Sunday, January 28, 2007
COLUMN: Time to Drop Everything and Read
By Tobin Barnes
I’m going to talk about books today.
Whoops, probably already lost a bunch of readers.
But as the rest of you know, a good book’s a great way to spark up the ho-hums of winter. As Groucho Marx said, “Outside of a dog, a book is man’s best friend. Inside of a dog, it’s too dark to read.”
Anyway, I’m going to tell you about my own book-reading experiences lately. Maybe you’ll come away with an idea or two for yourself.
First off, I just finished Water for Elephants by Sara Gruen. I know, the title’s somewhat less than entrancing. And let me deflate you even more.
It’s about this ninety-something guy who’s trapped in a nursing home with people he despises. He spends his time escaping by remembering the summer of 1931 when he hooked up with a circus. Every boy’s dream, right? Except he was more of a young man on the outs after losing his parents in a car crash, walking out of his veterinarian finals, and learning his parents’ home was getting foreclosed.
Never thought you’d want to read a book about Depression-era train circuses? An old codger in a nursing home? I’m feeling ya, man.
But my sister-in-law raved about it and gave it to us. My wife read it and liked it, too. So I somewhat reluctantly picked it up and found myself more and more into it as I went along. It turned out to be one of those books where you can’t turn the pages fast enough at the end. And along the way, you learn a lot of weird little tidbits about circus life on the rails that you find strangely interesting. Pretty darned good book.
Other good bets for page turners are books by James Patterson. I’ve read a bunch of them lately (they’re kind of like salted peanuts), and every one of them swept me along at breakneck speed.
Patterson and his stable of co-writers practice assembly-line fiction. That’s right—two to five-page chapters with very little description or characterization—instead, just plain old slick plots with sometimes preposterous twists and turns that readers readily excuse. They’re strictly mass entertainment with few or no literary pretensions. Yeah, it’s mental bubble gum, all right, but at that they’re the Double Bubble of that kind of novel.
Try these Patterson books: 4th of July, Beach House, Beach Road, and The Lifeguard. Hmmm, on second thought, maybe there is a literary motif after all.
Not long ago, I vowed to never read another John Grisham book. I’d read too many, I’d thought. The southern lawyer well had gone dry. His novels had fallen into a certain sameness.
But another one was sitting around, so I tentatively gave it a parting shot. Maybe it was the latent memories of Grisham’s oftentimes adept story-telling that lured me in. Soon, I became a Grisham fan again.
The Broker breaks the mold by spending most of its time in Bologna, Italy. And as Grisham gives us a tour of the city, we find it’s a fun place to be while becoming engrossed in an interesting plot that skirts the highest levels of the United States government. The protagonist is a wheeler-dealer lobbyist you start out hating and end up liking.
And speaking of Italy, I’ve just finished a book that answers a question on many people’s minds: What’s up with those kooky Italians? It’s called La Bella Figura by Beppe Severgnini. The title comes from “fare la bella figura” which means “to make a good figure”--in other words, kind of like “looking good.” And the author maintains that it’s the raison d’etre of most Italians.
In it the author explains how for the average Italian a stop light is more a conundrum than a command. Should the motorist run the red light and chance getting hit by those speeding along with the green, or should he stop for the red light and when it’s green chance getting hit by those running their own red light. And that’s not to mention the motorists behind who are honking their horns, impatiently awaiting the chance to make their own choice.
Severgnini dissects the great, the bad, and the bizarre in the Italian psyche on a ten-day tour through the peninsula. It’s oftentimes humorous and usually interesting, particularly when the author contrasts Italians with Americans and other nationalities.
Finally, I’ve got to admit I’m a sucker for a book jacket with a swastika on it. World War II, counter-intelligence, and all that Nazi bad-guy stuff lure me in every time. Sometimes satisfactorily, sometimes not.
I recently had one of those “not” experiences with The Black Sun by James Twining. Supposedly based on historical fact, it’s about an SS treasure train filled with stolen loot that mysteriously disappeared in the last days of the war.
So where is the train now?
After way too many convenient contrivances and cardboard characters, I stopped caring. Go ahead, blow the train up...which they did.
I’m going to talk about books today.
Whoops, probably already lost a bunch of readers.
But as the rest of you know, a good book’s a great way to spark up the ho-hums of winter. As Groucho Marx said, “Outside of a dog, a book is man’s best friend. Inside of a dog, it’s too dark to read.”
Anyway, I’m going to tell you about my own book-reading experiences lately. Maybe you’ll come away with an idea or two for yourself.
First off, I just finished Water for Elephants by Sara Gruen. I know, the title’s somewhat less than entrancing. And let me deflate you even more.
It’s about this ninety-something guy who’s trapped in a nursing home with people he despises. He spends his time escaping by remembering the summer of 1931 when he hooked up with a circus. Every boy’s dream, right? Except he was more of a young man on the outs after losing his parents in a car crash, walking out of his veterinarian finals, and learning his parents’ home was getting foreclosed.
Never thought you’d want to read a book about Depression-era train circuses? An old codger in a nursing home? I’m feeling ya, man.
But my sister-in-law raved about it and gave it to us. My wife read it and liked it, too. So I somewhat reluctantly picked it up and found myself more and more into it as I went along. It turned out to be one of those books where you can’t turn the pages fast enough at the end. And along the way, you learn a lot of weird little tidbits about circus life on the rails that you find strangely interesting. Pretty darned good book.
Other good bets for page turners are books by James Patterson. I’ve read a bunch of them lately (they’re kind of like salted peanuts), and every one of them swept me along at breakneck speed.
Patterson and his stable of co-writers practice assembly-line fiction. That’s right—two to five-page chapters with very little description or characterization—instead, just plain old slick plots with sometimes preposterous twists and turns that readers readily excuse. They’re strictly mass entertainment with few or no literary pretensions. Yeah, it’s mental bubble gum, all right, but at that they’re the Double Bubble of that kind of novel.
Try these Patterson books: 4th of July, Beach House, Beach Road, and The Lifeguard. Hmmm, on second thought, maybe there is a literary motif after all.
Not long ago, I vowed to never read another John Grisham book. I’d read too many, I’d thought. The southern lawyer well had gone dry. His novels had fallen into a certain sameness.
But another one was sitting around, so I tentatively gave it a parting shot. Maybe it was the latent memories of Grisham’s oftentimes adept story-telling that lured me in. Soon, I became a Grisham fan again.
The Broker breaks the mold by spending most of its time in Bologna, Italy. And as Grisham gives us a tour of the city, we find it’s a fun place to be while becoming engrossed in an interesting plot that skirts the highest levels of the United States government. The protagonist is a wheeler-dealer lobbyist you start out hating and end up liking.
And speaking of Italy, I’ve just finished a book that answers a question on many people’s minds: What’s up with those kooky Italians? It’s called La Bella Figura by Beppe Severgnini. The title comes from “fare la bella figura” which means “to make a good figure”--in other words, kind of like “looking good.” And the author maintains that it’s the raison d’etre of most Italians.
In it the author explains how for the average Italian a stop light is more a conundrum than a command. Should the motorist run the red light and chance getting hit by those speeding along with the green, or should he stop for the red light and when it’s green chance getting hit by those running their own red light. And that’s not to mention the motorists behind who are honking their horns, impatiently awaiting the chance to make their own choice.
Severgnini dissects the great, the bad, and the bizarre in the Italian psyche on a ten-day tour through the peninsula. It’s oftentimes humorous and usually interesting, particularly when the author contrasts Italians with Americans and other nationalities.
Finally, I’ve got to admit I’m a sucker for a book jacket with a swastika on it. World War II, counter-intelligence, and all that Nazi bad-guy stuff lure me in every time. Sometimes satisfactorily, sometimes not.
I recently had one of those “not” experiences with The Black Sun by James Twining. Supposedly based on historical fact, it’s about an SS treasure train filled with stolen loot that mysteriously disappeared in the last days of the war.
So where is the train now?
After way too many convenient contrivances and cardboard characters, I stopped caring. Go ahead, blow the train up...which they did.
Saturday, January 27, 2007
Sunday, January 21, 2007
BOOKS: Water for Elephants
My sister-in-law Ann read it for her book club, then gave it to us. Jeannie read it and liked it, too. So I read it, despite some apprehension about the premise: This old guy in a nursing home reminisces about his summer in 1931 spent with a train circus. It turned out to be a pretty darned good book--interesting characters tied into the weird lifestyle of the Depression-era traveling circus. Give it a try.
COLUMN: A Warm Breeze of Idealism
By Tobin Barnes
It’s tough to get excited about anything in January. Know what I mean?
After all, it’s the Monday of months.
Makes your head feel hollow. Agree to something you don’t want to do, which is almost everything round about now, and you hear stuff rattling in there like your skull has become someone’s maraca. The mental beads are your loose mid-winter thoughts searching for motivation.
And like Tuesday follows Monday, February follows January. Whoop-tee-do.
Gees, I’m depressing myself, let alone you, huh? Stuff like this is all you need. I almost hear a fuse fizzle in the background.
So let’s ratchet it up a bit, shake off the winter doldrums, and blow out the cobwebs. That’s right, let’s celebrate reliance on hackneyed cliches as the currently preferred method of communication by talking heads, politicians, curmudgeons, and other divines.
No. Wait. I can’t do it. Let’s stop right there. Shift those gears, buddy. We’re getting out of here.
Instead, we’re going to talk about idealism. Uh huh, it’ll be like a vitamin B12 shot. Admit it. You need it, I need it, and for the love of Mike, conservative guys like Bill O’Reilly need it, too.
When life’s practicalities become over-bearing—you know, like cold weather, gray skies, lethargic domestic solutions going nowhere, and Iraqi quagmires getting quaggier—it’s time to turn over a new leaf and become giddily idealistic in spite of it all. Allow optimism to wash over our glacially frozen thoughts like papaya juice over a coconut. Er, or something like that.
So let’s talk about the fascinating appeal of Barack Obama, shall we?
There’s a certain something about this guy—a guy who’s come out of nowhere—that’s turning a lot of cranks. And I have to admit, my crank is one of them.
He’s kind of like the western character Shane, in my mind, a mysterious stranger who appears out of the horizon ready to save the good-hearted homesteaders from the evil-minded gunslingers.
Something ethereal about him makes you maybe think that at some point in the future, we’re going to lose him and be like the little kid in the movie, shouting, “Come back, Shane!” And we didn’t even know who the heck he was in the first place. But we want him just the same.
Or, at least, the idea of him. That’s what we’re really looking for, isn’t it?
Been a long time since we’ve had a charismatic leader with talented intellectual and stylistic moxie. Some would go back to Reagan. Some would say, “No, it’d be the Camelot days with Kennedy.” And some would insist we go all the way back to the Roosevelts.
Nevertheless, we’re looking for someone we can admire. Be proud of ourselves for picking him. Know that we looked all over this country and finally found the best we could produce. (Isn’t that what’s supposed to happen?) Be happy we didn’t have to just settle for someone this time.
Seems like we’ve been doing a lot of settling lately. And we’re kind of sour about it. Some have given up. It’s January in more ways than one.
Of course, coming out of nowhere is the key. It’s the mythical way leaders come to be in our favorite romances. Like Luke Skywalker out of the sands of Tatooine. The long tale stranger thing.
We like to imagine our leaders rather than know them. Imagination is inspiration. Knowledge is...well, it’s just plain-old mundane. Matter of fact, it can be disheartening.
I don’t know much about Obama, but I like what I see. I’m hoping he’s what I want him to be.
Then, just maybe (Oh please!), anything’s possible.
Only hope he’s not all smoke and mirrors, like some magician out of those same romance tales that produce the mythic heroes.
It’s tough to get excited about anything in January. Know what I mean?
After all, it’s the Monday of months.
Makes your head feel hollow. Agree to something you don’t want to do, which is almost everything round about now, and you hear stuff rattling in there like your skull has become someone’s maraca. The mental beads are your loose mid-winter thoughts searching for motivation.
And like Tuesday follows Monday, February follows January. Whoop-tee-do.
Gees, I’m depressing myself, let alone you, huh? Stuff like this is all you need. I almost hear a fuse fizzle in the background.
So let’s ratchet it up a bit, shake off the winter doldrums, and blow out the cobwebs. That’s right, let’s celebrate reliance on hackneyed cliches as the currently preferred method of communication by talking heads, politicians, curmudgeons, and other divines.
No. Wait. I can’t do it. Let’s stop right there. Shift those gears, buddy. We’re getting out of here.
Instead, we’re going to talk about idealism. Uh huh, it’ll be like a vitamin B12 shot. Admit it. You need it, I need it, and for the love of Mike, conservative guys like Bill O’Reilly need it, too.
When life’s practicalities become over-bearing—you know, like cold weather, gray skies, lethargic domestic solutions going nowhere, and Iraqi quagmires getting quaggier—it’s time to turn over a new leaf and become giddily idealistic in spite of it all. Allow optimism to wash over our glacially frozen thoughts like papaya juice over a coconut. Er, or something like that.
So let’s talk about the fascinating appeal of Barack Obama, shall we?
There’s a certain something about this guy—a guy who’s come out of nowhere—that’s turning a lot of cranks. And I have to admit, my crank is one of them.
He’s kind of like the western character Shane, in my mind, a mysterious stranger who appears out of the horizon ready to save the good-hearted homesteaders from the evil-minded gunslingers.
Something ethereal about him makes you maybe think that at some point in the future, we’re going to lose him and be like the little kid in the movie, shouting, “Come back, Shane!” And we didn’t even know who the heck he was in the first place. But we want him just the same.
Or, at least, the idea of him. That’s what we’re really looking for, isn’t it?
Been a long time since we’ve had a charismatic leader with talented intellectual and stylistic moxie. Some would go back to Reagan. Some would say, “No, it’d be the Camelot days with Kennedy.” And some would insist we go all the way back to the Roosevelts.
Nevertheless, we’re looking for someone we can admire. Be proud of ourselves for picking him. Know that we looked all over this country and finally found the best we could produce. (Isn’t that what’s supposed to happen?) Be happy we didn’t have to just settle for someone this time.
Seems like we’ve been doing a lot of settling lately. And we’re kind of sour about it. Some have given up. It’s January in more ways than one.
Of course, coming out of nowhere is the key. It’s the mythical way leaders come to be in our favorite romances. Like Luke Skywalker out of the sands of Tatooine. The long tale stranger thing.
We like to imagine our leaders rather than know them. Imagination is inspiration. Knowledge is...well, it’s just plain-old mundane. Matter of fact, it can be disheartening.
I don’t know much about Obama, but I like what I see. I’m hoping he’s what I want him to be.
Then, just maybe (Oh please!), anything’s possible.
Only hope he’s not all smoke and mirrors, like some magician out of those same romance tales that produce the mythic heroes.
OF INTEREST: L. Frank Baum and the Wizard
American Icons: The Wizard of Oz
More stuff about the Wizard of Oz and it many influences than you can shake a stick at. Sent by Al Bender.
More stuff about the Wizard of Oz and it many influences than you can shake a stick at. Sent by Al Bender.
Saturday, January 20, 2007
Men Weren't Made for This
YouTube - BABIES & FATHERS
Wait for it. It gets better as it goes along, especially the talcum powder thing. Sent by Roy Wilson.
Wait for it. It gets better as it goes along, especially the talcum powder thing. Sent by Roy Wilson.
Monday, January 15, 2007
The Complete Bushisms
Anybody who has to talk a lot is going to say a ton of dumb things. Ask any teacher. So this is kinda like shooting fish in a barrel, but this, unfortunately, seems to be an especially small barrel. (Click the above title to get to the Slate site that's a collection of statements and video.)
Sunday, January 14, 2007
Flushed with Pride
From what Baby Boomers, like some of us, grew up with to what we're retiring with, or at least some of us. (Click the title.)
Battle of the Sexes
This witty forward I received was originally titled "Computer Sex," but don't worry. It's much milder than that.
A Spanish teacher was explaining to her class that in Spanish, unlike English, nouns are designated as either masculine or feminine.
"House" for instance, is feminine: "la casa."
"Pencil," however, is masculine: "el lapiz."
A student asked, "What gender is 'computer'?"
Instead of giving the answer, the teacher split the class into two groups, male and female,
and asked them to decide for themselves whether "computer" should be a masculine or a feminine noun.
Each group was asked to give four reasons for its recommendation.
The men's group decided that "computer" should definitely be of the feminine gender ("la computadora"), because: 1. No one but their creator understands their internal logic;
2. The native language they use to communicate with other computers is incomprehensible to everyone else; 3. Even the smallest mistakes are stored in long term memory for possible later retrieval; and 4. As soon as you make a commitment to one, you find yourself spending half your paycheck on accessories for it.
(THIS GETS BETTER !)
The women's group, however, concluded that computers should be Masculine ("el computador"), because: 1. In order to do anything with them, you have to turn them on;
2. They have a lot of data but still can't think for themselves; 3. They are supposed to help you solve problems, but half the time they ARE the problem; and 4. As soon as you commit to one,
you realize that if you had waited a little longer, you could have gotten a better model.
The women won.
A Spanish teacher was explaining to her class that in Spanish, unlike English, nouns are designated as either masculine or feminine.
"House" for instance, is feminine: "la casa."
"Pencil," however, is masculine: "el lapiz."
A student asked, "What gender is 'computer'?"
Instead of giving the answer, the teacher split the class into two groups, male and female,
and asked them to decide for themselves whether "computer" should be a masculine or a feminine noun.
Each group was asked to give four reasons for its recommendation.
The men's group decided that "computer" should definitely be of the feminine gender ("la computadora"), because: 1. No one but their creator understands their internal logic;
2. The native language they use to communicate with other computers is incomprehensible to everyone else; 3. Even the smallest mistakes are stored in long term memory for possible later retrieval; and 4. As soon as you make a commitment to one, you find yourself spending half your paycheck on accessories for it.
(THIS GETS BETTER !)
The women's group, however, concluded that computers should be Masculine ("el computador"), because: 1. In order to do anything with them, you have to turn them on;
2. They have a lot of data but still can't think for themselves; 3. They are supposed to help you solve problems, but half the time they ARE the problem; and 4. As soon as you commit to one,
you realize that if you had waited a little longer, you could have gotten a better model.
The women won.
COLUMN: Things That Go Bark in the Night
By Tobin Barnes
It’s nighttime. Most people are asleep.
A dog barks in the distance.
Has Timmy fallen down a well, and it’s Lassie seeking help?
Good old Lassie! Hold on, Timmy. Lassie will save you.
But no, it can’t be Lassie. All the Lassies are dead by now, and besides, though Timmy had a inexplicable tendency to wander, I don’t think he ever made it to South Dakota.
Then maybe it’s Rin Tin Tin. Rusty’s been captured by the Apaches, and someone’s got to get him outta there.
But no, it can’t be old Rinty. The horse cavalry disbanded decades ago, and Rusty’s probably drawing retirement about now.
So what dog is that, barking away and keeping me awake?
It can’t be our dog. She’s over at the neighbors, sleeping beside their pellet stove. She likes it there a lot better than our garage. Decided to upgrade her amenities, oh, maybe a year ago. Heads over there every night now. Buttons down tight, immovable. No reason to bark.
We haven’t got that many other neighbors and they’re all a distance off. And no nearby neighbors whatsoever from the barking dog’s direction.
Except way down in the bottom of the gulch, perhaps a quarter mile away and five hundred feet down. Is that where it’s coming from?
Gotta be.
Whatever, the dog continues to bark away insistently. Probably enjoying the acoustics. Gets a charge hearing its voice reverberating up the walls of the gulch on this otherwise still, quiet evening. Living big in doghood terms.
Hate to cramp his style, but he’s keeping me awake.
And I’m thinking, What’s more important? Me getting some sleep or this dog expressing his individuality?
It’s a no-brainer. Thing is, what do I do about it?
First option: Suffer.
But that’s truly disconcerting. Hey, I suffer while a dog enjoys itself? In the words of P.G. Wodehouse: That’d be “pretty dashed offensive to (my) proud spirit, as you may well imagine.”
Second option: Stuff some kleenex in my ears.
Heck, it almost works. I can hear the dog only about half as much as before. But the result is the same. His sharp piercing yelps penetrate the wadding to the sufficient extent to keep me listening for the next round.
Third option: Kill the dog.
The madness of sleeplessness has overtaken me. This, I think, will not be the last night I hear the dog, the dog, the dog (thank you, Mr. Poe). On every succeeding clear, cold, windless night, I will hear the dog again. Therefore, death be to the dog!
So how do I do it...poisoned hamburger, infrared scope on a 30-30, RPG...what?
But could I do it? In this state of mind, anything’s possible. I’m starting to understand the pysche of gunslinger John Wesley Hardin. Killed a man for snoring.
Would I do it? Kill the dog, that is.
Who am I kidding, I’d have trouble....
Wait a second!
No barking. Is he done, for cryin’ out loud?
Wait...wait for it. It seems to be.... Yes, thank goodness, I think that’s it.
I’m not going to have to resort to my fourth and only real option: sacking out on the couch in another room, away from the tortuous yips of the devil dog.
After all, that would have been pretty dashed offensive.
It’s nighttime. Most people are asleep.
A dog barks in the distance.
Has Timmy fallen down a well, and it’s Lassie seeking help?
Good old Lassie! Hold on, Timmy. Lassie will save you.
But no, it can’t be Lassie. All the Lassies are dead by now, and besides, though Timmy had a inexplicable tendency to wander, I don’t think he ever made it to South Dakota.
Then maybe it’s Rin Tin Tin. Rusty’s been captured by the Apaches, and someone’s got to get him outta there.
But no, it can’t be old Rinty. The horse cavalry disbanded decades ago, and Rusty’s probably drawing retirement about now.
So what dog is that, barking away and keeping me awake?
It can’t be our dog. She’s over at the neighbors, sleeping beside their pellet stove. She likes it there a lot better than our garage. Decided to upgrade her amenities, oh, maybe a year ago. Heads over there every night now. Buttons down tight, immovable. No reason to bark.
We haven’t got that many other neighbors and they’re all a distance off. And no nearby neighbors whatsoever from the barking dog’s direction.
Except way down in the bottom of the gulch, perhaps a quarter mile away and five hundred feet down. Is that where it’s coming from?
Gotta be.
Whatever, the dog continues to bark away insistently. Probably enjoying the acoustics. Gets a charge hearing its voice reverberating up the walls of the gulch on this otherwise still, quiet evening. Living big in doghood terms.
Hate to cramp his style, but he’s keeping me awake.
And I’m thinking, What’s more important? Me getting some sleep or this dog expressing his individuality?
It’s a no-brainer. Thing is, what do I do about it?
First option: Suffer.
But that’s truly disconcerting. Hey, I suffer while a dog enjoys itself? In the words of P.G. Wodehouse: That’d be “pretty dashed offensive to (my) proud spirit, as you may well imagine.”
Second option: Stuff some kleenex in my ears.
Heck, it almost works. I can hear the dog only about half as much as before. But the result is the same. His sharp piercing yelps penetrate the wadding to the sufficient extent to keep me listening for the next round.
Third option: Kill the dog.
The madness of sleeplessness has overtaken me. This, I think, will not be the last night I hear the dog, the dog, the dog (thank you, Mr. Poe). On every succeeding clear, cold, windless night, I will hear the dog again. Therefore, death be to the dog!
So how do I do it...poisoned hamburger, infrared scope on a 30-30, RPG...what?
But could I do it? In this state of mind, anything’s possible. I’m starting to understand the pysche of gunslinger John Wesley Hardin. Killed a man for snoring.
Would I do it? Kill the dog, that is.
Who am I kidding, I’d have trouble....
Wait a second!
No barking. Is he done, for cryin’ out loud?
Wait...wait for it. It seems to be.... Yes, thank goodness, I think that’s it.
I’m not going to have to resort to my fourth and only real option: sacking out on the couch in another room, away from the tortuous yips of the devil dog.
After all, that would have been pretty dashed offensive.
Friday, January 12, 2007
The Ethicist
This is a regular column in the New York Times Sunday Magazine that can be accessed online. I never miss it. The guy's alway spot on with his advice, and I can't think of a time I haven't agreed. Try it. You'll like it. (Click the title.)
Letterman Top 10: New Iraq Plan
From the Home Office in Wahoo, Nebraska
Top Ten Features of Bush's New Iraq Plan
10. Make the war best two-out-of-three
9. Blame it on that crazy New York gas leak
8. Convene blue-ribbon study group; ignore recommendations
7. Consult with Rumsfeld, who's now working as a casino greeter
Top Ten Features of Bush's New Iraq Plan
10. Make the war best two-out-of-three
9. Blame it on that crazy New York gas leak
8. Convene blue-ribbon study group; ignore recommendations
7. Consult with Rumsfeld, who's now working as a casino greeter
(Click the above title to get to the rest of the list.)
As presented on the January 09, 2007 broadcast of
The Late Show with David Letterman
As presented on the January 09, 2007 broadcast of
The Late Show with David Letterman
Sunday, January 7, 2007
BOOKS: The End of Faith
Many will see this as controversial as all get out, yet the author makes a compelling case that the world will end in a faith-based nuclear holocaust, unless minds are changed, and soon. It can be irritating when the author is talking about your faith and illuminating when discussing someone else's faith. He's also not too crazy about tolerance, either, which is unusual. Wherever your beliefs come from, the book will blow the cobwebs out. But it's not for everybody. Also pleads the case for another type of spirituality.
Saturday, January 6, 2007
VIDEO: Jay Thomas' Lone Ranger Story on Letterman
The lore of the Lone Ranger we grew up with is still alive. Click the title to get to the video:
Where Are You Located?
Scott Adams of Dilbert fame had this joke in one of his recent blog entries:
A moron calls 911 and says in his moron accent, “My wife just collapsed!”
The dispatcher says, “Calm down. Where are you located?”
The man says, “I’m on the corner of Eucalyptus and Pine.”
The dispatcher asks, “How do you spell Eucalyptus?”
There’s a long pause and then the moron says, “I could drag her to Oak.”
A moron calls 911 and says in his moron accent, “My wife just collapsed!”
The dispatcher says, “Calm down. Where are you located?”
The man says, “I’m on the corner of Eucalyptus and Pine.”
The dispatcher asks, “How do you spell Eucalyptus?”
There’s a long pause and then the moron says, “I could drag her to Oak.”
For Lexophiles (Lovers of Words)
Tom Aldrich recommends these for those who like the turn of a phrase:
1. A bicycle can't stand alone; it is two tired.
2. A will is a dead giveaway.
3. Time flies like an arrow; fruit flies like a banana.
4. A backward poet writes inverse.
5. In a democracy it's your vote that counts; in feudalism, it's your Count
that votes.
For more, click the above title:
1. A bicycle can't stand alone; it is two tired.
2. A will is a dead giveaway.
3. Time flies like an arrow; fruit flies like a banana.
4. A backward poet writes inverse.
5. In a democracy it's your vote that counts; in feudalism, it's your Count
that votes.
For more, click the above title:
COLUMN: Living to Be Dumb Another Day
By Tobin Barnes
Seems this guy was flying a kite in a lightning storm, reminiscent perhaps of Benjamin Franklin. Benjamin Franklin was lucky he discovered something about electricity and didn’t get knocked on his butt.
The guy I’m talking about wasn’t so lucky. He was killed. His kite had a short string lengthened with copper wire. Don’t know if this 26-year-old adventurer was trying to discover anything, but even his father said it wasn’t very smart. After all, he was an electrician.
Anyway, that stunt and his resulting demise earned him a nomination for the 2006 Darwin Awards, found at darwins.com. In the spirit of experiential education, I’ve reported on these “honors” before.
The Darwin Awards “salute the improvement of the human genome by honoring those who accidentally remove themselves from it...ensuring that the next generation is one idiot smarter.”
The Darwin folks also provide a grim caveat: “Of necessity, this award is generally bestowed posthumously.”
Sounds a tad harsh and insensitive, doesn’t it. Fly a kite, die, and get a “dumb” nomination.
But then, we’ve all done dumb things--heck, off the top of my head, I can think of several potentially fatal and award-level stupid things I’ve done--and for one reason or another we’ve survived to be dumb another day. And thereby we’re allowed to re-enter the lottery yet once again. Depending on our fates, we may all have numerous more chances to be a winner.
Evidently, the above electrician, in the minds of the Darwin people, is not only distinctive as a nominee for the 2006 award, but also for serving as an involuntary lesson to the rest of us.
And the lesson? Idiocy shall be punished...however randomly...for one reason or another. After all, “Experience is a hard teacher because she gives the test first, the lesson afterwards,” according to Vernon Sanders’ Law.
Believe it or not, the electrician didn’t win the 2006 award. I guess the depths of dimness were not totally plumbed in his case.
On the other hand, the runner up from Brazil threw caution to the wind in pursuit of Darwinian notice. He, in the words of the Darwin Awards’ storytellers, earned his second-place position by trying “to disassemble a Rocket Propelled Grenade (RPG) by driving back and forth over it with a car.”
Alas, the intended results were not realized, so he resorted to a sledgehammer, and, as the French say, Voila! He ascended, in more ways than one, to a presumably better place.
Fourteen other RPG’s lay unexploded in a nearby car. Police speculate that this was some sort of salvage effort to produce scrap metal.
Well, sledgehammer in hand, scrap metal was certainly produced.
But even this madness doesn’t compare with the 2006 Darwin Awards winners. That’s right, winners, since two people were joined in one stupid act.
The young man and woman were found inside a “deflated helium advertising balloon,” only their feet sticking out.
It’s thought they pulled the balloon down and climbed in to inhale the gas and talk funny to each other—be like Bugs Bunny and Elmer Fudd or something.
Unfortunately, in the midst of their hilarity, they were overwhelmed by that same helium, according to the medical examiner.
A family member delivered the benediction: “Sara was mischievous, to be honest. She liked fun and it cost her.”
So let’s take the Darwin Awards for what they are—a lesson. We could all be and have been Sara, the Brazilian, and the electrician. Amen.
Well, maybe not the Brazilian.
Seems this guy was flying a kite in a lightning storm, reminiscent perhaps of Benjamin Franklin. Benjamin Franklin was lucky he discovered something about electricity and didn’t get knocked on his butt.
The guy I’m talking about wasn’t so lucky. He was killed. His kite had a short string lengthened with copper wire. Don’t know if this 26-year-old adventurer was trying to discover anything, but even his father said it wasn’t very smart. After all, he was an electrician.
Anyway, that stunt and his resulting demise earned him a nomination for the 2006 Darwin Awards, found at darwins.com. In the spirit of experiential education, I’ve reported on these “honors” before.
The Darwin Awards “salute the improvement of the human genome by honoring those who accidentally remove themselves from it...ensuring that the next generation is one idiot smarter.”
The Darwin folks also provide a grim caveat: “Of necessity, this award is generally bestowed posthumously.”
Sounds a tad harsh and insensitive, doesn’t it. Fly a kite, die, and get a “dumb” nomination.
But then, we’ve all done dumb things--heck, off the top of my head, I can think of several potentially fatal and award-level stupid things I’ve done--and for one reason or another we’ve survived to be dumb another day. And thereby we’re allowed to re-enter the lottery yet once again. Depending on our fates, we may all have numerous more chances to be a winner.
Evidently, the above electrician, in the minds of the Darwin people, is not only distinctive as a nominee for the 2006 award, but also for serving as an involuntary lesson to the rest of us.
And the lesson? Idiocy shall be punished...however randomly...for one reason or another. After all, “Experience is a hard teacher because she gives the test first, the lesson afterwards,” according to Vernon Sanders’ Law.
Believe it or not, the electrician didn’t win the 2006 award. I guess the depths of dimness were not totally plumbed in his case.
On the other hand, the runner up from Brazil threw caution to the wind in pursuit of Darwinian notice. He, in the words of the Darwin Awards’ storytellers, earned his second-place position by trying “to disassemble a Rocket Propelled Grenade (RPG) by driving back and forth over it with a car.”
Alas, the intended results were not realized, so he resorted to a sledgehammer, and, as the French say, Voila! He ascended, in more ways than one, to a presumably better place.
Fourteen other RPG’s lay unexploded in a nearby car. Police speculate that this was some sort of salvage effort to produce scrap metal.
Well, sledgehammer in hand, scrap metal was certainly produced.
But even this madness doesn’t compare with the 2006 Darwin Awards winners. That’s right, winners, since two people were joined in one stupid act.
The young man and woman were found inside a “deflated helium advertising balloon,” only their feet sticking out.
It’s thought they pulled the balloon down and climbed in to inhale the gas and talk funny to each other—be like Bugs Bunny and Elmer Fudd or something.
Unfortunately, in the midst of their hilarity, they were overwhelmed by that same helium, according to the medical examiner.
A family member delivered the benediction: “Sara was mischievous, to be honest. She liked fun and it cost her.”
So let’s take the Darwin Awards for what they are—a lesson. We could all be and have been Sara, the Brazilian, and the electrician. Amen.
Well, maybe not the Brazilian.
Tuesday, January 2, 2007
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