going to embrace role playing, maybe they could have dual classed a few roles in the interest of giving the characters some depth. There's also the matter of the magic involved. It came down to a light spell and a cure light wounds potion made out of a weed. Those were the magical forces shaping the world. If not for that high magic, they'd have been trapped in the dark, bumping into each other in unlit tunnels until their wounds left them as lifeless as the movie.
Star Trek: there was quite a bit of Kirk-style fighting. And I mentioned the special effects. I sort of expected to see the glowing ball that ate crabbiness come floating around a corner. That may have been what the dark mist was. It was hard to tell as it didn't really come out of the ground for more than 15 seconds during the whole movie, was just a bunch of smoke tinged with red, and made me grumpy. Scooter angst...yum.
Monty Python: literally, I quote, "It's only a flesh wound."
Star Wars: One of the main characters has a false hand, having lost the original to his fa...brother. Later they whack his brother's hands off, tit for tat. He's concerned that his hand is driving him to kill all his friends, that it's filling him with a darkness. But he turns a corner when the lead character informs him that his hand isn't controlling him, it's only mirroring and channeling what's already inside him, his true desires. Like the force...for pussies. And the lead bad guy shoots crackling electricity out of his hands to subdue people. It isn't purple, so I think they managed not to break any intellectual property laws.
Buck Rogers: Hey, we're not even close to done yet. I already mentioned the special effects. Now I'm talking about the outfits on one of the female characters, Lady Diamond (who runs an animal shelter in California, that sponsors a book by Jinky, who's the dog of a woman whose blog was one of the very first I ever read...seven degrees of crap..not her blog, just the path from A to G via me). She wears a tan stretch suit with a thin diamond belt and a peculiar, almost non-existent, except it covers her whole body, gray hunting outfit, waist cut on the side, with tights. All very reminiscent of Princess Ardala, or even Wilma's gray jumpsuit, the one that always made Twiki stutter (trivia: Mel Blanc played the voice of Twiki for many of the episodes).
Willow: The assassin and the fighter despise each other, yet at the same time, love is growing between them as they respect the physical prowess and brash attitude each possesses. Two peas in a pod. Sorsha and Madmartigan, without the real life marriage and divorce (I'm guessing there, maybe the actors in Lord Protector got married, I'm not checking), or little people yelling "wee-low", "weeee-loooow!"
Beastmaster: Ravelle's ferret, per the credits, was played by "Scoot".
Highlander: Donnigan or Dunnigan, or Doneagain, or Dungagain, was perhaps the most accurate, in a supremely shitty way, Sean Connery lookalike I've ever seen in a movie. He was more accurate than Sean's own brother Neil in Double 007, and Neil was hired for the movie because he was a shitty version of his brother. The movie even had the tagline, "Operation Kid Brother is Too Much for One Mother!" Dungagain is a Scottish fighter, with an open shirt, and a hairy chest, the last member of The Clan of the Blade, on a search for a weed to brew the aforementioned light healing potion. I guess I should mention that when he finally does find it, it really looks like nothing so much as a field of pansies - I know because I just called my father-in-law to ask him about bright colored flowers with black markings that make them look like little faces. I'm not sure why he needed to cross the world to find a pansy when he could have just gone to Frank's Nursery and Crafts.
I don't know why they keep screaming about technospawn. It appears that the magic is supposed to be based on technology, but I suspect that was just so they could use sewers for shot locations rather than finding real caves or building a set.
And the funniest bits weren't the copping of plot devices from other movies. That's reserved for the magicians casting their spells. It took forever. You could have learned a new fighting style, just to slap them around in an innovative way, before they hit you with anything they were casting. They would stand there, miming pushing, and pulling, and climbing, and writhing, and trapped in the fucking box for a whole scene, just to create a ball of light that was reflected away and achieved nothing. At one point it took three of them miming around each other in a lame looking mime orgy to create the ball of light to the same wasted end. At one point, one of the characters tried to build energy for his spell by moving his hands up and down and up and down, conjuring a bigger and bigger blue bar of light, only to have it...ahem...peter out. And as a side note to all future fantasy movie directors, having a character actually sing spells like a bard is an idea best left on paper. Paper that is subsequently ripped up and burned, and the resulting ash used to paint a target on the face of the writer who suggested it so that future bad plot ideas can be crumpled up around rocks and pitched at his face.
Which brings up the last item. The narrator in Lord Protector doesn't just sound like Charlton Heston. The narrator is Charlton Heston. I'm not just saying that so I can add Planet of the Apes to the list of poached movies. He offers plot exposition at various points to make sure that if we've fallen asleep, we're brought back up to speed. Maybe he's in favor of all those guns just so he can shoot anyone who knows he was involved in Lord Protector/The Dark Mist. "You released it! You actually released it! Damn you all to hell!"
For example, the other evening, left to my own devices while Pooteewheet worked on taxes, and tired of reading, I watched Lord Protector, formerly known as The Dark Mist (1996). It's never a good sign when a movie has to change its title just to trick people into watching it again. Presumably the same people who were too stupid to avoid it the first time. It's like when Homer Simpson changed his name to Max Power, but not as clever because Lord Protector is a stupid name for a movie, likely to attract only ex-British history majors who subsequently made poor career choices. Unfortunately for me, I majored in British History and English with a focus on British Literature.
Lord Protector was bad. Look at Rottentomatoes.com. It doesn't even have any reviews. And that's more than it has under the title The Dark Mist. They can't even be troubled to know it's the same movie. Picture The Princess Bride crossed with Bard's Tale (the video game...if you've never seen it, picture a movie about a wise-cracking bard and you're 90% of the way there), if it were made by humorless Canadians. Toss in a few cheesy special effects, reminiscent of a Buck Rogers episode, or even old-school, Kirkadian Star Trek, and mix liberally with a plot line drawing from everyone else. I offer examples of the poaching:
Dungeons and Dragons: the movie, the game, the Tom Hanks after school special...take your pick. Lord Protector is about a group of "chosen": a leader, a healer, a fighter, a mage, a bard, and an assassin/thief. The lead character is obsessed with filling in all the roles, as they need the character diversity to complete their quest to stop the evil mist, even though it's not entirely clear why they're all necessary. They'd have been better off rerolling dice on the screen until they had a few natural 18's. It would have been less obvious. And if they were going to embrace role playing, maybe they could have dual classed a few roles in the interest of giving the characters some depth. There's also the matter of the magic involved. It came down to a light spell and a cure light wounds potion made out of a weed. Those were the magical forces shaping the world. If not for that high magic, they'd have been trapped in the dark, bumping into each other in unlit tunnels until their wounds left them as lifeless as the movie.
Star Trek: there was quite a bit of Kirk-style fighting. And I mentioned the special effects. I sort of expected to see the glowing ball that ate crabbiness come floating around a corner. That may have been what the dark mist was. It was hard to tell as it didn't really come out of the ground for more than 15 seconds during the whole movie, was just a bunch of smoke tinged with red, and made me grumpy. Scooter angst...yum.
Monty Python: literally, I quote, "It's only a flesh wound."
Star Wars: One of the main characters has a false hand, having lost the original to his fa...brother. Later they whack his brother's hands off, tit for tat. He's concerned that his hand is driving him to kill all his friends, that it's filling him with a darkness. But he turns a corner when the lead character informs him that his hand isn't controlling him, it's only mirroring and channeling what's already inside him, his true desires. Like the force...for pussies. And the lead bad guy shoots crackling electricity out of his hands to subdue people. It isn't purple, so I think they managed not to break any intellectual property laws.
Buck Rogers: Hey, we're not even close to done yet. I already mentioned the special effects. Now I'm talking about the outfits on one of the female characters, Lady Diamond (who runs an animal shelter in California, that sponsors a book by Jinky, who's the dog of a woman whose blog was one of the very first I ever read...seven degrees of crap..not her blog, just the path from A to G via me). She wears a tan stretch suit with a thin diamond belt and a peculiar, almost non-existent, except it covers her whole body, gray hunting outfit, waist cut on the side, with tights. All very reminiscent of Princess Ardala, or even Wilma's gray jumpsuit, the one that always made Twiki stutter (trivia: Mel Blanc played the voice of Twiki for many of the episodes).
Willow: The assassin and the fighter despise each other, yet at the same time, love is growing between them as they respect the physical prowess and brash attitude each possesses. Two peas in a pod. Sorsha and Madmartigan, without the real life marriage and divorce (I'm guessing there, maybe the actors in Lord Protector got married, I'm not checking), or little people yelling "wee-low", "weeee-loooow!"
Beastmaster: Ravelle's ferret, per the credits, was played by "Scoot".
Highlander: Donnigan or Dunnigan, or Doneagain, or Dungagain, was perhaps the most accurate, in a supremely shitty way, Sean Connery lookalike I've ever seen in a movie. He was more accurate than Sean's own brother Neil in Double 007, and Neil was hired for the movie because he was a shitty version of his brother. The movie even had the tagline, "Operation Kid Brother is Too Much for One Mother!" Dungagain is a Scottish fighter, with an open shirt, and a hairy chest, the last member of The Clan of the Blade, on a search for a weed to brew the aforementioned light healing potion. I guess I should mention that when he finally does find it, it really looks like nothing so much as a field of pansies - I know because I just called my father-in-law to ask him about bright colored flowers with black markings that make them look like little faces. I'm not sure why he needed to cross the world to find a pansy when he could have just gone to Frank's Nursery and Crafts.
I don't know why they keep screaming about technospawn. It appears that the magic is supposed to be based on technology, but I suspect that was just so they could use sewers for shot locations rather than finding real caves or building a set.
And the funniest bits weren't the copping of plot devices from other movies. That's reserved for the magicians casting their spells. It took forever. You could have learned a new fighting style, just to slap them around in an innovative way, before they hit you with anything they were casting. They would stand there, miming pushing, and pulling, and climbing, and writhing, and trapped in the fucking box for a whole scene, just to create a ball of light that was reflected away and achieved nothing. At one point it took three of them miming around each other in a lame looking mime orgy to create the ball of light to the same wasted end. At one point, one of the characters tried to build energy for his spell by moving his hands up and down and up and down, conjuring a bigger and bigger blue bar of light, only to have it...ahem...peter out. And as a side note to all future fantasy movie directors, having a character actually sing spells like a bard is an idea best left on paper. Paper that is subsequently ripped up and burned, and the resulting ash used to paint a target on the face of the writer who suggested it so that future bad plot ideas can be crumpled up around rocks and pitched at his face.
Which brings up the last item. The narrator in Lord Protector doesn't just sound like Charlton Heston. The narrator is Charlton Heston. I'm not just saying that so I can add Planet of the Apes to the list of poached movies. He offers plot exposition at various points to make sure that if we've fallen asleep, we're brought back up to speed. Maybe he's in favor of all those guns just so he can shoot anyone who knows he was involved in Lord Protector/The Dark Mist. "You released it! You actually released it! Damn you all to hell!"
Tuesday, February 20, 2007
Hopper
Once there was a little boy named Lincoln. Lincoln was three years old and his favorite thing to do in the whole world was to write stories. He didn’t know how to write the letters himself, so he had to ask his mother or father to write the letters for him while he told them the story to write. Then Lincoln could read it back to himself whenever he wanted.
“Mom,” Lincoln asked. “Can you write down a story for me?”
“Sure, Lincoln,” Lincoln’s mother replied. She dug around in a kitchen drawer for a notebook and a pen.
“Are you ready, Mom?” asked Lincoln.
“I’m ready, Lincoln,” Lincoln’s mother put the pen to the paper to show that she was ready to write.
“Here’s my story, Mom,” said Lincoln.
“I’m waiting, Honey.”
“O.k. It needs a picture first, Mom.”
“What kind of picture, Lincoln?”
“A frog.”
“I’m not sure I can draw a very good frog, Lincoln.”
“I’ll draw the frog, Mom. You can write the words for the story.”
So Lincoln took his markers and drew a big green frog so his mother would know where to start writing his story.
“That’s a very good frog, Lincoln.”
“Thanks, Mom. Are you ready to write?”
“I am, Lincoln.”
And Lincoln began his story while his mother wrote down the words.
“Mom,” Lincoln asked. “Can you write down a story for me?”
“Sure, Lincoln,” Lincoln’s mother replied. She dug around in a kitchen drawer for a notebook and a pen.
“Are you ready, Mom?” asked Lincoln.
“I’m ready, Lincoln,” Lincoln’s mother put the pen to the paper to show that she was ready to write.
“Here’s my story, Mom,” said Lincoln.
“I’m waiting, Honey.”
“O.k. It needs a picture first, Mom.”
“What kind of picture, Lincoln?”
“A frog.”
“I’m not sure I can draw a very good frog, Lincoln.”
“I’ll draw the frog, Mom. You can write the words for the story.”
So Lincoln took his markers and drew a big green frog so his mother would know where to start writing his story.
“That’s a very good frog, Lincoln.”
“Thanks, Mom. Are you ready to write?”
“I am, Lincoln.”
And Lincoln began his story while his mother wrote down the words.
Once, when I was two, Mom and Dad told me I was going to have a birthday. After my birthday, they said, I would be three. I would not be two any more. They told me that when I turned three, I could have a party and get presents. I told them I wanted a pet. Maybe a puppy. And a cake. With six layers. Two chocolate. Two vanilla. And two strawberry.
Dad said maybe I could have a fish. And a cake with one layer. But it could be both chocolate and vanilla. He said that was called marbled.
I was excited. I couldn’t wait for my birthday. But I wasn’t sure I wanted a fish.
On my birthday, when I quit being two and started being three, I had a big party with lots of my friends, a cake with one layer that was chocolate and vanilla, and strawberry ice cream. My friends gave me neat presents like games and puzzles and toy cars. Then just one present was left; the present from Mom and Dad.
“I don’t want a fish,” I told them.
“We know,” said my dad. “Open it and see what it is.”
I opened it, and inside the wrapping paper was a plastic jar. I read it, “Frog Food.”
“What’s it for?” I asked.
"Your new pet,” said Mom. “He’s in your room.”
My friends and I ran into my room and there, on my bookshelf, was a new aquarium. It was full of rocks and weeds and a big branch to hide under and a small dish full of water…and a great big, green frog.
“Cool!” said my friend, Bill.
“Sweet!” said my other friend, Squeak.
“Excellent!” said my other friend, Eryn.
“Are you going to give him a name?” asked Mom. She and Dad were standing in the doorway, watching me.
“I’m going to name him Hopper,” I told her. “I hope he likes to hop.”
“I’m sure he does,” said my dad. “It’s the nature of frogs to hop.”
The End
“That’s a good story,” said Lincoln’s mother. “I remember when you got Hopper. Does he hop a lot like you hoped?”
“He does,” Lincoln replied. “Hopper is a great frog.”
Lincoln’s mother handed him the story, and he practiced reading it for the rest of the day so that when his father came home from work, he could read him the story about the day he got Hopper.
“That’s a great story, Lincoln,” Lincoln’s father said after he heard the story. “I’m glad you wrote it for your mother and me.”
Oh, I didn’t write it for you or Mom,” said Lincoln. “But I wanted you both to hear it anyway.”
“Then who did you write it for?” Lincoln’s father asked.
“Hopper!” Lincoln yelled, running to his bedroom as his mother and father laughed.
Feet of Clay
This post will have very little to do with Terry Pratchett's Feet of Clay, which was a fine Pratchett book. I always like the ones with the guards in them, and I liked it much better than that last one which was about witches and opera and had a Phantom of the Opera motiff. I hope there's not a book in the series that's related to Cats.Instead, I would like to complain about the typesetter and publishing company, HarperTorch. On page 270, they not only forget the d on "I'm surprise"d, they actually mess up an entire word and substitute "prisoners" for what should be "poisoners." And, on page 291, "When he was little he'd had a pink stuffed pig call Mr. Dreadful."
Now I know why my library doesn't have a copy of this particular book and I had to get it via interlibrary loan. It's some sort of protest against paying for shitty workmanship.
Old Twentieth
This will be perhaps the shortest review I've ever given a science fiction book.Read almost anything by Philip K. Dick, or watch Vanilla Sky, instead.
Monday, February 19, 2007
Elroy Sparta
Last night I was watching a show about people becoming super obese and they actually counted calories. One of the people on the show was consuming over 30,000 calories a day! 30,000! If I biked at 20 mph all day, I wouldn't burn that much. That's crazy. That's like 150 bottles of beer.
Anyway, in order to prepare myself for RAGBRAI (by the way, I have to send in registration forms this week, Dad), I've been trying to determine a few big rides I can do before July. I've always wanted to do the Elroy-Sparta trail in Wisconsin because it has mile long tunnels and you need a flashlight in the middle because you can't see the ends. But I've been unwilling to journey 3.5 hours one way to do a ride. Then I discovered, looking at the trail maps, that if you start on the near end, at the Great River Trail, you only have to drive about 2 hours to Winona to get started. That's doable. I pointed out the plan to Ming, The Boss, and Mean Mr. Mustard and they all expressed an interest in going, even though it's 101 miles of biking, one way. Mean Mr. Mustard did, however, question the wisdom of going 101 miles one way, noting that we usually only manage 10 mph on the Bike Classic. But that still means we'd be done in 10 hours, so if we started at 8 a.m., we'd be done by 6:00 p.m. And if we really cranked it up, to 11 mph, we'd be done by 5:00.
I think he's worried about being old. But I've come up with a solution for that as well. I noticed this game for the Wii, Trauma Center: Second Opinion. Before we go on the ride, I can get a Wii and a copy of the game, and practice my roadside emergency surgery and even defibrilation. He'll be perfectly safe!
Anyway, in order to prepare myself for RAGBRAI (by the way, I have to send in registration forms this week, Dad), I've been trying to determine a few big rides I can do before July. I've always wanted to do the Elroy-Sparta trail in Wisconsin because it has mile long tunnels and you need a flashlight in the middle because you can't see the ends. But I've been unwilling to journey 3.5 hours one way to do a ride. Then I discovered, looking at the trail maps, that if you start on the near end, at the Great River Trail, you only have to drive about 2 hours to Winona to get started. That's doable. I pointed out the plan to Ming, The Boss, and Mean Mr. Mustard and they all expressed an interest in going, even though it's 101 miles of biking, one way. Mean Mr. Mustard did, however, question the wisdom of going 101 miles one way, noting that we usually only manage 10 mph on the Bike Classic. But that still means we'd be done in 10 hours, so if we started at 8 a.m., we'd be done by 6:00 p.m. And if we really cranked it up, to 11 mph, we'd be done by 5:00.
I think he's worried about being old. But I've come up with a solution for that as well. I noticed this game for the Wii, Trauma Center: Second Opinion. Before we go on the ride, I can get a Wii and a copy of the game, and practice my roadside emergency surgery and even defibrilation. He'll be perfectly safe!
Guitar Eryn
I particularly like it that Eryn falls over before she even starts playing the guitar. Maybe she's practicing the drunk-on-stage routine. I think Erik's band could learn a few things here about making up new tunes on the fly. In case you can't identify them, they are, in order, "Don't", "What", and "Backspace". She later told me that last one was an ode to programmers with poor typing skills.
"What" led to a fun exchange with Pooteewheet:
Me: Eryn was playing "What".
Pooteewheet: She was playing what?
Me: Yeah. "What."
Pooteeewheet: . . .
Very old school comedy.
"What" led to a fun exchange with Pooteewheet:
Me: Eryn was playing "What".
Pooteewheet: She was playing what?
Me: Yeah. "What."
Pooteeewheet: . . .
Very old school comedy.
Fantasy Football
Here's a video to get Mean Mr. Mustard inspired for any bulletproofing of CDFFL he's currently engaged in over the long weekend. Fantasy football rap. I think the line "you never set your roster" is specifically about me, although Mr. Mustard has been known not to submit his own lineup now and then, and he runs the software.
Sunday, February 18, 2007
Outlook + Blackberry = Damn It
In case there are any gurus out there who are significantly smarter about this issue than me, I thought I'd throw it out there and see if any commentary trickles my way.
I have a series of emails that I receive that are automated alert emails forwarded from another user. They all come to my inbox with the same subject line. So to alert myself to which emails actually pertain to me, I wrote a script to dig through the body of the email, find a particular bit of text that's always the same, and parse out the bit between that bit and the following comma, moving the resulting significant name value into the subject line. So, in Outlook - Tools, Macros, VB Editor, then this code...
Easy peasy. But you have to make it fire somehow, so in the interest of expediency, I attached the code to an Outlook rule. Via the menu, tools, rules and alerts, create a new rule that says to apply the rule when a new message arrives with "xyz" in the subject line and run script x (above).
It still won't be happy at that point. Microsoft is sort of twitchy about security on scripts. So if necessary, run selfcert.exe (comes with MS Office, but you may have to run the Office install [control panel, add remove programs, Office - check "advanced", then select it from the resulting treeview under office shared features, digital certificate for VBA Projects] to pick up selfcert, it doesn't install automatically) from C:\Program Files\Microsoft Office\OFFICE11. The install, if you needed to use it, looks something like this.
Use Selfcert.exe to create a certificate. Call it something like "My Certificate Internal", just so you don't accidentially send it off as production-worthy verification.
Go back to the VB code in Outlook (the editing window via the macros menu item). While the code is visible, select Tools > Digital Signature. Pick the certificate you created.
Shut down and reopen Outlook (save .otm if prompted) so that everything is acceptable. If necessary, you may have to change "security" (same area as "macros") so that scripts will run if signed.
For example, you may see this message when you re-enter Outlook. If you get this, check "always trust" and Enable Macros and you're good to go.
If you give the script to someone else, you may want to just have them install your certificate instead of creating their own. There are rules for that here.
So, what's the problem after all of that, you might ask? The problem is that my company has set Outlook to do a bit of local caching. All the email is stored out on big mail servers, and then sent to my desktop where I have a cached copy of it (so it's not fetching it all the time, but stores it somewhere where spilling coffee on my machine won't destroy a year's worth of email). Mail is not forwarded from my desktop to my Blackberry, but goes to both machines simultaneously, or almost simultaneously. They each get their own copies. So, as near as I can tell, and this is where I'd be interested to actually know the mechanism/process, when I run the script above to update an email, the following process happens:
1. Email sent to my desktop machine cache.
2. Script runs, updates it.
3. Email sent to Blackberry. Maybe a few seconds later.
4. Desktop syncs with email server - hey, someone changed it.
5. Email server somehow knows there are multiple versions of the email because the Blackberry didn't update it's copy. Maybe it doesn't like the fact that a copy was sent with a timestamp later than the cache update timestamp. Without access to the email server (and there's no way I'm getting that), I really couldn't tell you.
6. Conflict error raised and the conflicts box/cache in Outlook starts to fill up with lots of messages about how I have two emails and it's not sure which one is valid, so it's going to keep copies in case I need to resolve the issue later.
7. The Blackberry, of course, never gets the email with the improved subject line because it gets an unchanged version, the original version, and the desktop cache doesn't sync with the email server telling it to sync with all devices. Or maybe it does, and that's what generates the error.
I can turn off the copy to the Blackberry, and when I do the conflicts that are filling up my server space go away, but that sort of defeats the purpose of knowing which ones I need to pay attention to on the device that gives me the best access to my email (the Blackberry).
How would you resolve this (and don't say something stupid, like use email program alternate#2 - if I could pick email programs for my company, I'd just have some programmer fix it for me because it's cheaper than blogging about it)? Give the script to the person autogenerating the emails in the first place? I thought about that, but it's obviously a rather convoluted process (for the first script you install), and I don't like things that use up other people's time. Perhaps add a line to the above script telling it to delete the item in question and remail a copy with the new subject line so there's no sync issue? Will that force my copy of Outlook into prompt mode all the time (Outlook likes scripts that .send email as they reek of viru-tude). I haven't tried that, and it would probably work, but it gives me extra items in my sent box that I have to deal with. I could run some follow up code to delete those items as well, but by now I'm getting into the classic "I have to keep adding code to take care of the issues being raised by the code" scenario, and I prefer simplicity.
Hopefully you didn't follow a search here looking for answers yourself.
I have a series of emails that I receive that are automated alert emails forwarded from another user. They all come to my inbox with the same subject line. So to alert myself to which emails actually pertain to me, I wrote a script to dig through the body of the email, find a particular bit of text that's always the same, and parse out the bit between that bit and the following comma, moving the resulting significant name value into the subject line. So, in Outlook - Tools, Macros, VB Editor, then this code...
Sub CollectionToSubject(MyMail As MailItem)
Dim strID As String
Dim olNS As Outlook.NameSpace
Dim olMail As Outlook.MailItem
strID = MyMail.EntryID
Set olNS = Application.GetNamespace("MAPI")
Set olMail = olNS.GetItemFromID(strID)
If InStr(olMail.Body, "SOMEVALUE") Then
startpos = InStr(olMail.Body, "SOMEVALUE") + Len("SOMEVALUE")
endpos = InStr(startpos, olMail.Body, ",")
olMail.Subject = Mid(olMail.Body, startpos, endpos - startpos)
olMail.Save
End If
Set olMail = Nothing
Set olNS = Nothing
End Sub
Easy peasy. But you have to make it fire somehow, so in the interest of expediency, I attached the code to an Outlook rule. Via the menu, tools, rules and alerts, create a new rule that says to apply the rule when a new message arrives with "xyz" in the subject line and run script x (above).
It still won't be happy at that point. Microsoft is sort of twitchy about security on scripts. So if necessary, run selfcert.exe (comes with MS Office, but you may have to run the Office install [control panel, add remove programs, Office - check "advanced", then select it from the resulting treeview under office shared features, digital certificate for VBA Projects] to pick up selfcert, it doesn't install automatically) from C:\Program Files\Microsoft Office\OFFICE11. The install, if you needed to use it, looks something like this.
Use Selfcert.exe to create a certificate. Call it something like "My Certificate Internal", just so you don't accidentially send it off as production-worthy verification.Go back to the VB code in Outlook (the editing window via the macros menu item). While the code is visible, select Tools > Digital Signature. Pick the certificate you created.
Shut down and reopen Outlook (save .otm if prompted) so that everything is acceptable. If necessary, you may have to change "security" (same area as "macros") so that scripts will run if signed.
For example, you may see this message when you re-enter Outlook. If you get this, check "always trust" and Enable Macros and you're good to go.
If you give the script to someone else, you may want to just have them install your certificate instead of creating their own. There are rules for that here.So, what's the problem after all of that, you might ask? The problem is that my company has set Outlook to do a bit of local caching. All the email is stored out on big mail servers, and then sent to my desktop where I have a cached copy of it (so it's not fetching it all the time, but stores it somewhere where spilling coffee on my machine won't destroy a year's worth of email). Mail is not forwarded from my desktop to my Blackberry, but goes to both machines simultaneously, or almost simultaneously. They each get their own copies. So, as near as I can tell, and this is where I'd be interested to actually know the mechanism/process, when I run the script above to update an email, the following process happens:
1. Email sent to my desktop machine cache.
2. Script runs, updates it.
3. Email sent to Blackberry. Maybe a few seconds later.
4. Desktop syncs with email server - hey, someone changed it.
5. Email server somehow knows there are multiple versions of the email because the Blackberry didn't update it's copy. Maybe it doesn't like the fact that a copy was sent with a timestamp later than the cache update timestamp. Without access to the email server (and there's no way I'm getting that), I really couldn't tell you.
6. Conflict error raised and the conflicts box/cache in Outlook starts to fill up with lots of messages about how I have two emails and it's not sure which one is valid, so it's going to keep copies in case I need to resolve the issue later.
7. The Blackberry, of course, never gets the email with the improved subject line because it gets an unchanged version, the original version, and the desktop cache doesn't sync with the email server telling it to sync with all devices. Or maybe it does, and that's what generates the error.
I can turn off the copy to the Blackberry, and when I do the conflicts that are filling up my server space go away, but that sort of defeats the purpose of knowing which ones I need to pay attention to on the device that gives me the best access to my email (the Blackberry).
How would you resolve this (and don't say something stupid, like use email program alternate#2 - if I could pick email programs for my company, I'd just have some programmer fix it for me because it's cheaper than blogging about it)? Give the script to the person autogenerating the emails in the first place? I thought about that, but it's obviously a rather convoluted process (for the first script you install), and I don't like things that use up other people's time. Perhaps add a line to the above script telling it to delete the item in question and remail a copy with the new subject line so there's no sync issue? Will that force my copy of Outlook into prompt mode all the time (Outlook likes scripts that .send email as they reek of viru-tude). I haven't tried that, and it would probably work, but it gives me extra items in my sent box that I have to deal with. I could run some follow up code to delete those items as well, but by now I'm getting into the classic "I have to keep adding code to take care of the issues being raised by the code" scenario, and I prefer simplicity.
Hopefully you didn't follow a search here looking for answers yourself.
A Little Too Focused
Pooteewheet went out to dinner with a friend this evening, so I was hoping to take Eryn out to do something fun. I thought that as we still needed to eat dinner, it might be fun to go watch belly dancing at the Mediterranean Cruise Cafe. Then I realized it's Sunday, not Saturday. So there's no belly dancing. Dang it. But while checking the days and times at their website, I did notice they have six or seven pages of pictures of patrons watching the belly dancers.
Including the picture above, which disturbs me. Is that guy just back of front, the one observing the amateur belly dancer, really that mesmerized by her belly? He looks absolutely spellbound. 
I don't think I'd look like that if I found a naked woman lounging in my cubical. Well, maybe. But only for about 2 seconds before I sprinted to HR to tell them I had nothing to do with it. It reminds me of the scene in Lair of the White Worm where Amanda Donohoe is shimmying around without much in the way of clothing, trying to mesmerize someone with her sultry snake dance (I can't remember if she's after the boy scout, the policeman or Hugh Grant). Not because Amanda's dancing like a belly dancer, but because the look on the victim's face was supposed to be much like the belly dancing observer in the Med picture. Of course, maybe he just wants to steal her dollar.
I don't think I'd look like that if I found a naked woman lounging in my cubical. Well, maybe. But only for about 2 seconds before I sprinted to HR to tell them I had nothing to do with it. It reminds me of the scene in Lair of the White Worm where Amanda Donohoe is shimmying around without much in the way of clothing, trying to mesmerize someone with her sultry snake dance (I can't remember if she's after the boy scout, the policeman or Hugh Grant). Not because Amanda's dancing like a belly dancer, but because the look on the victim's face was supposed to be much like the belly dancing observer in the Med picture. Of course, maybe he just wants to steal her dollar.I Do Not Have a Drinking Problem
Just shut up. I don't. Stay out of the kitchen drawers. Here's some morning tunes in honor of my (ex-)cap collection.
Saturday, February 17, 2007
Asteroids and Religion
It must be nice not to have to worry about the peripheral world when writing for a science fiction series. There's this episode of Stargate SG-1 where a very large asteroid is plunging toward the earth, courtesy of a few bad aliens. Less than a minute before it hits, the heroes manage to dump the asteroid into hyperspace for just a moment, so that it emerges on the other side of the planet, about a minute away, traveling back into space. Whew. Crisis averted.
What I want to know is, if they refuse to tell the general populace about the existence of the aliens and the stargate, how do they deal with the fact that everyone with a religion is going to assume god just reached down and spared earth from the asteroid by using his divine will to momentarily whisk away the big, bad rock. You know a certain segment of the population would be absolutely insufferable, to the point of refusing to believe science had been involved when the government eventually fessed up. I want to see that as the central theme of an episode.
What I want to know is, if they refuse to tell the general populace about the existence of the aliens and the stargate, how do they deal with the fact that everyone with a religion is going to assume god just reached down and spared earth from the asteroid by using his divine will to momentarily whisk away the big, bad rock. You know a certain segment of the population would be absolutely insufferable, to the point of refusing to believe science had been involved when the government eventually fessed up. I want to see that as the central theme of an episode.
Tuesday, February 13, 2007
Roadside Picnic
I went old school recently. Maybe not as old school as Capek's War With the Newts (on my to read list), but old school nonetheless. 70's era Russian scifi by the Sturgatsky brothers. Translated literature is always a bit strange, and Roadside Picnic was no exception. It just didn't flow as well as I'd hoped, and it was obvious that Russians from the 70's thought just a little differently than I do. The idea that aliens may have dropped in and left behind piles of crap that is incredibly valuable and dangerous is just a great idea. But when the holy grail of refuse is a dream granting machine and the main character is willing to sacrifice another character's child to the guardian nasties in exchange for world happiness. At that point it gets a little strange and seems to cross over from scifi into political commentary, although it's difficult to pinpoint what the Sturgatsky's are criticizing or postulating. Perhaps the idea that what we (in their case, the Soviets) might think of as science is nothing compared to what might be ahead, and that it isn't science that's going to create a better future, even the best science that's so out there it might as well be magic, but human dedication and hope.I thought it was interesting that in the Wikipedia article they state that gleaners around Chernobyl are known as stalkers, just as the gleaners are in Roadside Picnic.
Tale of the Troika is one of the most amazingly weird stories I've ever read. There's a big tower, thousands of stories tall, and growing. It's full of all sorts of magical and scientific wonders. Full cities, talking bedbugs, strange black boxes, and that's only by floor 70-something. And there are three individuals, the troika, who are ruling one floor and making all sorts of decisions about what's allowed to exist and what is not. And they're sort of insane. And there are scientists trying to deal with them, one of them visible, one invisible. And they've teamed up with a talking bed bug, Gabby, who is trying to forge a new era of cooperation between humans and bedbugs (the troika just wants to squish him). And they've brought a machine with them to make the troika act differently, a humanizer that "repressed primitive urges in the person subjected to its rays and brought to the surface and directed outward all that was rational, good and eternal...Eddie managed to cure a philatelist, return two out-of-control hocky fans to the bosoms of their familes, and bring a chronic slanderer under control."
Did I mention the abominable snowman, Fedya? At one point he reminisces about his clavichord and how beautiful it is up in the mountains. But what he doesn't like are "mountain climbers with guitars." "You can't imagine how terrible it is, Eddie, when in your own quiet mountains, where the only sound comes from avalanches and then only occasionally, you suddenly hear someone start strumming away and singing about some guy whose love is lost in the misty mountains. It's a disaster, Eddie. Some of us get sick from this, and the weaker ones actually die."
While Roadside Picnic had some politics, Tale of the Troika seems to be nothing but politics. I think it must have been pretty out there in the Soviet Union of the 70s, as it criticizes government ineffectiveness, labor, science, and all manner of things I slightly remember as being important from my history classes 20 years ago. Just the idea that the government deciding something is a nonissue to the point that it ceases to exist in reality is snarky. Maybe the bedbug, tower, and abominable clavichord are just dressing to make sure the story was perceived as absurd, rather than pointedly critical.
Monday, February 12, 2007
Chicago
Sorry about that hiatus. I was in Chicago for the weekend, or what's close enough to Chicago to count in horseshoes. Kyle and I went out there on a three-day weekend to play games with old friends, eat some sushi at Kamehachi, and eat breakfast at the I-30 cafe which has an excellent cup of coffee and a killer greek omelet with feta and gyros.
Gaming is gaming, so not much to talk about there. I spent most of the weekend recovering from being sick last Wednesday. I got over the sore throat, but the congestion wouldn't go away. In the morning I was clear, and then it just got worse and worse all day until the evening when it was like I was sitting in the middle of a field full of ragweed.
The highlight of the weekend was actually missed by Kyle and me (we were off to sushi by that point, watching some little kid sit outside the VIP room with his arms cross, an exaggerated frown on his face, and his body pointed alternately toward the wall or the restaurant, depending on who was watching. He may have just been crabby about the 20-some year old guy who was sporting mutton chops. WTF? I think the only time that's appropriate is if you're reenacting Sherlock Holmes mysteries for a living). Seems that the same gamer who backed up a toilet at our last gaming event with this group backed up a toilet again. But this time it was in one of the other gamers brand new house.
So new it didn't have a plunger.
Two of the other (young) gamers (i.e. college age children of the gamers we used to game with) had to go find plunging equipment so the gaming could continue. I think people should just start announcing, "I have to go take a xxxxx." Or he needs to learn how to flush a few times in the middle.
Here's a story for Kyle. I'm guessing he'll know why I didn't share it mid-trip. Primarily because I didn't want to deal with it for the next 48 hours, because I deserved it. Instead of giving him the truth, I told him I forgot my tooth paste. But what's this? Theres toothpaste in my leak-proof, plastic sundries bag. I just seem to like the generic stuff.
Then again. Maybe not. This is a disgusting way to be proactively concerned about my wife's health. Fortunately, it had a warning on it, so I didn't just make do with whatever I had in a tube.
Speaking of disgusting, white things that you shouldn't put in your mouth...I bought this iced, honey bun for Kyle because it was on sale right inside the door of one of the gas stations on the way home. They make them near St. Louis if you ever want to pick up a box. It actually looks considerably more disgusting in person. Like someone took a big, white, moist dump in a plastic bag; not like what you'd picture if you were thinking about an iced, honey bun. It's so moist you can see the water droplets beading up inside. I did a very good job of not snickering while I bought it, just so I could leave it on Kyle's car seat. The cashier comped me a penny so I didn't have to get lots of change back. I'll always wonder if that was some sort of nod to the fact that I was the first person to buy one. And at only about 550 calories per serving, it might be worth picking up a few dozen in order to survive the post apocalypse.
Finally, this was in my Wisconsin Dells guide book. Kyle thinks it makes them look like the victims of some fetish gone horribly wrong. I think they were just a little overzealous with the chocolate iced honey buns.
Gaming is gaming, so not much to talk about there. I spent most of the weekend recovering from being sick last Wednesday. I got over the sore throat, but the congestion wouldn't go away. In the morning I was clear, and then it just got worse and worse all day until the evening when it was like I was sitting in the middle of a field full of ragweed.
The highlight of the weekend was actually missed by Kyle and me (we were off to sushi by that point, watching some little kid sit outside the VIP room with his arms cross, an exaggerated frown on his face, and his body pointed alternately toward the wall or the restaurant, depending on who was watching. He may have just been crabby about the 20-some year old guy who was sporting mutton chops. WTF? I think the only time that's appropriate is if you're reenacting Sherlock Holmes mysteries for a living). Seems that the same gamer who backed up a toilet at our last gaming event with this group backed up a toilet again. But this time it was in one of the other gamers brand new house.
So new it didn't have a plunger.
Two of the other (young) gamers (i.e. college age children of the gamers we used to game with) had to go find plunging equipment so the gaming could continue. I think people should just start announcing, "I have to go take a xxxxx." Or he needs to learn how to flush a few times in the middle.
Here's a story for Kyle. I'm guessing he'll know why I didn't share it mid-trip. Primarily because I didn't want to deal with it for the next 48 hours, because I deserved it. Instead of giving him the truth, I told him I forgot my tooth paste. But what's this? Theres toothpaste in my leak-proof, plastic sundries bag. I just seem to like the generic stuff.
Then again. Maybe not. This is a disgusting way to be proactively concerned about my wife's health. Fortunately, it had a warning on it, so I didn't just make do with whatever I had in a tube.
Speaking of disgusting, white things that you shouldn't put in your mouth...I bought this iced, honey bun for Kyle because it was on sale right inside the door of one of the gas stations on the way home. They make them near St. Louis if you ever want to pick up a box. It actually looks considerably more disgusting in person. Like someone took a big, white, moist dump in a plastic bag; not like what you'd picture if you were thinking about an iced, honey bun. It's so moist you can see the water droplets beading up inside. I did a very good job of not snickering while I bought it, just so I could leave it on Kyle's car seat. The cashier comped me a penny so I didn't have to get lots of change back. I'll always wonder if that was some sort of nod to the fact that I was the first person to buy one. And at only about 550 calories per serving, it might be worth picking up a few dozen in order to survive the post apocalypse.
Finally, this was in my Wisconsin Dells guide book. Kyle thinks it makes them look like the victims of some fetish gone horribly wrong. I think they were just a little overzealous with the chocolate iced honey buns.
Friday, February 09, 2007
WTF?
Washburn Elementary in Bloomington has no heat. Children should stay home while they fix the pipe. But teachers are expected to report to work. It's -9 F out there. I don't think a few brick walls will cut that by much, other than negating the -24 F windchill. I think if it was me, I'd find the 24 hour Home Depot and buy the jet engine heater for the hallway and one of those gallon coffee mugs so I had someplace warm to sit.
Thursday, February 08, 2007
Prophecy
I know Klund says he's some sort of prophet because of a prediction he made a long time ago on his blog. But I don't think he's as accurate as Stargate SG-1. I was watching Season 5, Episode 9, which originally aired on 24 August 2001. It is called "Between Two Fires". That title might just be coincidence, after all, King Kong had two towers in it too (that '70s one), and so did Lord of the Rings, and neither is really prophetic of anything other than the end of John Guillermin's effective directing career. But this particular episode is about a bad guy who's trying to obtain a substance to create superpowerful weapons...SG-1 uses the exact words "weapons of mass destruction." Still not convinced? They spend a lot of time discussing that the only thing worse than murder is a government deceiving its people and breaking the "governmental conduct code." End result...society fails, dramatically.
Peter DeLuise (yes, son of Dom)...hack...or modern sibyl.
Wednesday, February 07, 2007
Lost?
Not the show. I'm just wondering if this is how Ming ended up in Bemidji, Minnesota?
Title: Woman took wrong bus, missing for 25 years (from Boing Boing)
David Pescovitz: Twenty-five years ago, Jaeyaena Beuraheng, a Malay woman living in southern Thailand, stepped onto the wrong bus and then another wrong bus, and finally ended up more than 1,000 miles north (she thought she was headed south) apparently unable to get home. Beuraheng, now 76, does not speak, read, or write Thai, and survived as a beggar in the city of Chiang Mai. In 1987, she was arrested and has been in a center for the homeless every since until this week when she was reunited with her family...( From Reuters)...who were told she had been run over by a train...Link
Title: Woman took wrong bus, missing for 25 years (from Boing Boing)
David Pescovitz: Twenty-five years ago, Jaeyaena Beuraheng, a Malay woman living in southern Thailand, stepped onto the wrong bus and then another wrong bus, and finally ended up more than 1,000 miles north (she thought she was headed south) apparently unable to get home. Beuraheng, now 76, does not speak, read, or write Thai, and survived as a beggar in the city of Chiang Mai. In 1987, she was arrested and has been in a center for the homeless every since until this week when she was reunited with her family...( From Reuters)...who were told she had been run over by a train...Link
Monday, February 05, 2007
Coffee Moment
While I appreciate Mean Mr. Mustard's contribution to "I need something better than c-building, but cheaper than in-house 'bou" coffee mornings, a big bag of Starbuck's Italian Roast Extra Bold, featuring a bright red scooter, obviously representing some sort of subliminal, or liminal, lust for me, tomorrow we will be drinking Dunn Brothers Papua New Guinea, French Roast, Free Trade, for which I was comped half of a free drink when they couldn't get my card to process properly, and which Pooteewheet has helpfully labeled in green capital block letters, "LIBERAL COFFEE." Note that this [35 year old man arrested for Dunn Bros robbery - Farmington (Minnesota) Independent] is not me.
Sunday, February 04, 2007
World War Z
Some things you shouldn't cop to, even on a blog. But, if I didn't post embarrassing things about myself, it just wouldn't be as interesting. So, in that vein, I read this book, World War Z. Did I know it was a book about zombies before I read it? Yes. Was I aware that there were reviews on Amazon where individuals actually compared the book to Stephen Ambrose's (you know, Band of Brothers and such) books about WWII, "The interview format really gives the book a sense of realism despite the outrageous and fantastical nature of the book. As I read the book I was reminded of Stephen A. Ambrose's books on the men and women who fought during World War 2." Yes. Was I aware of the other reviews by fanboys stating that it might be better than a Romero flick, that it was classic "horror", and that it was scary enough to warrant this cliche, "I highly reccomend this book, but I also highly reccomend that you read it during the day with the doors locked." [um...sic]. Yes. But Amazon recommended it to me. I mean, they have computers, and algorithms, and complex mathematical data-mining to ensure that they're not pushing me some piece of crap, right?In my defense, I didn't actually buy it from Amazon, I checked it out of the local library. Hey, if they carry a copy, it can't be bad, right? They don't carry all the Terry Pratchett books. I have to interlibrary loan them. So World War Z has to be relatively higher on their "must own" list. And there's a library board of some sort. Don't they sit around in that big room downstairs with an agenda:
Board "president": "Next item on our list, World War Z."
Library board chorus: "Here here!"
Lone Pratchett fan on the board, "Boo. Boo!"
President: "Point of order! We all know your feelings on the lack of Pratchett material at our library, Rince. But the point has been addressed and we have moved on."
Geeky Board Member, pale and obviously lonely: "Ma'am, if I may interject?"
President: "The board gives the floor to the lonely geek from the Eagan trailer home complex."
Geeky Board Member, looking self righteous: "World War Z is a classic. It not only gives me hope that a nerd like me might be prepared for a world zombie castrophe on a scale we presently cannot comprehend, but that others might one day respect me for my backyard studies in how to stop zombies with the limited firecrackers at our disposal in Minnesota and that I will be immortalized in a post-apocalyptic interview for my efforts."
Library board chorus: "Here here!"
Rince, the Pratchett fan: "Pft."
President: "If you can not be civilized, you will be removed from the meeting!"
Rince: "By who? Mr. I can kick a zombie's ass with a wad of firecrackers?"
Geeky Board Member, indignant: "Hey! I resent that. This book is an instant classic of horror. It's the I Am Legend of our generation! And it teaches us the lessons our fathers learned during World War II. To stand up for ourselves, to reach beyond ourselves, to band together as brothers!"
Library board chorus: "Here here! Woot woot!"
Rince: "I really don't remember the zombie scene from Band of Brothers. Nor from Private Ryan. Maybe I was too busy with my Star Wars action figures."
President: "Your wit and sarcasm are misplaced!"
Rince: "Just like they were misplaced before the author wrote World War Z?"
Geeky Board Member, now splotchy red with rage: "What will you do when the underwater zombies come for us?! Will you know that you need a Mark VI bear suit to fight them effectively? Will you? Or will you be fighting them tooth and nail in our great 10,000 lakes in just your swim suit?"
Library board chorus: general cheering
Rince: "I refuse to get in an argument about underwater zombies..."
Geeky Board Member, cutting in, righteous: "That's because you don't know the parameters. You don't know how they survive the pressue, how they survive the predators. No one does, but that doesn't mean we shouldn't be prepared!" (raises hands above his head, like a man winning the Tour de France).
Library board chorus erupts in exuberant support, starts to carry geek around the room on their shoulders.
President pounds gavel over and over and over: "It is carried. World War Z. Let the people of Eagan be prepared for the coming undead apocalypse!"
Saturday, February 03, 2007
January Bicycling Totals
I know that posting your exercise regimen on the web is sort of trite, but it helps me keep track of where I am and perhaps encourages my father, who will be going on RAGBRAI with me, to keep on his new trainer (he consulted me on the cell while I was at Ikea). Spin, Dad, spin. Don't pretend you're climbing hills - it's Iowa. You're primarily interested in spinning to get your legs used to the motion and make sure you can do a long haul at 10-12 miles per hour. Get outside when you can (as it's warmer where you are) as it's mentally easier to do longer distances outside and it will prepare you more for real biking. And don't feel compelled to climb Mt. Lemmon every day - we're not doing the Alpe d'Huez.
Here's a fun biking link for people who have read this far, courtesy of my bike group, TCBC - Top 50 Bicycling Tours in the U.S. I wish they'd have just listed them rather than making me use that interface, but I like it that it links to the actual sites if there's only one important ride in a state.
January:
409.20 miles
1,416 minutes, 23.9 seconds of biking
38,126.8 calories (adjusted for weight), about 11 pounds of energy
Approximately a 2% grade on my trainer with the fan on
I think, if I read my numbers right, I'm down about 10 pounds, but down 18 pounds of fat.
Thursday, February 01, 2007
Keys
Tonight I went to a presentation on model-view-presenter at the Microsoft offices in Bloomington. It was interesting - more about patterns than programming. MVP is a pattern where you throw out an interface for your model (data layer), an interface for your view (ui layer), and then implement the interfaces so that you can centralize almost all of your logic into a presenter object, basically eliminating business logic from the UI. It looks as though it might be confusing with an extremely large project, but it would allow you to separate out the UI in such a way that you could throw out a Windows Form or an ASP.NET interface on the same code with very little work.
However, I should have known the night was going to go down hill when I ripped open my wet nap, only to discover it was a packet full of parmesean cheese. Not that it was a contaminated wet nap...I'm just too damn stupid to read the package. Of course, being covered in parmesean cheese makes me smell not so different from the guy in front of me with the dirty sweatshirt that looked like he'd worn it when I went to high school, the guy next to him with the collar that was up, down, sideways, rinkled, and dirty, or the guy next to me who had a beard that I could smell. Seriously, if you're a good developer you have to work within nose distance of someone, so take a damn shower.
When everything was done and I walked out into the parking lot to get in my car, I found my keys absent. Absent from my pocket. Absent from my backpack. Absent from my other pocket. Absent from upstairs where I'd just been. Absent from anywhere near the car. Absent from take everything off and out of my backpack and shake it all about and listen for clinking noises and nothing. What bothered me was that I had been sitting in the car and had distinctly noted to myself that I should take them out of the ignition and, looking in the car, I could see that I had. So, I called Pooteewheet and walked around outside in the 0-degree weather so I could give her directions, because I've never looked at the street signs on the way to Microsoft, I just know where it is. When she and Eryn picked me up and dropped me off at my car, the keys were indeed not in the ignition. Nor on the floor, nor on the ground, or under the car. And they hadn't been between the car and the Microsoft offices. And I hadn't left them where I was sitting. So now I suspect the guy who was weirding out on me before the class started.
I was sitting in the lobby downstairs, doing some work (reading), and this guy kept circling back to where I was, in these tight little 3' pacing circuits. Not circling once or twice, but half a dozen times (actually, I think it may have been as high as eight or nine), and we were the only two people there. He was circling enough, and so close, that I finally moved my Blackberry to where it was directly in front of me, instead of where I could only see it out of the corner of my eye (and where he kept hovering most closely). So he circled in closer. Now I'm wondering if the wanker didn't grab my keys. And then he probably couldn't find the right car because if you're going to steal a car, you start with the nice ones, not the 8 year old Saturn SL full of junk.
However, I should have known the night was going to go down hill when I ripped open my wet nap, only to discover it was a packet full of parmesean cheese. Not that it was a contaminated wet nap...I'm just too damn stupid to read the package. Of course, being covered in parmesean cheese makes me smell not so different from the guy in front of me with the dirty sweatshirt that looked like he'd worn it when I went to high school, the guy next to him with the collar that was up, down, sideways, rinkled, and dirty, or the guy next to me who had a beard that I could smell. Seriously, if you're a good developer you have to work within nose distance of someone, so take a damn shower.
When everything was done and I walked out into the parking lot to get in my car, I found my keys absent. Absent from my pocket. Absent from my backpack. Absent from my other pocket. Absent from upstairs where I'd just been. Absent from anywhere near the car. Absent from take everything off and out of my backpack and shake it all about and listen for clinking noises and nothing. What bothered me was that I had been sitting in the car and had distinctly noted to myself that I should take them out of the ignition and, looking in the car, I could see that I had. So, I called Pooteewheet and walked around outside in the 0-degree weather so I could give her directions, because I've never looked at the street signs on the way to Microsoft, I just know where it is. When she and Eryn picked me up and dropped me off at my car, the keys were indeed not in the ignition. Nor on the floor, nor on the ground, or under the car. And they hadn't been between the car and the Microsoft offices. And I hadn't left them where I was sitting. So now I suspect the guy who was weirding out on me before the class started.
I was sitting in the lobby downstairs, doing some work (reading), and this guy kept circling back to where I was, in these tight little 3' pacing circuits. Not circling once or twice, but half a dozen times (actually, I think it may have been as high as eight or nine), and we were the only two people there. He was circling enough, and so close, that I finally moved my Blackberry to where it was directly in front of me, instead of where I could only see it out of the corner of my eye (and where he kept hovering most closely). So he circled in closer. Now I'm wondering if the wanker didn't grab my keys. And then he probably couldn't find the right car because if you're going to steal a car, you start with the nice ones, not the 8 year old Saturn SL full of junk.
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