Not to mention license daycare.
This seems to be the latest fad mangling of English sweeping America. Am I imagining that at one time stores advertised canned vegetables? That daycare was licensed? That those who came first were served first? What happened to the final ed?
And do supermarkets have a special aisle for can't vegetables?
Monday, December 31, 2007
Sunday, December 30, 2007
Respect
Is a word I would gladly see removed from the English language. Of course that would mean the elimination of disrespect as well.
The word has its uses, but it's so often misused as a rhetorical club that the bad outweighs the good, and we'd be better off without it. What I mean by "rhetorical club" is that people use the word to keep you from attacking silly people or silly ideas.
The silly ideas tend to be religious ones - specifically, the standard, accepted religious institutions. So you can advocate something real, such as evolution, or something made up, such as the Flying Spaghetti Monster, and idiots all over will have no problem attacking you for it. But if you dare to sneer even slightly at Christianity, Judaism, Islam, Hinduism, and so on, you'll be sternly upbraided and lectured about how important it is to respect the beliefs of others. Or they'll murder you. Which isn't very respectful on their part.
The silly ideas may also be ethnic folkways. If you jump up and down ten times at noon every day, moaning "Groo!" with each jump, you're an obsessive-compulsive weirdo and an eye should be kept on you. If I do it because it's a custom of my people and dates back a thousand years, you'd better not disrespect my culture by saying anything negative about my jumping.
The silly people tend to be George Dubya Bush, and occasionally other, equally revolting Republicans. During the Clinton presidency, Republicans felt free to spout the most outrageous, scurrilous, lying nonsense about Bill Clinton, but during the 2000 election, when someone (I think it was Bill Clinton, in fact) dared to question Dubya, Republicans screamed in falsetto and sought their fainting couches, while protesting that the questioner was being disrespectful.
The word has its uses, but it's so often misused as a rhetorical club that the bad outweighs the good, and we'd be better off without it. What I mean by "rhetorical club" is that people use the word to keep you from attacking silly people or silly ideas.
The silly ideas tend to be religious ones - specifically, the standard, accepted religious institutions. So you can advocate something real, such as evolution, or something made up, such as the Flying Spaghetti Monster, and idiots all over will have no problem attacking you for it. But if you dare to sneer even slightly at Christianity, Judaism, Islam, Hinduism, and so on, you'll be sternly upbraided and lectured about how important it is to respect the beliefs of others. Or they'll murder you. Which isn't very respectful on their part.
The silly ideas may also be ethnic folkways. If you jump up and down ten times at noon every day, moaning "Groo!" with each jump, you're an obsessive-compulsive weirdo and an eye should be kept on you. If I do it because it's a custom of my people and dates back a thousand years, you'd better not disrespect my culture by saying anything negative about my jumping.
The silly people tend to be George Dubya Bush, and occasionally other, equally revolting Republicans. During the Clinton presidency, Republicans felt free to spout the most outrageous, scurrilous, lying nonsense about Bill Clinton, but during the 2000 election, when someone (I think it was Bill Clinton, in fact) dared to question Dubya, Republicans screamed in falsetto and sought their fainting couches, while protesting that the questioner was being disrespectful.
Tuesday, December 25, 2007
Dented
I have this week off, and I'm using the time to write a synopsis of Time and the Soldier for an agent who asked for a partial. It's snowing like mad outside. And then Leonore got cabin fever.
So we set out sloooowly on the snowy, icy street, headed for the only Middle East restaurant we could find that's open today. Just south of our house, the street curves to the left through a right angle. As I was approaching that curve slooooowly, an SUV came barreling along from the other direction. I could see that it wouldn't make the curve, so I stopped and waited to see how serious the disaster would be. The SUV driver realized she was in trouble partway through the curve. She apparently stepped on the brakes, making matters worse. We sat there and time sloooooowed down as we watched the SUV sliding toward us. I was wondering whether she'd pass in front of us and into one of the houses, or if she'd manage to make it past us on the left. Neither. She slid into us.
The damage was minor, but of course we had to wait for the police. The police car made a wrong turn on its way and got stuck in the snow a couple of blocks away. After an hour or so, two more police cars showed up to help get the first one out. (Some neighbors and I offered to push the first car out, but the policewoman driving it refused.) Sort of amusing, in retrospect.
Eventually it was all ironed out and we got our lamb shank and hummus and all that stuff. And now we're back, and it's still snowing like mad. I wish I'd stayed at home.
And what have we learned from this, kids? How about, when it's snowy and the streets are icy, always drive sloooooowly, especially around curves. Yes, I do believe that we did learn that. Rather, that the other driver learned it, since I already knew that.
So we set out sloooowly on the snowy, icy street, headed for the only Middle East restaurant we could find that's open today. Just south of our house, the street curves to the left through a right angle. As I was approaching that curve slooooowly, an SUV came barreling along from the other direction. I could see that it wouldn't make the curve, so I stopped and waited to see how serious the disaster would be. The SUV driver realized she was in trouble partway through the curve. She apparently stepped on the brakes, making matters worse. We sat there and time sloooooowed down as we watched the SUV sliding toward us. I was wondering whether she'd pass in front of us and into one of the houses, or if she'd manage to make it past us on the left. Neither. She slid into us.
The damage was minor, but of course we had to wait for the police. The police car made a wrong turn on its way and got stuck in the snow a couple of blocks away. After an hour or so, two more police cars showed up to help get the first one out. (Some neighbors and I offered to push the first car out, but the policewoman driving it refused.) Sort of amusing, in retrospect.
Eventually it was all ironed out and we got our lamb shank and hummus and all that stuff. And now we're back, and it's still snowing like mad. I wish I'd stayed at home.
And what have we learned from this, kids? How about, when it's snowy and the streets are icy, always drive sloooooowly, especially around curves. Yes, I do believe that we did learn that. Rather, that the other driver learned it, since I already knew that.
Friday, December 21, 2007
David's Definitions for February '08
Frock
(Will appear in the February 2008 issue of Community News
Those of us who are old enough remember when frock was used to refer to a woman's dress. It's a much older word than that, going back at least to the 14th century. In those days, it could mean any item of clothing, for men or women, that was long, loose, and had full sleeves. Over the centuries, frock was applied to various types of clothing, from women's dresses to men's frock coats to various items of sailor's clothing. The clothing worn by a priest was called a frock. If a priest was thrown out of the priesthood, he had to give up his priestly clothes, and he was said to have been defrocked. Because the robes worn by judges are commonly believed to have evolved from the clothing of priests, a judge who is expelled from the bench is also said to be defrocked.
I'm collecting all of these at: http://www.dvorkin.com/davidsdefs.html
(Will appear in the February 2008 issue of Community News
Those of us who are old enough remember when frock was used to refer to a woman's dress. It's a much older word than that, going back at least to the 14th century. In those days, it could mean any item of clothing, for men or women, that was long, loose, and had full sleeves. Over the centuries, frock was applied to various types of clothing, from women's dresses to men's frock coats to various items of sailor's clothing. The clothing worn by a priest was called a frock. If a priest was thrown out of the priesthood, he had to give up his priestly clothes, and he was said to have been defrocked. Because the robes worn by judges are commonly believed to have evolved from the clothing of priests, a judge who is expelled from the bench is also said to be defrocked.
I'm collecting all of these at: http://www.dvorkin.com/davidsdefs.html
Wednesday, December 19, 2007
They Really Are Illegal Aliens
It’s hard to keep up with the phrases we leftists are supposed to avoid. The Secret Liberal Euphemisms List keeps growing, and terms we’ve been using for years suddenly get added to it. Recently, the word went out (Memo #3322745A-32) from Secret Leftwing Headquarters that we shouldn’t refer to illegal aliens because NO ONE IS ILLEGAL!
Yeah, but verbal shorthand is common and awfully convenient. Moreover, the substitutes that are proposed for the terms on that list are usually awkward, ungainly, unaesthetic, and ill chosen. For example, some prefer undocumented immigrant to illegal alien. But let’s say that someone who is in this country without the proper legal permission is caught and is handed a card stamped ILLEGAL IMMIGRANT and ordered to have it on him at all times while he’s being processed for deportation. Then he’d be a documented immigrant! But also still an illegal alien. (I don’t think such cards exist, but it’s depressingly easy to imagine the dweebs at Homeland Security inventing them.)
(Admittedly, one problem with my otherwise stunningly logical and admirable position is the presence of xenophobic jerks among us - many of them on my side of the political spectrum. Hack, ptuie. There: I lob a gob of sputum at them. I suppose that such people are unaware that there was no such thing as an undocumented immigrant or illegal alien before about 80 years ago. Odds are their own ancestors entered this country without any kind of papers. Before the 1920s eruption of xenophobia and racism – a reaction, I assume, to a wave of post-WWI immigration – anyone who wanted to come to America simply came. Zillions did, and few were turned away. But who expects logic and historical awareness from xenophobic jerks? More to the point, I refuse to stop using a logical and accurate and convenient phrase because it’s misused by a bunch of xenophobic jerks. I’m not going to let them control me or define the terms of the discourse.)
Some of the euphemisms on the Secret Liberal Euphemisms List are unintentionally insulting or degrading. Wheelchair user, for example. That implies that people in wheelchairs are there by choice and because they like having to use wheelchairs to get around. Sure they do.
Fortunately, not all of the euphemisms on that list catch on. Years ago, there was a movement not only to ditch the word disabled (that succeeded, apparently) but also to label the rest of us temporarily abled (didn't succeed). Well, I’m doing my best to keep myself permanently abled, and I also intend to permanently use the term illegal alien.
If I were feeling pugnacious, I might even go so far as to add that I speak as a legal immigrant and also as a white African-American.
Yeah, but verbal shorthand is common and awfully convenient. Moreover, the substitutes that are proposed for the terms on that list are usually awkward, ungainly, unaesthetic, and ill chosen. For example, some prefer undocumented immigrant to illegal alien. But let’s say that someone who is in this country without the proper legal permission is caught and is handed a card stamped ILLEGAL IMMIGRANT and ordered to have it on him at all times while he’s being processed for deportation. Then he’d be a documented immigrant! But also still an illegal alien. (I don’t think such cards exist, but it’s depressingly easy to imagine the dweebs at Homeland Security inventing them.)
(Admittedly, one problem with my otherwise stunningly logical and admirable position is the presence of xenophobic jerks among us - many of them on my side of the political spectrum. Hack, ptuie. There: I lob a gob of sputum at them. I suppose that such people are unaware that there was no such thing as an undocumented immigrant or illegal alien before about 80 years ago. Odds are their own ancestors entered this country without any kind of papers. Before the 1920s eruption of xenophobia and racism – a reaction, I assume, to a wave of post-WWI immigration – anyone who wanted to come to America simply came. Zillions did, and few were turned away. But who expects logic and historical awareness from xenophobic jerks? More to the point, I refuse to stop using a logical and accurate and convenient phrase because it’s misused by a bunch of xenophobic jerks. I’m not going to let them control me or define the terms of the discourse.)
Some of the euphemisms on the Secret Liberal Euphemisms List are unintentionally insulting or degrading. Wheelchair user, for example. That implies that people in wheelchairs are there by choice and because they like having to use wheelchairs to get around. Sure they do.
Fortunately, not all of the euphemisms on that list catch on. Years ago, there was a movement not only to ditch the word disabled (that succeeded, apparently) but also to label the rest of us temporarily abled (didn't succeed). Well, I’m doing my best to keep myself permanently abled, and I also intend to permanently use the term illegal alien.
If I were feeling pugnacious, I might even go so far as to add that I speak as a legal immigrant and also as a white African-American.
Friday, December 14, 2007
He Made a Mistake
Some politician just resigned from office because an affair he had was exposed. (He's married, and so is the woman.) In his resignation, he referred to his "mistake".
Man, I'm sick of deliberate, vile acts being referred to as mistakes. Sometimes it's what amounts to treason, as in the case Iran-Contra. In that case, Ronald Reagan, that slimy bastard, even pushed it all off into the fuzzy world of the passive voice: "Mistakes were made." More often, "mistake" is used to refer to a personal transgression - cheating on one's spouse or robbing a Seven Eleven. Relatives and supporters will even tell us that the slimeball in question "has learned from his mistakes."
Well, no. He hasn't. Not if he's still calling his evil actions "mistakes".
A mistake is an oversight, like dropping a letter in the mailbox without having put a stamp on it. Or it can be an action based on misinformation, like showing up at the theater on the wrong day or time because you saw an out-of-date showtime listing. "Mistake" doesn't apply to walking into a convenience store with a gun in your pocket. And you don't slip your willy into someone else's receptacle, or vice versa, by mistake. You do it on purpose, usually with planning or at least a few minutes of foreknowlege, and always, unless you're astonishingly stupid, with full knowledge of the terrible injury you're doing.
But maybe it depends on who's evaluating the actions. Relatives and friends of the holdup man or cheater may be willing to minimize the transgression as a mistake. Republicans are remarkably willing to excuse the actions of Republican officeholders.
Man, I'm sick of deliberate, vile acts being referred to as mistakes. Sometimes it's what amounts to treason, as in the case Iran-Contra. In that case, Ronald Reagan, that slimy bastard, even pushed it all off into the fuzzy world of the passive voice: "Mistakes were made." More often, "mistake" is used to refer to a personal transgression - cheating on one's spouse or robbing a Seven Eleven. Relatives and supporters will even tell us that the slimeball in question "has learned from his mistakes."
Well, no. He hasn't. Not if he's still calling his evil actions "mistakes".
A mistake is an oversight, like dropping a letter in the mailbox without having put a stamp on it. Or it can be an action based on misinformation, like showing up at the theater on the wrong day or time because you saw an out-of-date showtime listing. "Mistake" doesn't apply to walking into a convenience store with a gun in your pocket. And you don't slip your willy into someone else's receptacle, or vice versa, by mistake. You do it on purpose, usually with planning or at least a few minutes of foreknowlege, and always, unless you're astonishingly stupid, with full knowledge of the terrible injury you're doing.
But maybe it depends on who's evaluating the actions. Relatives and friends of the holdup man or cheater may be willing to minimize the transgression as a mistake. Republicans are remarkably willing to excuse the actions of Republican officeholders.
Friday, December 07, 2007
That Night Is Not Good
Do not go gentle into that good night,
Old age should burn and rave at close of day;
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.
-- Dylan Thomas
The topic of fearing death seems to have popped up again in atheist publications and online areas, as it does occasionally. It seems to be the conventional wisdom that a real atheist shouldn't fear death but should anticipate it with a calmness and equanimity that I find creepy. Carl Sagan while dying, supposedly told his wife that he didn't fear the death he knew was near, and his fellow atheists are supposed to admire and emulate that attitude.
Of course, just as much as anyone else, atheists fear the nasty end of life. During his agonizing final hours, the atheist Charles Darwin said to his very Christian wife, "If I could but die!" Dreading the suffering that's so common is natural enough. Where the conventional atheist position differs from the conventional monotheist one has to with the attitude toward what comes after.
The standard argument against fearing death seems to be that, since we won't exist and thus will have no consciousness of being dead, what is there to fear? How can you fear nonexistence? A couple of hundred years ago or so, Jeremy Bentham put it this way: "People who do not believe in life after death do not fear being dead, but believers fear punishment more than they hope for bliss." A century earlier, Francis Bacon said something similar: "Men fear death as children fear to go in the dark; and as that natural fear in children is increased by tales, so is the other." So you see, if you don't think there are bogeymen in the dark, if in fact you think the darkness is simple oblivion, you will have no fear of it.
To which, Francis and Jeremy, I am compelled to reply, "Bullshit." And I also wonder just how many of my fellow atheists really do contemplate their own deaths with calmness and equanimity and how many dread and fear it and anticipate it with utter horror, as I do.
Now, by that I don't mean that I secretly fear that the monotheists are right and I'll find myself, after death, facing a terrible judge who will condemn me to hell for not going to weekly religious services. That's the idea behind Pascal's wager, and it's logically foolish. No, the problem is that the reasons given not to fear death miss the point: what I, and surely others, fear is precisely the loss of life. I love life and don't want it to end.
Nor does it work to say that when I'm dead I won't know that I'm not alive and therefore I won't regret not being alive. The point is that I know about it now, and the anticipation of life ending fills me with horror now. I can't understand why anyone who loves life doesn't feel the same way. The light is so beautiful. How can you not rage against its dying? We should all see death as an affront.
Oh, and it's also not good enough to say that we'll live on through the fond memories of those we've touched. That's nice, but I want to be there to keep interacting with them. I'm also not comforted by the hope that I'll live on in some way via some general effect on the world. Of course I'd like to think that people will be reading my written works far into the future, but even if that happens, that won't change the fact that I won't be there to enjoy it. I love the way Woody Allen put it: "I don't want to achieve immortality through my work. I want to achieve it through not dying."
This isn't a feeling that's come over me with advancing age. I've felt this way since I first understood mortality and realized that it applied to me. Immortality in various guises shows up in my fiction from the earliest stuff I wrote. It's been an obsession of mine for decades. Actually, I shouldn't call it an obsession. It's a sign of mental health. After all, I'm the only me I've got!
Another argument I've heard, what you could call the Just Who Do You Think You Are argument, says that death is natural and applies to everyone. Live your life and get out of the way. What makes you so important? Why should you keep on living and using up resources? That is in effect an argument for immediate suicide. It's certainly an argument against modern medicine and tornado warning systems. Emphasize the naturalness of death and the position becomes an argument against clothing, houses, agriculture, eyeglasses, and so on.
Of course, people say, we all want to protect ourselves against premature death. But what constitutes a premature death? Even putting aside murder, accident, and disease, we can expect longer lives and a less unpleasant old age than people in Darwin's or Bentham's or Bacon's times. Based on family history and my own health, I can probably expect to live into my nineties, possibly even to 100. If tomorrow medical science were to come up with a daily pill that extended that by ten years of mentally vigorous life, would any fellow atheist tell me it would be wrong for me take it? What if next year the pill were improved so that it added twenty years instead of ten? And then Version 3.0 added 30 years, and so on. At what magical point would the extension of life become unnatural or in some other way undesirable? Choosing such a point would be magical thinking, to my mind.
Well, if you feel obligated to die in order to free up resources for future generations, then go right ahead. As for me, I want that magic pill, and I want it now.
Saturday, December 01, 2007
Time for Sherlock Holmes Pages Updated
It's only taken ... a few years.
I've updated my Web site pages dealing with my Holmes pastiche Time for Sherlock Holmes with cover images and lots of frightfully amusing background information. Well, background information, anyway.
It's here.
I've updated my Web site pages dealing with my Holmes pastiche Time for Sherlock Holmes with cover images and lots of frightfully amusing background information. Well, background information, anyway.
It's here.
Friday, November 30, 2007
Still Waters
Okay, I put the outline and sample chapters for Still Waters, the proposed sequel to Central Heat, up on my Web site. Two PDF files, linked from the page describing CH.
Just in case anyone reading this is interested enough to also read those, I'd be interested in reactions. The sequel is very much a sequel, I realize. It probably doesn't make much sense to someone who hasn't read the original novel. But I think it's kinda fun, anyway. (But I would think that, wouldn't I?)
Just in case anyone reading this is interested enough to also read those, I'd be interested in reactions. The sequel is very much a sequel, I realize. It probably doesn't make much sense to someone who hasn't read the original novel. But I think it's kinda fun, anyway. (But I would think that, wouldn't I?)
Actual Eye Blisters
When I started this blog, I chose the name because I was so struck by the line from Anthony Trollope's autobiography, quoted at the top of the blog. Since then, I've been struck, and a bit disturbed, by the large number of hits the blog gets via Google searches on eye blisters, blister on my eye, and similar phrases. I certainly wasn't trying to draw traffic by some kind of misdirection. Before reading that in Trollope, I hadn't even heard of a blister on the eye, and after reading it, I guess I assumed it was some odd affliction that appeared occasionally in the 19th century but probably not much nowadays.
Anyway, it's a disturbing image, to be sure, and I apologize to anyone who came here looking for help or medical advice and was surprised, and maybe annoyed, to find this blog instead.
And it occurs to me that this post is probably just compounding the problem!
Anyway, it's a disturbing image, to be sure, and I apologize to anyone who came here looking for help or medical advice and was surprised, and maybe annoyed, to find this blog instead.
And it occurs to me that this post is probably just compounding the problem!
Thursday, November 29, 2007
Central Heat
Well, this was fun. Ish. In a way.
I finally put up the new cover and the original, old, paperback cover for my recently reissued novel, Central Heat. I also put the first three chapters up as a PDF file.
Hunting around in the old files, I found a timeline I'd made for myself, covering the events of the novel and some of the proposed sequel, Still Waters (which never sold because Central Heat, shall we say, didn't set the world on fire). (It should have!)
I also have an outline and a few chapters for the sequel. I might get around to formatting them for readability, convert them to PDF, and put them on the Web site as well. Maybe.
Everything can be seen here.
I finally put up the new cover and the original, old, paperback cover for my recently reissued novel, Central Heat. I also put the first three chapters up as a PDF file.
Hunting around in the old files, I found a timeline I'd made for myself, covering the events of the novel and some of the proposed sequel, Still Waters (which never sold because Central Heat, shall we say, didn't set the world on fire). (It should have!)
I also have an outline and a few chapters for the sequel. I might get around to formatting them for readability, convert them to PDF, and put them on the Web site as well. Maybe.
Everything can be seen here.
Wednesday, November 28, 2007
Is your computer watching you?
After a great deal of cogitation and extensive research using Google, I've come to a startling, indeed terrifying, conclusion.
The significance of the name "Windows" for Microsoft's operating system hadn't struck me before. But now I realize that it's not just a metaphor for a technology that "lets you see the world", as you could say. Just like the windows in your house, it also lets the world see you! Cleary, the NSA, the CIA, and the rest of the spookocracy are watching you through your computer -- through your Windows. It's so obvious when you think about it.
So, just as you wouldn't do certain things in front of the windows of your house, be very, very careful what you do in front of your computer. Or at least pull the blinds first, which in this case means wait for the screensaver to activate.
And don't think that you're safe just because you're one of those sneering, condescending Mac users. OSX, huh? Don't you know that the original name of the CIA was the OSS? You think that's a coincidence?
I'm still working on "Linux".
Update:
I should have explained that this was sparked by this bizarro post on Democratic Underground, which I dismissed as very silly (I'm the user named DavidD). So I posted the above stuff on DU here as a spoof of the other post. Some people seemed to take it seriously, though. Sigh.
The significance of the name "Windows" for Microsoft's operating system hadn't struck me before. But now I realize that it's not just a metaphor for a technology that "lets you see the world", as you could say. Just like the windows in your house, it also lets the world see you! Cleary, the NSA, the CIA, and the rest of the spookocracy are watching you through your computer -- through your Windows. It's so obvious when you think about it.
So, just as you wouldn't do certain things in front of the windows of your house, be very, very careful what you do in front of your computer. Or at least pull the blinds first, which in this case means wait for the screensaver to activate.
And don't think that you're safe just because you're one of those sneering, condescending Mac users. OSX, huh? Don't you know that the original name of the CIA was the OSS? You think that's a coincidence?
I'm still working on "Linux".
Update:
I should have explained that this was sparked by this bizarro post on Democratic Underground, which I dismissed as very silly (I'm the user named DavidD). So I posted the above stuff on DU here as a spoof of the other post. Some people seemed to take it seriously, though. Sigh.
Thursday, November 22, 2007
David's Definitions for December '07 and January '08
Inflammable
(Appeared in the December 2007 issue of Community News)
Something is inflammable if it tends to ignite at commonly encountered temperatures. Other English words that come from the same Latin root are inflammation, inflame, and inflammatory. At one time, trucks hauling materials that could catch fire easily had signs on them saying INFLAMMABLE. However, too many people apparently thought that flammable means "easily set on fire" and that those the loads on those truck were not easily set on fire. So now such trucks have signs saying FLAMMABLE. That's not really a word in English, but presumably, because of those signs, it soon will be, and inflammable will disappear.
Feckless
(Will be in the January 2008 issue of Community News)
An action is feckless if it is ineffective or worthless. An incompetent person could also be called feckless. It’s an old word in some Scottish and English dialects, and it comes from the word feck, which is a variant of the English word effect. So something is feckless if it has no effect. Those dialects also had the word feckful, which is the opposite of feckless, but feckful never caught on in mainstream English.
I'm collecting all of these at: http://www.dvorkin.com/davidsdefs.html
(Appeared in the December 2007 issue of Community News)
Something is inflammable if it tends to ignite at commonly encountered temperatures. Other English words that come from the same Latin root are inflammation, inflame, and inflammatory. At one time, trucks hauling materials that could catch fire easily had signs on them saying INFLAMMABLE. However, too many people apparently thought that flammable means "easily set on fire" and that those the loads on those truck were not easily set on fire. So now such trucks have signs saying FLAMMABLE. That's not really a word in English, but presumably, because of those signs, it soon will be, and inflammable will disappear.
Feckless
(Will be in the January 2008 issue of Community News)
An action is feckless if it is ineffective or worthless. An incompetent person could also be called feckless. It’s an old word in some Scottish and English dialects, and it comes from the word feck, which is a variant of the English word effect. So something is feckless if it has no effect. Those dialects also had the word feckful, which is the opposite of feckless, but feckful never caught on in mainstream English.
I'm collecting all of these at: http://www.dvorkin.com/davidsdefs.html
Tuesday, November 20, 2007
Silly High Heels
While I was walking to work from the bus stop this morning, it struck me that the heels of women's shoes have become even higher during the last year. It's as though, having put aside their common sense a few years ago, women are now going to a wild extreme. Perhaps by next year, they'll be tottering around downtown on stilts.
Why, when I was a lad . . . women wore high heels. Always. Everywhere. Spike heels. At least the modern incarnation have tips that spread out, so the damage done to sidewalks and floors is somewhat less than it was back then. The damage done to feet, ankles, knees, hips, lower backs, Achilles tendons, and calf muscles is the same, of course.
It's bizarre and inexplicable to me. Some years ago, women cast off the shackles of this absurd fashion, which our society presumably inherited from some French king who felt the need to appear taller than his subjects. You saw women walking around downtown wearing running shoes. You also saw newspaper columns lamenting this and begging them to return to heels so that they would look "professional" - a word that, like "respect", means just about whatever the speaker wants it to mean. Reading such columns, I was convinced that women wouldn't fall for it. Having escaped from the absurdity of high heels, they'd never willingly return to them.
Wrong! Repetition seems to have done the trick, and now all the foolish lemmings are back to heels. Not only do they look absurd trying to walk in those things, and especially so when there's ice on the ground, they also sound absurd. People walking in running shoes sound the way civilized people should sound: silent.
Recently, I made the mistake of watching an episode of the "reimagined" Bionic Woman. (I wanted to see if it had improved from the pilot episode. It hadn't.) The title character goes out on a mission, which she knows will involve much bionic running around and fighting. She prepares by choosing an appropriate outfit, which includes a ridiculously short jacket, designed to show her midriff but not to keep her warm, slacks, and boots with high heels. In which she runs around clumsily, making clippity-cloppity noises, like an out-of-shape pony.
Good grief. Can this fashion trend get any dumber?
But it will. Stilts, I tell ya.
Why, when I was a lad . . . women wore high heels. Always. Everywhere. Spike heels. At least the modern incarnation have tips that spread out, so the damage done to sidewalks and floors is somewhat less than it was back then. The damage done to feet, ankles, knees, hips, lower backs, Achilles tendons, and calf muscles is the same, of course.
It's bizarre and inexplicable to me. Some years ago, women cast off the shackles of this absurd fashion, which our society presumably inherited from some French king who felt the need to appear taller than his subjects. You saw women walking around downtown wearing running shoes. You also saw newspaper columns lamenting this and begging them to return to heels so that they would look "professional" - a word that, like "respect", means just about whatever the speaker wants it to mean. Reading such columns, I was convinced that women wouldn't fall for it. Having escaped from the absurdity of high heels, they'd never willingly return to them.
Wrong! Repetition seems to have done the trick, and now all the foolish lemmings are back to heels. Not only do they look absurd trying to walk in those things, and especially so when there's ice on the ground, they also sound absurd. People walking in running shoes sound the way civilized people should sound: silent.
Recently, I made the mistake of watching an episode of the "reimagined" Bionic Woman. (I wanted to see if it had improved from the pilot episode. It hadn't.) The title character goes out on a mission, which she knows will involve much bionic running around and fighting. She prepares by choosing an appropriate outfit, which includes a ridiculously short jacket, designed to show her midriff but not to keep her warm, slacks, and boots with high heels. In which she runs around clumsily, making clippity-cloppity noises, like an out-of-shape pony.
Good grief. Can this fashion trend get any dumber?
But it will. Stilts, I tell ya.
Sunday, November 18, 2007
The Phoenix and the Eagle
This is another old book that I did as a partial eons ago and then put on the shelf but never forgot. I took a look at it after finishing Time and the Soldier and got hooked again. It's a sword and sorcery epic saga with giant men and giant swords and giant politics and giant magic. Much fun. Unless I change my mind, this is what I'll be working on now.
Like pretty much all such books, it's set in a madeup world with its own geography, demography, and history. This one is peopled by, well, people. No orcs or dwarves or elves or fairies or whatever.
It started out as a long short story, which I was never able to sell and eventually decided to expand into a book. To keep things straight, I scribbled a messy little map for myself, so that I wouldn't have a character head east and end up in a city which I had earlier mentioned was to his west. Daniel was very young at the time and redid the map for me with colors and added geographical stuff of his own invention. While searching for old notes, etc. (and finding some that were actually written by hand - ack! - and are therefore unreadable), I found his map. I'm about to have lunch with him and will ask if it would embarrass him too much if the entire world, or at least the very tiny part of it that reads this blog, sees his map. If not, I'll scan it and if the result looks okay, I'll post it here.
Evening Update:
Daniel said he had no objections, as long as I point out that he was very young at the time. I can't remember when this all was, but I assure you he was young. Very young. A kid! He also came up with the title, The Phoenix and the Eagle. I'd forgotten that. Oh, and I do remember that he came up with the title Time and the Soldier; my original title for that was River of Time, which is very descriptive, but also very trite, cliched, dull, boring, and a real yawner to boot.
And now, without more ado, Daniel's map of the world in which P&E is set. See if you can figure out where he came up with the name he assigned to this land:
Like pretty much all such books, it's set in a madeup world with its own geography, demography, and history. This one is peopled by, well, people. No orcs or dwarves or elves or fairies or whatever.
It started out as a long short story, which I was never able to sell and eventually decided to expand into a book. To keep things straight, I scribbled a messy little map for myself, so that I wouldn't have a character head east and end up in a city which I had earlier mentioned was to his west. Daniel was very young at the time and redid the map for me with colors and added geographical stuff of his own invention. While searching for old notes, etc. (and finding some that were actually written by hand - ack! - and are therefore unreadable), I found his map. I'm about to have lunch with him and will ask if it would embarrass him too much if the entire world, or at least the very tiny part of it that reads this blog, sees his map. If not, I'll scan it and if the result looks okay, I'll post it here.
Evening Update:
Daniel said he had no objections, as long as I point out that he was very young at the time. I can't remember when this all was, but I assure you he was young. Very young. A kid! He also came up with the title, The Phoenix and the Eagle. I'd forgotten that. Oh, and I do remember that he came up with the title Time and the Soldier; my original title for that was River of Time, which is very descriptive, but also very trite, cliched, dull, boring, and a real yawner to boot.
And now, without more ado, Daniel's map of the world in which P&E is set. See if you can figure out where he came up with the name he assigned to this land:
Friday, November 16, 2007
Some Guy Just Died
And I'm depressed. Well, more like somewhat sad. Well, let's say sobered. Momentarily.
He was either someone I went to high school with or someone I worked with at NASA. I check a blog maintained by my high school graduating class, and the only posts on it concern the latest classmate to die. I'm also on a mailing list from my old workgroup at NASA, and those e-mails also are entirely, or mostly, about someone going into a hospice or into a cemetery.
That's depressing enough. What's worse is that I never remember the person. Or maybe it would be worse if I did. No, maybe what's worse is that so many of them are around my age. Keerist.
The high school classmates I do remember, I remember as teenagers. The occasional photos on that blog seem to be of someone's grandparents. Which, of course, they probably are.
My coworkers at NASA were mostly older than me, but since I was in my twenties, that still meant they were mostly young - thirties for the most part, with some really old people in their (gasp!) forties. It was a glorious, young-person's undertaking, just as high school is (albeit that rarely includes the glorious part) (well, most of the time, neither did NASA).
Well, at least I'm younger than the Apollo astronauts. Those who haven't yet died of old age. And by the way, the few of themI encountered in those days were obnoxious jerks. That's not relevant, but I thought I'd mention it. Now that they're old, or dead, they should be remembered for what they were in the flower of their just-post-youth.
He was either someone I went to high school with or someone I worked with at NASA. I check a blog maintained by my high school graduating class, and the only posts on it concern the latest classmate to die. I'm also on a mailing list from my old workgroup at NASA, and those e-mails also are entirely, or mostly, about someone going into a hospice or into a cemetery.
That's depressing enough. What's worse is that I never remember the person. Or maybe it would be worse if I did. No, maybe what's worse is that so many of them are around my age. Keerist.
The high school classmates I do remember, I remember as teenagers. The occasional photos on that blog seem to be of someone's grandparents. Which, of course, they probably are.
My coworkers at NASA were mostly older than me, but since I was in my twenties, that still meant they were mostly young - thirties for the most part, with some really old people in their (gasp!) forties. It was a glorious, young-person's undertaking, just as high school is (albeit that rarely includes the glorious part) (well, most of the time, neither did NASA).
Well, at least I'm younger than the Apollo astronauts. Those who haven't yet died of old age. And by the way, the few of themI encountered in those days were obnoxious jerks. That's not relevant, but I thought I'd mention it. Now that they're old, or dead, they should be remembered for what they were in the flower of their just-post-youth.
Wednesday, November 07, 2007
Fifth-Order Polynomials for Edwards!
The link to the right, Rasmussen Daily Dem Tracking Poll, now takes you to a modified version of the daily Rasmussen numbers. I dropped the All Others numbers and added trend lines for the three top dogs.
I tried various types of trend lines available in Excel and, like any self-respecting, serious researcher, chose the one that gave me the results I wanted. That turned out to be a fifth-order polynomial fit. Check it out; it looks great.
Of course, the problem with fitting a curve to such data is that there's no underlying physical process which we're trying to get at. Or if there is, no one but Hari Seldon knows how to model it. But, what the Hell, so long as the curve looks good, I'll leave it there.
I tried various types of trend lines available in Excel and, like any self-respecting, serious researcher, chose the one that gave me the results I wanted. That turned out to be a fifth-order polynomial fit. Check it out; it looks great.
Of course, the problem with fitting a curve to such data is that there's no underlying physical process which we're trying to get at. Or if there is, no one but Hari Seldon knows how to model it. But, what the Hell, so long as the curve looks good, I'll leave it there.
Saturday, November 03, 2007
Just fling the guy around
About a week ago, I was watching a Sci Fi Channel movie about vampires, titled Bloodsuckers. It was bad, which I know is redundant, but it did at least have a babe or two in it, and it was the kind of mindless eye-candy that I prefer when I'm exercising. Also, it did make a stab at dealing with the idea that there are different types of vampires, with different habits and histories, who have to be killed in different ways.
But that's all irrelevant.
In one scene, the hero is fighting a supernaturally power vampire (his former captain, with pretty revolting rotting-flesh makeup, but that's also irrelevant), and the supernaturally powerful vampire keeps pinning the human hero and then, instead of simply killing him (as the vampires standing around watching the fight keep urging him to do), picks him up and flings him across the room.
Which of course means that the hero hits a wall back first (just like a stuntman!), slides to the floor, looks dazed, shakes his head, and then recovers, without any sign of broken bones or torn or pulled muscles or tendons or ligaments or even serious bruising. And then eventually kills the vampire.
We see this all the time in movies and TV shows. The villain may be supernaturally superpowerful - e.g., a vampire - or just a humongous and heavily muscled but apparently normal human being, but he always does the same thing. He has the hero at his mercy and instead of simply killing him with his humongous strength, he picks him up and throws him across the room - knowing perfectly well, because he's seen these movies before too, that the hero will slide to the floor, look dazed, shake his head, recover, and eventually kill the supernaturally superpowerful bad guy.
It undermines my willing suspension of disbelief. Which was already on shaky grounds when I watching Bloodsuckers, even before that scene.
But that's all irrelevant.
In one scene, the hero is fighting a supernaturally power vampire (his former captain, with pretty revolting rotting-flesh makeup, but that's also irrelevant), and the supernaturally powerful vampire keeps pinning the human hero and then, instead of simply killing him (as the vampires standing around watching the fight keep urging him to do), picks him up and flings him across the room.
Which of course means that the hero hits a wall back first (just like a stuntman!), slides to the floor, looks dazed, shakes his head, and then recovers, without any sign of broken bones or torn or pulled muscles or tendons or ligaments or even serious bruising. And then eventually kills the vampire.
We see this all the time in movies and TV shows. The villain may be supernaturally superpowerful - e.g., a vampire - or just a humongous and heavily muscled but apparently normal human being, but he always does the same thing. He has the hero at his mercy and instead of simply killing him with his humongous strength, he picks him up and throws him across the room - knowing perfectly well, because he's seen these movies before too, that the hero will slide to the floor, look dazed, shake his head, recover, and eventually kill the supernaturally superpowerful bad guy.
It undermines my willing suspension of disbelief. Which was already on shaky grounds when I watching Bloodsuckers, even before that scene.
Monday, October 22, 2007
The Looming Liquid Nitrogen Shortage
I went to the dermatologist today for my six-month checkup. As always, she came into the examination room with a container of liquid nitrogen in one hand and a cotton swab in the other and attacked my skin. Ow! Ow! I hate that stuff and the process involved - i.e., freezing off various growths before they can become dangerous - but it's the price I pay every six months for being red headed and fair skinned and for having tanned and roasted every summer as a kid and teenager. Most of that in Africa, to boot.
People are affected differently by the application of LN2 to them. Daniel once told me that it didn't bother him at all and felt just like a pin prick. For me, it's very painful. I can feel every cell screaming in agony, I tell you!
Okay, that's enough self-pity for one post. Now I await the blossoming of red splotches on my forehead, so that I'll look evilly diseased just in time for the local science fiction convention, Mile Hi Con, next weekend.
Oh, and if you go to a doctor and need something frozen off but are told that it will have to wait because of a nationwide shortage of liquid nitrogen, you'll know why.
People are affected differently by the application of LN2 to them. Daniel once told me that it didn't bother him at all and felt just like a pin prick. For me, it's very painful. I can feel every cell screaming in agony, I tell you!
Okay, that's enough self-pity for one post. Now I await the blossoming of red splotches on my forehead, so that I'll look evilly diseased just in time for the local science fiction convention, Mile Hi Con, next weekend.
Oh, and if you go to a doctor and need something frozen off but are told that it will have to wait because of a nationwide shortage of liquid nitrogen, you'll know why.
Friday, October 19, 2007
David's Definitions for November 2007
Vilify
(Appeared in the November 2007 issue of Community News)
To vilify someone is to say extremely nasty things about him. Those things may be true or false, just so long as they're really nasty. Its root is the Latin word vilis, meaning cheap. The English word vile comes from the same root. In both cases, the words acquired much stronger meanings in English. Vilify isn't commonly used in conversational English, but we can expect to see it in action a lot during the upcoming election season. The candidates will be vilifying each other. Vilification will fill the air.
(Oh, this is embarrassing! I copied the above from the e-mail I sent to the editor, and I noticed that I had typed it's root instead of its root. Aargh! And now it's too late to fix it. How could I have done that? Sheesh.)
I'm collecting all of these at: http://www.dvorkin.com/davidsdefs.html
(Appeared in the November 2007 issue of Community News)
To vilify someone is to say extremely nasty things about him. Those things may be true or false, just so long as they're really nasty. Its root is the Latin word vilis, meaning cheap. The English word vile comes from the same root. In both cases, the words acquired much stronger meanings in English. Vilify isn't commonly used in conversational English, but we can expect to see it in action a lot during the upcoming election season. The candidates will be vilifying each other. Vilification will fill the air.
(Oh, this is embarrassing! I copied the above from the e-mail I sent to the editor, and I noticed that I had typed it's root instead of its root. Aargh! And now it's too late to fix it. How could I have done that? Sheesh.)
I'm collecting all of these at: http://www.dvorkin.com/davidsdefs.html
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