Only Joking

Those of you with sensitive natures may want to avoid this entry.


I’ve never been able to tell jokes. I’m not a good orator under any circumstance. I can, however, appreciate a good joke, especially a good joke told well.

I suspect most of my audience does not read Matthew’s wonderful Defective Yeti, and thus missed the other day’s joke extravaganza.

As a public service — and because I have nothing better planned for today — here are the best jokes from the bunch, as determined by my gut. These are the ones that made me laugh out loud. (But please, when you’ve finished, go visit the site. There are plenty of others that might make you laugh even harder.)

These were all posted by various visitors to Defective Yeti. None of these are mine. If you’re worried one (or more) of these might offend you, turn back now!


Person 1: Knock knock.
Person 2: Who’s there?
Person 1: Control freak.
Person 1: Now you say “control freak who?”

Q: What’s the difference between the Vietnam War and the Iraq War?
A: George W. Bush had a plan to get out of the Vietnam War.

Two cannibals are eating a clown. One turns to the other, and says “Does this taste funny to you?”

A woman gets on a bus with her baby. The bus driver says: “That’s the ugliest baby that I’ve ever seen.” The woman goes to the rear of the bus and sits down, fuming. She says to a man next to her: “That driver just insulted me!” The man says: “You go right up there and tell him off — go ahead, I’ll hold your monkey for you.”


What has four legs and one arm?
A pit bull in a playground.

Where do you find a dog with no legs?
Right where you left him.

What do you call a dog with no legs?
It doesn’t matter, he won’t come anyway.

What do you call a cow with no legs?
Ground beef.


[I think this first made me laugh in third grade. It still makes me laugh:]

Why do ducks have flat feet?
To put out burning camp fires.
Why do elephants have flat feet?
To put out burning ducks.

[I’ve resisted the urge to include lawyer jokes, but only because I didn’t find many of them:]

What do you call 10,000 drowned lawyers?
A good start.


Two atoms are leaving a bar when one realizes that he left his electrons back in the bar. His friend asks, “Are you sure?” “Yes,” he replies. “I’m positive!”

What’s the opposite of Christopher Reeves?
Christopher Walken.

Q: Someone that knows three languages is trilingual. Someone that knows two languages is bilingual. So what do you call someone that only knows one language?
A: An American.

Q: What do you do if Michael Jackson is drowning?
A: Throw him a buoy.

Two hunters are out in the woods when one of them collapses. He doesn’t seem to be breathing and his eyes are glazed. The other guy takes out his phone and calls the emergency services. He gasps: “My friend is dead! What can I do?” The operator says: “Calm down, I can help. First, let’s make sure he’s dead.” There is a silence, then a gunshot is heard. Back on the phone, the guy says: “OK, now what?”

Little Red riding Hood is walking through the forest on the way to see her grandmother. She sees the wolf crouching down beside the track. “What big eyes you have!” she says. “Get lost,” says the wolf, “I’m taking a crap.”


[This only makes sense if you’ve seen the film Mary Poppins:]

In the course of his religious career, Ghandi walked all over India — barefoot. He also ate very sparingly and, sorry to say, oral hygiene was not at the top of his agenda. He was the super-calloused fragile mystic hexed by halitosis.


[For some reason, I’m a sucker for lightbulb jokes. Who knew?]

How many Mexicans does it take to screw in a lightbulb?
Juan.

How many lesbians does it take to screw in a lightbulb?
Three. One to screw the lightbulb in and two to sing a folk song about it.
[Kris says the above is not funny, but Nick and I think it is…]

How many feminists does it take to change a lightbulb?
THAT’S NOT FUNNY!

How many psychics does it take to change a lightbulb?
That’s not funny at all.

How many actors does it take to change a lightbulb?
Ten. One to change it, nine to say they could have done it better.

How many divas does it take to change a lightbulb?
One. The diva holds the bulb and the world revolves around her.

How many psychiatrists does it take to screw in a lightbulb?
It only takes one, but the lightbulb has to want to change.

How many kids with ADD does it take to screw in a lightbulb?
LET’S RIDE BIKES!


Jesus is sitting in a square in Nazareth, when a crowd approaches. They throw a woman, bound and beaten, at his feet. A man at the front says to Jesus, “Rabbi, this woman was found in the very act of adultery, and under the law of Moses such women are to be stoned. What say you to this?”

Jesus replies, “That the one among you who is without sin may cast the first stone.”

A rock flies from the back of the crowd, striking the woman square in the forehead, killing her instantly.

Jesus stands, looks over the mob, and says, “Mom, sometimes you really piss me off!”


[I don’t particularly care for dead baby jokes, not because I find them offensive, but because most of them just aren’t funny. Here are a couple that made me laugh:]

How do you make a dead baby float?
Start with a blender and two scoops of ice cream…

What’s worse than a baby nailed to a tree?
A baby nailed to a puppy.


[Drum roll please…my favorite joke of the bunch, the one that made me laugh the most, and perhaps the tackiest of the lot:]

A Buddhist monk, a Jewish rabbi and a Catholic priest are in an orphanage when the fire alarm goes off. The Buddhist monk exclaims, “A fire! We must save the children!” The rabbi says, “Fuck the children!” The Catholic priest says, “No time!”


Now that I’ve shared all those, and maybe one of you is left unoffended, I have to ask: why do so many jokes come at the expense of one class of people or other? Many jokes play on cultural stereotypes and prejudices in order to derive comedic effect. Would the “How many feminists does it take to change a light bulb?” be as funny — and it is funny — if it didn’t play on popular conceptions (and misconceptions) about feminists?

For the most part, I’m okay with this aspect of humor. True or gentle humor at the expense of a class of people seems acceptable. But why does it so often cross the line? If you read through the Defective Yeti joke thread, at some point the jokes stop being funny and start being offensive. And where is this line? Is it different depending on the audience? Depending on the teller of the joke?

What’s truly disturbing is how many of these offensive jokes use women as their butt. I live in some happy little world where equal rights for women have been achieved. Moreover, women are treated with respect. I’m fooling myself; upon reading through the 258 jokes it became clear that there is a hell of a long way to go yet. (And that racial intolerance is still with us, not to mention a great deal of homophobia.)

Comments

On 26 October 2004 (08:43 AM),
Denise said:

Who is Michael Jackon?

;)

On 26 October 2004 (08:48 AM),
J.D. said:

Oops. I tried to correct all the spelling/grammar errors, but missed that one. Curiously enough, it was originally “Micheal”, but I caught that error. I wonder how missed the Jackon? I fixed it now.

Incidentally, Kris’ Aunt Jenefer just left a great comment on yesterday’s entry, a story about a partially domesticated blue jay. Go read it. It’s great.

On 26 October 2004 (09:32 AM),
Joel said:

I laffed at several, thank you.
I read an article some months back (and how many conversations do I start with that phrase? From now on it’ll just be “IRAASMB”) about the history of jokes and, after going back to the first recorded joke book (ancient Greece, I think, who apparently found lettuce to be very risque’) and working their way forward, the authors wound up largely agreeing with you. Most jokes revolve around agression toward women.
Why? Because they’re scary!

On 26 October 2004 (09:38 AM),
Amanda said:

Funny!

I’m not an overly PC person to begin with, but when it comes to jokes I make an effort to turn off the social conditioning. The reason jokes about women and minorities are sometimes funny is, well, because they are! Stereotypes exist for a reason. I’m not saying that makes them good or bad, but I figure laughing is good for everyone.

On 26 October 2004 (09:57 AM),
Denise said:

I am warped. I love the Little Red Riding Hood one.

On 26 October 2004 (10:02 AM),
Lisa said:

Many of these are truly funny. My childhood favorite theme was the no arms and no legs jokes… What do you call a man with no arms and no legs in a swimming pool? Bob. On a wall? Art. Etc.

You haven’t one aspect of humor that doesn’t rely on demeaning people: the element of surprise. I think that people often laugh because they weren’t expecting the punchline. I often laugh for that reason, as well as pleasure at a well-turned phrase or reference.

On 26 October 2004 (10:08 AM),
Lynn said:

What? No pirate jokes? AARRGGHH!!

On 26 October 2004 (12:12 PM),
Dana said:

Q: Why did the turtle cross the road?
A: To get to the Shell station.

Q: How many surrealists does it take to change a lightbulb?
A: A fish.

Q: How many software engineers does it take to change a lightbulb?
A1: Only one, but the house falls down.
A2: None, that’s a hardware problem.

Q: How many smurfs does it take to screw in a lightbulb?
A: Two, but they screw in little houses, not in lightbulbs.

Q: Why did the monkey fall out of the tree?
A: It was dead!

Q: How do you drown a crossdresser?
A: Put a mirror at the bottom of a pool.

Q: How many Marxists does it take to change a lightbulb?
A: None. The light bulb’s own internal contradictions will inevitably lead to revolution.

—-

The joke itself is pretty long, but the punchline to the greatest Physics Joke of all time is:

“First, assume a spherical chicken.”

On 26 October 2004 (12:47 PM),
Dana said:

Q: How many mystery writers does it take to change a lightbulb?
A: Two. One to put it most of the way in, and one to give it a surprise twist at the end.

Q: How many policemen does it take to change a lightbulb?
A: None. It turns itself in.

Q: How many gods does it take to change a lightbulb?
A: Two. One to hold the lightbulb, and one to rotate the Universe.

Q: How many mathematicians does it take to change a lightbulb?
A: None. The problem is left as an exercise for the reader.

On 26 October 2004 (01:15 PM),
Dana said:

Q: How many mathematicians does it take to change a lightbulb?
A: One, who gives it to two Mystery Writers, thus reducing this to an earlier joke.

——

An astronomer, a physicist and a mathematician (it is said) were holidaying in Scotland. Glancing from a train window, they observed a black sheep in the middle of a field.

“How interesting,” observed the astronomer, “all scottish sheep are black!”

To which the physicist responded, “No, no! Some Scottish sheep are black!”

The mathematician gazed heavenward in supplication, and then intoned, “In Scotland there exists at least one field, containing at least one sheep, at least one side of which is black.”

—-

What is the shortest mathematicians joke?
Let epsilon be smaller than zero.

—-

A mathematician, a biologist and a physicist are sitting in a street cafe watching people going in and coming out of the house on the other side of the street.

First they see two people enter the house. Time passes. After a while they notice three people leave.

“Well, look at that,” said the biologist. “They must have reproduced!”

“No,” said the physicist, “the initial measurement wasn’t accurate.”

“Well, I’ll tell you one thing,” said the mathematician. “If one more person enters, it’ll be empty!”

On 26 October 2004 (01:17 PM),
Drew said:

A baby nailed to a tree. I’m in stitches.

On 26 October 2004 (01:28 PM),
Johnny said:

I was making love to this girl and she started crying. I said, “Are you going to hate yourself in the morning?” She said. “No. I hate myself now.” (Rodney Dangerfield)

On 26 October 2004 (01:32 PM),
Denise said:

…may he rest in peace…

On 26 October 2004 (01:59 PM),
Susan said:

From my 7 year old daughter:

Q: What color is a Chili dog?
A: Blue.

Q: Why is the mad scientist never lonely?
A: He can easily make new friends.

On 26 October 2004 (02:02 PM),
Amanda said:

From a 4-year old I ran into in the vet’s waiting room:

Q: Why is 6 afraid of 7?
A: Because 7 8 9!

On 26 October 2004 (02:52 PM),
J.D. said:

Dana’s “empty” joke is my favorite of those in the comments. That’s pretty damn funny. :)

On 26 October 2004 (10:02 PM),
Andrew Parker said:

I’d always heard it as a “perfectly spherical horse”…

On 26 October 2004 (10:52 PM),
Lynn said:

Ok, fine. I guess I’m the only one who’s into pirate jokes.

A pirate walks into a bar. He sits down and orders a drink. The bartender gets his drink and as he hands it to him, he says to the pirate, “Do you know that you have a steering wheel sticking out of the zipper of your pants?”

“Arggghh, matey,” says the pirate. “It’s drivin’ me nuts.”

On 27 October 2004 (07:23 AM),
Dana said:

I’d always heard it as a “perfectly spherical horse”…

Sure — it’s a variation on the same joke. I’ve also heard it as “assume a perfectly spherical cow.” It’s the same joke, just slight variations.

On 27 October 2004 (07:52 AM),
J.D. said:

Now that I’ve searched out the joke, neither chicken nor horse make much sense. The punch-line is, “First assume a perfectly spherical cow…”

Don’t believe me? Google is your friend:

“perfectly spherical chicken”: 2 results
“perfectly spherical horse”: 8 results
“perfectly spherical cow”: 83 results, including this page of math jokes, on which you can find the joke in question (which really is amusing, though not as funny — to me — as some of the above)

On 27 October 2004 (08:43 AM),
Dana said:

It’s still the same joke, no matter what animal is involved…

On 27 October 2004 (08:53 AM),
Johnny said:

Imagine a perfectly spherical Johnny…

On 27 October 2004 (09:30 AM),
Jeff said:

I’m offended! …because you left out Mennonite jokes.

Q: How was copper wire invented?
A: Two Mennonites were fighting over a penny.

On 27 October 2004 (11:08 AM),
Courtney said:

HOW MANY Unitarians DOES IT TAKE TO CHANGE A LIGHT BULB?

We choose not to make a statement either in favour of or against the need for a light bulb. However, if in your own journey, you have found that light bulbs work for you, that is fine. You are invited to write a poem or compose a modern dance about your personal relationship with your light bulb. Present it next month at our annual Light Bulb Sunday Service, in which we will explore a number of light bulb traditions, including incandescent, fluorescent, 3-way, long-life, and tinted, all of which are equally valid paths to luminescence.

On 27 October 2004 (12:21 PM),
Amanda said:

Courtney takes the cake.

On 01 March 2005 (10:11 AM),
alauddin said:

sent me jokes which make laugh and question also

thanking you
yours faithfully

alauddin

On 07 March 2005 (01:19 AM),
Annie said:

OK– I have lightbulb jokes, if you can stand one more post.

How many Conservative Republicans does it take to change a lightbulb?

Two– One to screw the bulb in and one to steady the chandelier.

How many Liberal Democrats does it take?

Two– One to change the bulb and one to stop his knees from jerking.

How many Libertarians does it take?

None– If he wants to sit in the dark that’s HIS business!

Steller’s Jay

For the past few years, there have been signs that Kris and I, as we get older, might become birdwatchers. Kris has always exhibited a keen eye for birds of prey, pointing out hawks and eagles that I’d otherwise not notice. I’ve often delighted at winged visitors at the feeder. (Though I take equal delight when one of our cats makes a meal of a visitor.)

We’ve taken even greater delight in birds since moving to the new house. We’re still not serious about birdwatching as a hobby — we don’t take notes, we don’t keep records — but there are times that one of us will call for the other — “Kris, come quick! Come quick!” — and we’ll watch silently while some bird plays in the yard.

One recent afternoon, we watched the scrub jays take turns wading in the birdbath, dousing themselves with enthusiasm.

Another day, we thought we saw a hawk roosting on an aerial across the street. We saw the same bird, or something similar, a few days later. This time I had my binoculars at hand so that we were able to get a closer look. Which bird of prey had we spied? A pigeon. A large, plump pigeon.

We’re not exactly expert-level birders.

Earlier this summer, I was whiling away a Saturday morning underneath the walnut tree, basking in the sun. A small bird alighted on the tree and began knocking at the trunk. Either it knocked very slowly, or it knocked so rapidly that the many raps merged into one. I figured the bird to be a woodpecker, but a glance through The Sibley Guide to Birds revealed that I’d most likely seen a Northern Flicker. (Though I’m only able to say that with maybe 75% confidence.)


Northern Flicker

While I was outside today, exterminating slugs (seventeen!), a gorgeous blue bird with a black tufted head landed in the walnut. It was a beautiful thing, with glossy feathers, and a graceful demeanor. When I described it to Kris, she suggested that it might be a jay, and indeed it was. We see plenty of Western Scrub-Jays here, but this was a Steller’s Jay. It was beautiful. I want to see another.


Steller’s Jay

There were two other minor bird incidents today. In the first, a scrub jay was harrying one of the squirrels, which was standing in the lawn, eating nuts. In the other, three large crows swooped and twined together, playing over the lawn. Mortimer, one of the neighborhood cats (who has decided he actually lives on our front porch) watched the crows intently.

“You know,” I said to Kris. “I don’t think I know a cat who could take a crow. I think a crow could kick any cat’s ass. Crows are big, and they’re smart, and they look a little mean.”

“And their beaks are hard and pointy,” Kris added.

For the rest of the day I said, “Hello, Corvus,” whenever I saw a crow.

Comments

On 25 October 2004 (07:54 AM),
Dana said:

Crows have also been observed to make and use tools in the wild.



On 25 October 2004 (12:25 PM),
Amanda said:

I want to become a birdwatcher when I get old, too. I already watch a lot–on my 20 mile drive home from work every day, I’m usually able to spot several osprey, a hawk or two and, on very rare and lucky occasions, a bald eagle has crossed my path!

Birds are cool. We have an owl who lives within a few hundred yards of our house who we hear regularly. One night, while sitting on our front porch, he granted us with a visit–landing on the telephone wires directly across from us and directly underneath a huge light! That made my whole night.



On 25 October 2004 (01:30 PM),
Denise said:

I would love to see an owl. I’ve never seen one in the wild. My parents have an owl that lives in a tree close to their back deck – I can hear him some nights, but I’ve never seen him.



On 25 October 2004 (01:34 PM),
J.D. said:

What is it about birds that’s so intriguing? They’re fun to watch, big and small. I suppose that it’s fun to watch most animals (when they’re not sleeping), but birds especially so.



On 25 October 2004 (02:08 PM),
Lisa said:

Trivia: Craig graduated from Stellar High School. Their mascot was a jay. He may have more Stellar trivia than you would ever want to know.



On 25 October 2004 (05:52 PM),
al said:

I love Stellers. They are fairly common in Forest Park. My neighbor claims to be hand-feeding peanuts to the scrub jays, but I left a peanut outside for about a week with no takers.



On 26 October 2004 (07:16 AM),
Anthony said:

I don’t think I’ve ever seen a Stellar’s jay. It is great that you got a chance to enjoy one right at your feeder.

“You are worthy, O Lord, to recieve glory and honor and power, for you have created all things, and for your glory they exist and were created” (Revelation 4:11)

JD, this world is a masterpiece. By an Artist. I wish you could see Him.

By the way, thanks for the link to Toto’s post about catching birds. That was good.



On 26 October 2004 (08:31 AM),
jenefer said:

When we were children growing up in Alhambra, CA, Mother (Kris’s grandmother) started feeding a very curious Scrub Jay when she was working in the garden. First it was cutworms that she dug up. Over a period of time, years, Pigo became quite friendly, not just curious. He would wake us up in the morning by knocking on the glass of Mother’s bedroom window, looking for a handout. At breakfast he would stand on the window air conditioner, which was in the dining room window, and peck on that window to be let in. It was the horizontal louver-type. He became very comfortable in our house. Mother would hide pinion nuts for him around the house and he would look for them and find them. We always suspected that he watched her hiding them from the window even when the blinds were closed. He had a family and once the babies fell down the chimney in curiosity. The rest of his family and off- spring were never friendly. After about ten years, he stopped coming. We figured he was dead. Very sad, but a great childhood experience.

Chilly

I can’t get warm.

“I’m cold,” I said last night at the dinner table. Kris and I were eating take out pizza: mine pepperoni and pineapple, hers barbecue chicken and skanky black olives. (Why can’t pizza places buy good black olives?)

“This house is going to get cold this winter,” Kris said, munching on a slice.

“You think?” I asked.

“Yes, I do,” she said.

She may be right.

We recently had a high-efficiency gas furnace installed. It takes a while for it to do its thing, but once the house is warm, it seems to maintain the temperature fairly well. Still, we have to figure out how to program the thermostat so the house is warm when we need it to be warm, but is cool when we need it to be cool.

This morning was bad.

Last night Kris decided to fiddle with the thermostat. She delayed the morning heat by half an hour. It’s not tremendously cold outside yet — no lower than the mid-40s — but when I got up this morning it felt colder than it has been so far this fall. I was decidedly cool. In the old house I would have warmed my inner core with a nice bath. That’s no longer possible, of course, and a shower just doesn’t provide the same warmth.

Nevertheless, I had it in my mind that a hot shower would be just the thing. Only a hot shower was not to be had. There was no hot water. Kris had used it all. So, not only was my inner core not warmed, it was actually cooled.

I reacted by sulking and pouting, of course.

“Stop it,” Kris said. “It’s not worth being grouchy.”

You’re not the one who’s cold,” I said. “You had a hot shower.”

She just shook her head and ignored me. I went upstairs to the computer. There I performed an iTunes filter on the word “cold”. I played the resulting songlist.

“Very funny,” said Kris over Foreigner’s “Cold as Ice”. When I left the house, Hank Williams’ “Cold Cold Heart” was playing.

On the drive to work, I cranked the heat as I listened to my Patrick O’Brian. I’m sure the car was an inferno by the time I reached work, but I still felt cold.

At work, in my skunky office, I turned on the space heater full blast. I zipped my sweatshirt. I tried to think warm thoughts. I listened to the Beach Boys.

José came in for some orders. “Ay-yi,” he said. “Es muy caliente!”

I still think it’s cold.

I can’t get warm.

Comments

On 21 October 2004 (09:54 AM),
Kris said:

We’re having temperature issues here in our new laboratory, as well. The chemistry rooms have been warm. Even for me, 84 degrees when I’m wearing a fall sweater and lab coat is too hot. Today we learned the reason: the thermostatic sensor that controls the chemistry lab, instrument room and offices is (wisely) located in the trace evidence microscope room, located on an outer wall right by a large window. As a result, the thermostat thinks it’s cold, and heat is pumped out in chemistry. The heat never reaches the sensor, of course, because the heat and the sensor are separated by two air-seal doors. Lovely.

This morning, we are finally getting our bulletin boards mounted on the walls. Why, you may ask, did it take three weeks? Because, dear reader, we were not allowed to hang them ourselves. No, sir! Instead, a state (DAS)employee had to do the job. Now, there are state employees and there are state employees. Our particular DAS representative is about 6-foot-two and hugely obese. He moves in slow motion, taking frequent rests. As you can imagine, in the heat, he was sweating profusely, using his already-sodden bandana to wipe the sweat from his bald head.

As the DAS guy was laboring with drill and screws, my co-worker Rob had put in a CD mix of mine that ended with Coolio’s “Gangsta’s Paradise”. This engendered a discussion of the Weird Al version, “Amish Paradise”. So, the next CD had to be Weird Al’s Greatest Hits. Too late did we guiltily realize that the first two songs are “Fat” and “Eat it”. Boy, did we feel like jerks.

On 21 October 2004 (10:06 AM),
Denise said:

Hmm…and Kris doesn’t have her own weblog because of ????? ;)

I just think it would be very intersting to hear of all the testing and other coolio activities she does during the day.

Ok – bad pun, but I couldn’t resist.

On 21 October 2004 (10:31 AM),
AmJo said:

I too can’t seem to get warm. I forgot how much colder it feels when it is damp. The winter temps. in DC are lower than here and the wind can be a real bitch, but it is dry. I warmed up much easier there than I do here. I can’t get my feet and hands to stay warm, especially at night. I think Paul may have even felt sorry for me last night–he wrapped his ever-warm hands around my cold, cold feet while we were watching the West Wing.

On 21 October 2004 (10:33 AM),
Pam said:

J.D. – First your interest in clothes shopping raised some eyebrows and now you are cold – Welcome to the world of ice “queens.”

On 21 October 2004 (01:54 PM),
Joel said:

I bet a nice hot enema would warm your core!

They turned on the heat in our classrooms. Now instead of bundling up in a sweater and a ski cap for class we all strip down in the heat. And doze.

On 21 October 2004 (01:59 PM),
Lynn said:

Funny, I’ve been colder this fall than normal. I even stocked up on longjohns at the Target sale for sleeping.

On 21 October 2004 (02:12 PM),
Denise said:

Hmm…maybe we are all just getting old.

On 21 October 2004 (03:16 PM),
Semi-sequitur Tangent Man said:

I too wonder if olives can taste good on pizza. I like olives on my pizza but they almost always turn out rubbery. (These are your run-of-the-mill black olives BTW.)

On 21 October 2004 (03:42 PM),
J.D. Roth said:

Greetings, Mr. Tangent Man. It’s good to have you back. :)

I am very particular about olives. I love olives, or at least the good ones. I had never tried non-black olives until a couple of years ago, and now I’m an addict, especially in the spring and summer. Black olives have their place, of course, and I eat them especially in the fall. However, I prefer meat olives, and above all they must be *firm*, especially if I am to eat them by themselves.

Too often I find that food service olives in general, and pizza olives in particular, are of some strange degenerate variety: limp and rubbery, possessing a dull, metallic taste. If I wanted metallic olives I’d, well…I’ll never want metallic olives. And yet those were the sort on Kris’ pizza last night.

Deplorable.

(p.s. I am particularly fond of Black Pearl Jumbos, which have long ago been renamed Black Peral Extra Large or some such. The MNF women take pleasure in trying to test my ability to detect Black Pearl Jumbos. I’ve got a fairly good — though not perfect — track record. The key is the olives must be of quality; they need not always be Black Pearl Jumbos.)

On 21 October 2004 (07:25 PM),
John said:

Try this…
Snuggle-up together in a warm blanket with a good novel, take turns reading. It warms the body, heart and soull

On 22 October 2004 (09:41 AM),
Jon said:

We put in a gas water heater when we remodeled the basement. I’ve never noticed that we run out of hot water.

Unwelcome Visitors

Once again, a skunk has set up housekeeping beneath my office. I arrive every morning to a musky reek. By mid-morning, it’s given me a headache.

How do I deal with this annoyance? I dash off a poem about it, of course.

Unwelcome Visitors
by J.D. Roth

Said Mr. Skunk to Mrs. Skunk,
“I think I’ve found the spot —
Beneath that old green trailer house
Is where I’ll sling my cot.

The ground is damp, the air is cool,
The grass uncommon fine:
It’s filled with frogs and slugs and such.
The water’s sweet as wine!”

The loving pair, redolent there,
Made a home with a comfort air,
Filled their lair with a scent so fair
And settled for a nap.

Deep in their sleep, they dreamed skunk dreams
Of tender mice and tangerines,
Of spider kings and beetle queens,
All eaten in a snap.

They bolted wake come break of day,
Alarmed to hear the sound —
The clumping, clomping, human feet stomping —
Which echoed all around.

“Alas, my love, we must soon leave,”
Said Mr. Skunk, aggrieved.
“Let’s give a gift of scent so sweet,
Return when the humans flee.”

Perhaps the skunks will be appeased by my quick poetic tribute and begone. But I doubt it.

Comments

On 20 October 2004 (09:14 AM),
J.D. said:

Some points of interest (or not):

  • This is the first poem I’ve written in many moons. (In many suns, actually.) I tried to write one last year — “Harrison, Harrison, where can you be?” — but never finished.
  • This poem took me about an hour to write. I had just started when I mentioned it at 8:12 in a comment on the last entry. I posted this entry at 9:04. Between these times, I mainly worked on the poem (though I did two price quotations.)
  • The rhythm and rhyme scheme are intentional. I consciously broke the meter in at least one location (possibly two — I can’t remember). When I first started writing poetry in junior high, I was a strict adherent of rhyme. As I aged, rhyming became my enemy. Now that I am old and grey, I’ve come full circle: I believe a poem that adheres to a strict meter and rhyme scheme is generally superior to one that does not. Why? Because it is far more difficult to write. Far more. Blank verse and free verse are often lazy.
  • I wanted a very funny ending, but instead delivered only a mildly amusing one. I am not Joel.
  • This was fun to write.

And because of that last point, you can be certain you’ll see more poetry here in the future. :)

On 20 October 2004 (09:15 AM),
J.D. said:

P.S. I quite like my title as it is ambiguous…

On 20 October 2004 (10:30 AM),
Amy Jo said:

Replace the glass? Or give in to Scotch?

On 20 October 2004 (10:37 AM),
J.D. said:

Neither.

The glass shop didn’t get my pane cut yesterday (though they called me first thing this morning to say it’s ready), so Jeremy and I removed the moulding (from the outside — the stuff I pried away from the inside really was part of the door), vacuumed up the glass, smoked on the porch — a good pipe soothes the soul — jawed about life, fixed some good steaks, drank some wine, and parted ways.

Funny story about the steaks:

I pulled the t-bones out of the freezer on Monday and stuck them in the fridge. On Tuesday morning, Kris checked them for me and decided they were too frozen still, so she set them on the counter. While we were at work, one (or more) of the cats decided that steak sounded like a fine snack. When we got home, the steaks were on the floor, unwrapped, well-chewed. Jeremy and I decided to eat them anyway. We left them on the counter while we worked. When we came back later, there was Simon, happy as can be, sitting on the counter and gnawing on a steak. Damn cat!

The steaks were great despite (or perhaps because of) the cat juice.

But enough of that: I wrote a poem! A poem! :)

On 20 October 2004 (11:05 AM),
Dana said:

Okay, two things. First, on the subject of cat-chewed steak: Ew!

Second, you should stop smoking. Everybody should stop smoking. Tobacco companies are just about as Evil as industry gets, the impact on your health is significant (what happened to losing weight and getting into shape?), and it’s setting a bad example for the kids in your life (like Hank & Scout). Plus, I bet Kris hates it.

Hmph.

On 20 October 2004 (12:43 PM),
Paul said:

A SMALL step like completing a single poem may lead to larger steps that take you to the places you want to be.

Enjoy your creation, it is the perfect poem today.

On 20 October 2004 (01:03 PM),
dowingba said:

Is it intention that your poem randomly switches between an ABAB rhyming scheming and an AAABCCCB scheme? I find it disorienting.

On 20 October 2004 (01:11 PM),
J.D. said:

Yes, I alternated the rhyme scheme intentionally. That is not to say it was a good choice, however.

The first two stanzas are section A, the second two stanzas are section B, and the third two stanzas are section C. Sections A and C use the same rhyme scheme and meter. Section B is like a bridge in a song, really. (And, in fact, at first I called this entry (and poem) “Song of the Skunk”.)

I’m not saying what I’ve done is good or right, but that it was done with a purpose. :)

On 20 October 2004 (01:20 PM),
Drew said:

Best.Blog.Ever.

(Really. I love the poem, even with the unusual rhyme scheme.)

On 20 October 2004 (01:51 PM),
Dave said:

One is tempted to think that if the skunks leave when the humans show up, perhaps the humans might want to close up whatever hole the stiny ones use for access…?

On 20 October 2004 (01:54 PM),
Denise said:

Dave, you cannot apply reason when discussing skunk poems. Not acceptable.

On 20 October 2004 (02:45 PM),
J.D. said:

Here’s what kind of genius my brother, Tony, is:

He knows there’s a skunk under the office, he knows I’ve heard it moving around today, and what does he do? He comes in and jumps up and down on the floor.

Fucker.

I don’t think the thing sprayed or anything, but it definitely shifted. Nick and I noticed an increase in the intensity of the rank musk almost immediately.

sigh

And Dave: have you seen how much of the skirt is gone around the trailer house? It’d be a monumental task to close all the openings. Plus, if we did that, where would I get my weblog entries?

On 20 October 2004 (08:28 PM),
Mom (Sue) said:

While I was working at the shop tonight, I specifically watched and listened and sniffed for any sign of skunks. There were a couple of times when a knock sounded and that most likely came from under the trailer because there were no other people around. However, there was no smell and I didn’t see any skunks at any time while I was there. Apparently they are kicking up their heels and spraying during the night or as your poem says, when they hear the human feet clomping overhead in the morning and decide they want to try to get rid of you. :-)

On 21 October 2004 (07:01 AM),
Anthony said:

What fun!

On 21 October 2004 (10:52 AM),
Johnny said:

Oh Skunky, Skunky, wherefor art thou Skunky,
thou makest the trailer smell so funky.

Dressed in black with a white stripe there
you’re all dressed up for a stunning affair
never mind you’ve fur, not hair.

Oh Skunky, Skunky, wherefor art thou Skunky,
the smell in the office is so thick it’s gunky.

Though your odor may give others a fit
truth be told I don’t mind it a bit
even if it does smell like I’m standing in ca-ca.

On 14 December 2004 (06:08 AM),
Jeff said:

You ain’t smelled nothin’ yet, JD. Just wait ’til you get to work today…

On 14 December 2004 (06:10 AM),
J.D. Roth said:

Something tells me I ought to call in sick.

Broken Glass

A couple of weeks ago young Emma smashed a pane of glass in the door to our back porch. I felt miserably qualified to make the repair, so I put it off as long as I could. (Which was until Kris couldn’t take it any more and we had a big fight about it. Aren’t I bad?)

On Sunday, I gathered my tools and set to work.

My first goal was to strip the paint from the wood around the broken glass so that I could determine how to remove the various bits of moulding. I believe the can of paint stripper was specifically designed for maximum spillage. As I stood at the kitchen counter, attempting to pour from the can into an old mug, none of the liquid found its way into the designated container. It all dripped onto the countertop. The painted countertop.

“Shit,” I said. I grabbed some paper towels and wiped up the mess. Fortunately, I acted quickly enough that no paint was stripped; there’s just a slight discoloration, one that’s not too apparent because these counters are old.

I read the side of the can: Do not swallow. Do not allow to come in contact with eyes. This substance is poisonous. There is no way to counteract the poison, etc. etc.

“Shit,” I said. I slathered the countertop with soap and water and crossed my fingers. (If you hear we’ve died from poisoning, you’ll know why.)

I decided the kitchen wasn’t the best place to be pouring paint stripper, so I headed to the utility room steps. (I might have gone to the shop but it was raining and I didn’t have shoes on and, well, I don’t really have a good excuse for not going to the shop, I guess.) This time I poured more freely. And still none — or very little — of the paint stripper made it into the designated container. It splashed all over my hand, splashed onto the steps.

“Shit,” I said. I held up the can again, re-read the warnings. This time I noticed: Do not allow to come in contact with skin. If contact occurs seek medical attention immediately.

“Shit,” I said. You all know how paranoid I am about my health. I started panicking, of course, sure I was going to die soon. (Kris once told me the heartbreaking true story of a woman working in a lab who had inadvertently come into contact with some substance (a heavy metal?) despite extraordinary precautions. The moment she came into contact with this substance, she knew she was doomed. She had only days (hours?) to live. After spilling the paint stripper on my hand, I felt I was this woman.) I scrambled around, washing my hands repeatedly, mopping up the spill, cursing.

When Kris returned from grocery shopping, I told her about my predicament, and asked her if I should be worried, if I should seek medical attention immediately. She glared at me (we were still angry at each other — this was the middle of our fight). “No,” she said. “You’ll be fine.” But the way she said it didn’t inspire comfort. In fact, I got the distinct impression that she might be lying to me. Never make a chemist mad!

Still, I returned to the task at hand. Eventually I found an angle that spilled less paint stripper than before (though it still spilled prodigious quantities). I filled my container and went to work.

I had set a piece of corrugated cardboard on the floor at my work area, and had gathered together a hammer, a chisel, and a flat paint spreader thingie. I brushed on a layer of the paint stripper. Then, slowly, carefully, I hammered out the broken glass. I was able to pull many of the pieces out by hand. (Most of the glass ended up on the back porch, to be shop-vacced later, but some of it fell inward — thus the corrugated pad.)

After removing the glass, I scraped away most of the paint on the moulding below the window. Unfortunately, I couldn’t see any obvious place where the moulding connected to the frame. I began to fear it was all of a piece.

“Shit,” I said, not knowing what to do next. Eventually, I decided simply to dash ahead, trusting to blind faith that this really was a piece of quarter-round nailed to the frame. And so I chiseled and pried, but s-l-o-w-l-y. Eventually, a piece of wood began to loosen, or so it seemed. I pried more and the wood popped free! I pried with increased vigor and then the piece shredded in two before my very eyes.

“Shit,” I said, as the pieces fell to the ground. I picked them up to examine them. Even after prying them loose, I couldn’t find any sign of a seam. It was as if the entire frame, even the decorative parts, was a single piece, and I had just hacked off an edge.

I’m getting better at home improvement, but still I find myself intimidated by tasks I’ve never before attempted. When I fixed the faucet in the bathroom upstairs, I initially felt a great deal of trepidation. Eventually I figured out what I was doing, yes, and I did a fine job making the repair, but I started warily, unsure of myself. Here I had not yet reached the feeling that I knew what I was doing.

“Shit,” I said. I slumped to the floor, frustrated.

Kris came in, still angry.

“Why don’t you just call Jeremy?” she asked. When Emma broke the window, Jeremy had immediately offered to help me fix it. I wanted to try it myself, though, and so had declined his aid.

“Shit,” I said, but I went to the phone and called Jeremy.

Tonight, Jeremy and I will tackle the window. This kind of project requires sustenance, of course, so I’ve pulled some steaks out of the freezer (thanks, Ron!), and have set aside a bottle of wine. If we get very frustrated, the whiskey’s not far away — just on the shelf there by the back porch — and the tobacco supply is also at hand.

Kris is worried that we’ll be too busy debauching to get any work done.

As for our marital squabble: eventually we talked things out, as we always do. Neither of us is completely satisfied, which to me indicates we’ve reached a proper compromise (the definition of compromise requiring that neither party feel he or she has “won”). In the evening, we watched West Side Story together while I ironed clothes and Kris looked for Christmas cookie recipes.

Comments

On 19 October 2004 (09:47 AM),
Johnny said:

If it’s any consolation, the warnings on the paint stripper are designed for people who intend on a) drinking the stuff on the theory that raw alcohol smells like paint thinner and it’s cool stuff so why not drink this too, or b)bathing in the stuff and leaving it on their skin for an extended period of time. Any time I’ve stripped paint using that goopy paint remover I’ve gotten it on my skin in select places, wiped it off, washed it off and received nothing but a slight burn for my carelessness. Apparently my overall health hasn’t suffered any at ARRRRGHHHH

On 19 October 2004 (10:05 AM),
Dana said:

I decided the kitchen wasn’t the best place to be pouring paint stripper, …

Allow me, at this juncture, to offer an interjection: DUH!

When I was at LLNL there was an incident involving broken glassware and a glove-box. The upshot — someone stabbed themselves through the glove with a broken pipette contaminated with Uranium or Plutonium (I don’t recall which — probably Uranium).

Yeah. Not a nice way to go.

On 19 October 2004 (12:29 PM),
Anthony said:

Some people. As if you really expect whiskey to improve your problem-solving abilities.

Those steaks, now� if I was closer, you could definitely count on my help with that glass.

On 19 October 2004 (01:19 PM),
pam said:

true story my ass – nobody is poisoned from spilling things on their hands. now you can corrode off all your skin and then die from the infection that ensues, but that’s another matter entirely.

On 19 October 2004 (02:02 PM),
Kris said:

Hey, Pam– I don’t think Jd’s in danger, but it can happen. Please read below.

The News York Times
HANOVER, N.H., June 10, 1997 – A Dartmouth College chemistry professor has died from exposure to a rare form of mercury, first synthesized more than 130 years ago.

Karen E. Wetterhahn, 48, who also had served as an associate dean and a dean at the college, died on Sunday, about 10 months after accidentally spilling a few drops of dimethylmercury on her disposable latex gloves while performing a laboratory experiment. The substance, which has no practical application, is used in research on heavy metals.

Prof. John S. Winn, chairmen of the college’s chemistry department, said Professor Wetterhahn was a leader in the study of how heavy metals can initiate cancer at the molecular level. Dimethylmercury is so rare that it is only in use in perhaps 100 laboratories worldwide at any given time, he said.

Through a search of medical literature, the college determined that exposure to the substance killed two laboratory assistants in 1865, shortly after it was first synthesized, and a 28-year-old chemist in 1971.

“Karen Wetterhahn’s death is a tragedy for her family and for the Dartmouth community,” said Dartmouth’s president, James O. Freedman

After years of study chromium metal toxicity, Professor Wetterhahn had turned to the study of mercury in a sabbatical at Harvard University in September 1995, Professor Winn said. In the experiment at Dartmouth last August, she had used dimethylmercury to set up a standard against which to measure other mercury involved in her research.

The drops apparently spilled onto her gloves, passed quickly through the latex and were absorbed through her skin. After her illness was diagnosed in late January, the college had the latex gloves independently tested, and it was determined that the mercury could pass through in 15 seconds or much less.

Other types of gloves offer more protection, but she probably used latex to increase dexterity during the delicate procedure, he said.

In a letter to Chemical and Engineering News about the accident, Professor Winn and the other college officials recommended that heavier gloves be used during experiments, and that “medical surveillance measuring mercury concentrations in whole blood or urine” should be considered during extended use of these compounds.

Professor Wetterhahn’s symptoms, which initially included difficulty with balance, speach, vision and hearing, progressed rapidly and she was in a coma from late February until her death. Although treatments were administered to eliminate the mercury in her system, they began too late to prevent irreversible damage to the nervous syster, Professor Winn said.

On 19 October 2004 (02:05 PM),
Anthony said:

nobody is poisoned from spilling things on their hands.

That is a very broad statement. I might make so bold as to say that JD is highly unlikely to be seriously poisoned by pouring paint stripper on his hands, but skin is porous� well guarded but porous. I think it is fairly common knowledge that your skin can absorb many kinds of harmless chemicals, and poisons are no different.

I’m not saying you’re in any danger, JD. Just be sure your living will is up to date. ;)

On 19 October 2004 (02:37 PM),
Joel said:

Johnny said: “Apparently my overall health hasn’t suffered any at ARRRRGHHHH”
Apparently Johnny dictates his comments?

On 20 October 2004 (07:36 AM),
Dave said:

Isn’t there a St. Aaaaarrrrrrggghhh’s in Cornwall?

On 20 October 2004 (08:10 AM),
Dana said:

I think you mean St. Iiiiives.

On 20 October 2004 (08:11 AM),
Dana said:

I think you mean St. Iiiiives.

On 20 October 2004 (08:12 AM),
J.D. said:

Shhh. Be quiet. I’m composing a poem about the skunk under the trailer house. You’re distracting me.

On 20 October 2004 (08:35 AM),
Dana said:

My cousin was bit by a skunk.

(sorry about the double post earlier)

On 20 October 2004 (08:39 AM),
kool-azz rider said:

A poem? Sweet dude! Im teh best when it comes to riting poetry. Let me know if’n you want my help there, G. I can lay down some mad rimes about skunks.

On 20 October 2004 (10:08 AM),
pam said:

ok – i concede to kris. i searched the med lit and could find seven cases of death from contact exposure – all of them involved some form of mercury and a few may have had inhalational exposure as well. so what i should say is that no one is fatally poisoned from spilling non-mercury compounds on their hands!

interestingly enough, there are a lot more cases of husbands being poisoned by there wives (i’ve even seen a case – arsenic, caught before fatal) and in many cases the wife works in the field of science or medicine…so how bad was that fight??

On 20 October 2004 (11:39 AM),
Kris said:

I think that just goes to show you that both Mac & Jd should be on their best behavior!

On 21 October 2004 (10:26 AM),
Pam said:

Joel may have to start watching his behavior as well.

And I don’t think Mac noticed anything odd about dinner last night, did you, honey? ;)

The Blood of a Squirrel

Greetings it is I Simon. Mom and Dad are gone to Andrew and Courtney’s to celebrate the impending birth of their new kitten. If you ask me, Mom and Dad’s friends have too many kittens; I would be happy to suggest a surgical procedure to prevent so many damn kittens.

It is the Week End, and I like that. The Week End means Mom and Dad will be home all day and they will feed us lots because they get tired of listening to Sister Toto whine. (When they are gone they cannot hear Sister whine — only Brother Nemo and I can — so they cannot feed her. Nemo and I have plans to eliminate this problem, but so far the opportunity has not presented itself. Toto does not go near the road often enough.)

On Week Ends, Mom lets us outside early in the morning. We play outside all day and we lounge in the sun and we watch the birds and the bugs and the squirrels and the cars and the dogs and the cats and we drink from the birdbaths and we dig in the garden and we loaf on the porch and we even sometimes help Mom and Dad in the yard.

Today I helped Dad plant the Apple Tree. And after he had finished, I helped him erect the Grape Trellis. As we were working, that goddamned Flash came round. Flash is a neighborhood cat — he has no Mom and Dad, he is an orphan — and he has not had a certain surgical procedure. Worse, he is big and orange and ugly. I do not like that Flash.

While Dad dug in the dirt, Flash and I had a disagreement. We always have disagreements. We yowl and growl and whine at each other. I lower my head and he raises his. One time, Flash stood on his hind legs and swayed back and forth. He looked like an idiot. Was that supposed to be scary? All the time when we argue, we end up butting heads. We get closer and closer, yowling louder and louder, until we are standing forehead to forehead, rubbing whiskers. Dad thinks we look funny, but he does not know that this is a battle of Minds. As much as I hate him, I must admit Flash is strong. He is a worthy opponent. He often wins these battles, and I hate him for it.

Later, Aunt Rhonda stopped by to talk with Mom and Dad in the garden. They chatted under the walnut tree while I sat at the end of the walk, watching them. While they chatted, Walnut, in a brazen move, came down the tree, with a nut in his mouth, and watched. He skittered down the tree to the ground. I was keenly interested, but I made no move. I watched Walnut. I observed.

“Simon,” said Dad. “Look! Walnut’s on the ground.” But I made no reply. Does the man think that I am an idiot? Walnut darted down the sidewalk in little bursts. I stood and eased my way toward him, testing his reflexes. His reflexes were quite good, actually, and he immediately climbed the filbert and then leaped across to the branches of his home tree.

I walked over and rubbed against Mom’s legs. I gave Dad a look to tell him that he is an idiot, because he is.

I hid in the bushes. Mom and Dad continued working in the yard. Dad went into the house to help the Heater Man carry the old heater out to the garage.

Just then, I noticed that Walnut had crossed the lawn to visit his little squirrel buddy, Cedar. They were clinging to the base of the cedar tree, chattering. Nemo crept up beside me.

“Do you see the squirrels?” he asked. “I’ve been trying to catch that damned Walnut for weeks. Remember how I got stuck in his tree once? And remember how I climbed the tree in the neighbor’s yard and got stuck there? Walnut escaped me by racing across the power line back to his tree. Stupid squirrel. And remember how one night I got stuck on the roof of the garage? I was chasing Walnut and Acorn then.”

Nemo’s a good kid, but he’s a little inept. All energy and no brains. “Watch,” I told him, and I began to slink across the lawn. Walnut and Cedar were chattering to each other still, still clinging to the base of the Cedar.

Dad and the Heater Man came out of the house and they dropped the old Heater on the steps, creating a tremendous racket. It startled me. It startled the squirrels. I thought my game was up, but the squirrels looked past me, at Dad and the Heater Man. They didn’t even see me!

And then I took the risk. I charged those little rodents and I flew into the air and I grabbed Walnut with my claws and I sunk my teeth into his chest I squeezed and he flailed and he flailed and he squeaked and Cedar came lower on the tree and he scolded me and Nemo flew across the lawn to my side saying “Let me taste! Let me taste!” and Dad began to yell “Simon! Simon! Simon!” and in my mouth was the blood of a squirrel and it was delicious and then the Heater Man came roaring across the lawn yelling “Simon! Simon!” and Nemo said “I want to taste the blood of a squirrel” and enough is enough so I raced across the yard to my spot beneath the holly and while Mom and Dad and the Heater Man ran around yelling “Simon! Simon!” and Walnut flailed and squeaked — weaker now, much weaker — I sat beneath the tree with the blood of a squirrel on my tongue.

Nemo came and sat with me. His eyes blazed with envy. “I want to taste the blood of a squirrel,” he said, but I pretended I did not hear. I held Walnut tight in my jaws, and when I was sure he was dead, I dropped him and walked into the house.

Stupid Mom and Dad. Now they’re outside looking for the squirrel and why? There are more here: Cedar and Acorn and Locust and Holly and all the others. And there are more in the neighbor’s yards. And why do they care if I have a squirrel now and then? And stupid Nemo. For three months he cannot catch a squirrel, but I catch one on my very first try.

All in all a very good day. Mom and Dad have shut me upstairs now while they go celebrate the Cronk Kitten, but I do not mind. I’ve been studying this weblog thing for months (and I even read Abbie the Cat when Dad lets me), and Toto showed me how she wrote here twice — though Lord! how abysmal is her spelling and grammar — so the only real trouble has been these miserable paws. How I long for opposable thumbs!

Now if only I could catch Flash by the abdomen and squeeze. I would like to taste his blood someday.

(I dedicate this entry to Nine Miron.)

Comments

On 02 October 2004 (07:54 PM),
Ruby said:

I want to munch on an SQ too! I’m fast as lightening. I’ve been told others like me can run as fast as 35 miles per hour. Alas, I have not caught an SQ. My people are very strict about chasing SQs. They are no fun. Someday . . .Tabor SQs beware.

On 03 October 2004 (09:32 AM),
nemo said:

ha ha it is i nemo boy is simon stupid because he came out from the bushes and mom and dad caught him and shut him upstairs and they thought i was there but ha ha ha they were wrong i was in the bushes and i saw where simon hid the squirrel and when they had gone to uncle andrew’s house i knew where to find walnut and find him i did i took him out on the lawn and ha ha simon ha ha it was i who got the blood of a squirrel it was i who got the blood of a squirrel while you were locked upstairs with stupid hissy sister and it was i who chewed off his head and it was i who tore off his tail and it was i who munched his guts ha ha ha it was i it was i it was i boy you are so stupid simon i hope you feel dumb because that is how i catch a squirrel now i let you do all the work and i eat it ha ha ha

On 03 October 2004 (03:47 PM),
J.D. said:

Rosings Park is oddly silent today. There is no chatter of squirrels. It’s as if they’ve all agreed to observe a day of mourning for their most vocal member, now deceased.

As I was mowing today, I found Walnut’s remains. His head was missing, but his fur, and claws, and tail were stretched out on the lawn (where now they are dessicating). Some cat — Nemo, if he is to be believed — had feasted on Walnuts’ better parts.

Kris and I are sad. It was fun to wake up to Walnut’s squawking. We’re hoping that a new squirrel will move in and take over his roost.

On 03 October 2004 (04:36 PM),
Tiffany said:

Is this the same squirrel that threw nuts at you as you walked under the tree?

On 04 October 2004 (08:51 AM),
Tabby said:

I must admit my jealousy as I am old and suffer from arthritis. Mostly, I just watch the stupid squirrels out the window while lying on the heating pad on the bed. If I venture outside to watch them, they mock me endlessly knowing that I am unable to pursue them. Bastards.

On 04 October 2004 (09:02 AM),
Nine said:

I have been taken to a very cold place.

On 04 October 2004 (09:03 AM),
Skittle said:

What are squirrels?

On 04 October 2004 (09:03 AM),
Sampson said:

Never mind Skittle, she’s my stupid sister. She’s really cute but kind of kookie.

On 04 October 2004 (10:33 AM),
Rex said:

Dogs eat little kitties for lunch. Yum yum. Let them out in the yard. Yes, let them play. Woof woof.

On 04 October 2004 (11:33 AM),
Skittle said:

Yeah, well Sampson is just a nerdy affection hogger with an oversized head.
Who cares if he can fetch anyhow?
Can you say doot do do do doot do do?
(music to the Sampson dance)
I’m not kookie, I’m just a little ADD…
I’m going back to my nap now…

I Dreamed Once More of Berma

On the cruise, I was able to take a bite out of Within a Budding Grove, the second of Marcel Proust’s seven-volume novel, Remembrance of Things Past. Those of you who remember my obsession last year with the first volume, Swann’s Way, are by turns cheering and groaning, aware of the lengthy meditations which are sure to follow over the course of the next month as I complete this book.

You may think I jest when I profess adoration for Proust; and, in truth, I do make light of my affection simply because, to many of you, it seems so absurd. But I really do have a fondness for his work, the marvelously complex sentences, the haunting introspection, the profound observations of daily life.

Reading Proust is like running a marathon: it’s a mixture of pleasure and pain. Yes, even for ardent devotees such as myself, Proust’s lengthy sentences and pages-long paragraphs can be, at times, almost impenetrable. Frequently I must pause and reread, then re-reread, and even re-re-reread passages in order to decipher them.

However, as with running a marathon, reading Proust offers fantastic rewards, can provide a rush unavailable in reading smaller, easier works.

My favorite bit from the first hundred pages is as follows:

Young Marcel has grown older, is now a young man (he’s between fourteen and seventeen years old — I can’t tell precisely). He longs to attend the theater, in particular to see a performance by the legendary Berma. At the suggestion of the diplomat Norpois, Marcel’s father agrees, reluctantly, that Marcel may accompany his grandmother to see Berma in a perfromance of Phèdre, one of her most famous roles.

In preparation, Marcel reads Phèdre repeatedly, each time attempting to interpret the role in a different way, impart new nuances and inflections in his mind. He knows that his attempts are juvenile, cannot possibly hope to match the manner in which the incomparable Berma will read the lines on stage.

As the date of the theater trip approaches, Marcel’s excitement turns to apprehension. He begins to fear that there’s no way Berma could possibly meet his expectations. Though he longs to forego the trip, he cannot because it’s something he’s requested for many years.

The theater isn’t what Marcel expected: all the actors move together and interact on one stage instead of reading their lines from separate positions. (Strange naiveté, no? But it’s in keeping with the character.) He’s mesmerized by the supporting actors.

Then Berma takes the stage in the second act. Marcel is disappointed. This is greatness? he wonders. It seems to him that Berma is merely going through the motions. There’s no subtlety to her performance. She brings nothing to the part that his imagination had not already surpassed. Can this be the great actress of whom he has read so much?

After the performance, Marcel overanalyzes the situation (like somebody else you all know). He decides that while he enjoyed the production, it did not meet his expectations, and how could it? Then he hears others, including the ambassador Norpois (whose opinion Marcel holds in high esteem) praise Berma, and Marcel’s own opinion of her performance improves. He reads glowing reviews of the production, and now even his memory of it begins to glow a little.

I’ve related all that (a summary of the first seventy pages, really) just to set up this lengthy excerpt, a passage with which I identify. (I’ve edited this to make it more readable for my audience.):


After M. de Norpois had gone my father cast an eye over the evening paper; I dreamed once more of Berma. The pleasure which I had found in listening to her required to be made complete, all the more because it had fallen far short of what I had promised myself; and so it at once assimilated everything that was capable of giving it nourishment, those merits, for instance, which M. de Norpois had admitted that Berma possessed, and which my mind had absorbed at one draught, like a dry lawn when water is poured on it. Then my father handed me the newspaper, pointing out a paragraph which ran more or less as follows: —

“The performance of Phèdre, given this afternoon before an enthusiastic audience, which included the foremost representatives of society and the arts, as well as the principal critics, was for Mme. Berma, who played the heroine, the occasion of a triumph as brilliant as any that she has known in the course of her phenomenal career. We shall discuss more fully in a later issue this performance, which is indeed and event in the history of the stage; for the present we need only add that the best qualified judges are unanimous in the pronouncement that such an interpretation sheds an entirely new light on the part of Phèdre, which is one of the finest and most studied of Racine’s creations, and that it constitutes the purest and most exalted manifestation of dramatic art which it has been the privilege of our generation to witness.”

Immediately my mind had conceived this new idea of “the purest and most exalted manifestation of dramatic art”, it, the idea, sped to join the imperfect pleasure which I had felt in the theatre, added to it a little of what was lacking, and their combination formed something so exalting that I cried out within myself: “What a great artist!”

It may doubtless be argued that I was not absolutely sincere. But let us bear in mind, rather, the numberless writers who, dissatisfied with the page which they have just written, if they read some eulogy of the genius of Chateaubriand, or evoke the spirit of some great artist whose equal they aspire to be, by humming to themselves, for instance, a phrase of Beethoven, the melancholy of which they compare with what they have been trying to express in prose, are so filled with that idea of genius that they add it to their own productions, when they think of them once again, see them no longer in the light in which at first they appeared, and, hazarding an act of faith in the value of their work, say to themselves: “After all!” without taking into account that, into the total which determines their ultimate satisfaction, they have introduced the memory of marvelous pages of Chaeaubriand which they assimilate into their own, but of which, in cold fact, they are not the authors; let us bear in mind the numberless men who believe in the love of a mistress on evidence only of her betrayals; all those, too, who are sustained by the alternative hopes, either of an incomprehensible survival of death, when they think, inconsolable husbands, of the wives whom they have lost but have not ceased to love, or artists, of the posthumous glory which they may thus enjoy; or else the hope of complete extinction which comforts them when their thoughts turn to the misdeeds that otherwise they must expiate after death; let us bear in mind also the travelers who come home enraptured by the general beauty of a tour of which, from day to day, they have felt nothing but the tedious incidents; and let us then declare whether, in the communal life that is led by our ideas in the enclosure of our minds, there is a single one of those that make us most happy which has not first sought, a very parasite, and won from an alien but neighboring idea the greater part of the strength that it originally lacked.

Wonderful stuff, the very insightful and meditative qualities which make Proust a marathon worth running.

But it gets better.

A propos of nothing — or nearly so — Proust, in the form of his protagonist, Marcel, launches into the following meditation. (Again, edited for mass consumption.):

My mother appeared none too well pleased that my father no longer thought of “the career” for myself. I fancy that, anxious before all things that a definite rule of life should discipline the eccentricity of my nervous system, what she regretted was not so much seeing me abandon diplomacy as the prospect of my devoting myself to literature.

But “Let him alone!” my father protested; “the main thing is that a man should find pleasure in his work. He is no longer a child. He knows pretty well now what he likes, it is not at all probable that he will change, and he is quite capable of deciding for himself what will make him happy in life.”

That evening, as I waited for the time to arrive when, thanks to the freedom of choice which they allowed me, I should or should not begin to be happy in life, my father’s words caused me great uneasiness. At all times his unexpected kindnesses had, when they were manifested, prompted in me so keen a desire to kiss, above where his beard began, his glowing cheeks, that if I did not yield to that desire, it was simply because I was afraid of annoying him.

And on that day, as an author becomes alarmed when he sees the fruits of his own meditation, which do not appear to him to be of great value since he does not separate them from himself, oblige a publisher to choose a kind of paper, to employ a fount of type finer, perhaps, than they deserve, I asked myself whether my desire to write was of sufficient importance to justify my father in dispensing so much generosity. But apart from that, when he spoke of my inclinations as no longer liable to change, he awakened in me two terrible suspicions.

The first was that (at a time when, every day, I regarded myself as standing upon the threshold of a life which was still intact and would not enter upon its course until the following morning) my existence was already begun, and that, furthermore, what was yet to follow would not differ to any extent from what had already elapsed.

The second suspicion, which was nothing more, really, than a variant of the first, was that I was not situated somewhere outside the realm of Time, but was subject to its laws, just like the people in novels who, for that reason, used to plunge me in such depression when I read of their lives, down at Combray, in the fastness of my wicker sentry-box. In theory one is aware that the earth revolves, but in practice one does not perceive it, the ground upon which one treads seems not to move, and one can live undisturbed.

So it is with Time in one’s life. And to make its flight perceptible novelists are obliged, by wildly accelerating the beat of the pendulum, to transport the reader in a couple of minutes over ten, or twenty, or even thirty years. At the top of one page we have left a lover full of hope; at the foot of the next we meet him again, a bowed old man of eighty, painfully dragging himself about the courtyard of an almshouse, scarcely replying to what is said to him, oblivious of the past.

In saying of me, “He is no longer a child,” “His tastes will not change now”, and so forth, my father had suddenly made me apparent to myself in my position in Time, and caused me the same kind of depression as if I had been, not yet the enfeebled old pensioner, but one of those heroes of whom the author, in a tone of indifference which is particularly galling, says to us at the end of a book: “He very seldom comes up now from the country. He has finally decided to end his days there.”

Sublime!

How horrible are those moments in which we realize that we are not exempted from the laws of nature, from the passages of time, those moments in which we find ourselves painfully aware of our own mortality. I pass most of my life blissfully unaware of my impending doom; there are moments, though, when my human nature is brought into focus, and I am made aware of the finite time before me.

Comments

On 09 September 2004 (08:02 AM),
Dave said:

Note that at no time does Marcel get himself thrown out of this performance, unlike our current protagonist.

On 09 September 2004 (09:58 AM),
Dana said:

Um. Where’s Ant-man? Someone promised Ant-man

On 09 September 2004 (10:44 AM),
Pam said:

Let me know if you need any help achieving the pain, pleasure and rush of marathon running, too. :)

On 09 September 2004 (11:31 AM),
Johnny said:

Henry Pym, the Ant-Man, shrugged his shoulders as Proust turned to contemplate the bizarrely attired superhero, who for the occassion had dressed in his best black and red spandex and had polished his chrome plated helmet. Although rarely at a loss for words, Proust continued to ponder the deeper meaning of the not so subtle interchange between the colors, wondering if the colours were the product of some lengthy mental process that had meandered over the metaphysical landscape or rather the explosive genesis of a tortured soul seeking escape. The gigantic column of ants behind Ant-Man continued to move forward in near silence, marked only by the tiny footfalls of a million ants gathered together as a force of nature, calmly marking each segment of their existence in the metered way that was common to all ants.

Suddenly, Ant-Man lunged forward and, using the trigger on his belt, released the amazing gas which triggered his shrinking. As he travelled across the void between them, Ant-Man shrank to only an inch in height, but retained his full 5’8″ mass, enabling him to deliver an elephantine punch. Proust began to speak, and words in long, complex sentences filled the air between them. Time began to slow as Ant-Man soared across the gap.

In a roaring voice (for a one inch figure), Ant-Man said, “I am brevity, hear me roar.” But the words of Proust were proving too much for him as his arms, legs, eyes and brain felt more and more leaden, burdened by the growing mass of turgid prose that Ant-Man had to wade through to reach the essence of Proust.

Finally, overcome by the sheer volume of consonants, vowels, syllables, dependent clauses and paragraphs, Ant-Man fell, inches short of his goal. The ants, however, comprehending neither French or English and reacting solely to Ant-Man’s last mental command to defeat Proust, swarmed over Proust, carved him into little ant-sized bits and carried him off, leaving only red smears of blood where once had stood a mountain of prose.

On 09 September 2004 (01:18 PM),
Jethro said:

Three cheers for Ant-Man! Hip-Hip-Hurray! Hip-Hip-Hurray! Hip-Hip-Hurray!

Thanks for making the world a better place, Ant-Man!

Books on Tape

I’ve never been much of a listener-to-books, but I could become one.

In college, after I decided it was okay to like Stephen King, I listened to several of his books on tape. My first exposure to “Rita Hayworth and the Shawshank Redemption” was through an audio book. I’ve also listened to some of Garrison Keillor’s books on tape, though this seems more natural.; Keillor’s tales are meant to be heard.

More recently, last summer I listened to two of Patrick O’Brian’s early novels on CD. I enjoyed them immensely. Listening to a book forces me to absorb the material at a slow and measured pace. It forces me to pay attention to detail.

At present, I am reading Dracula on CD, in my car, during my drives to and from work. It’s fun! (It’s a fine thing that I’m listening during the day, too; were I to listen before bed, I might have trouble falling asleep.) Count Dracula reminds me, at least in this performance, of nobody so much as Mr. Joel Miron. So, in a way, every time I hear Dracula torment poor Jonathan Harker, I imagine that it is the evil Joel tormenting me.

Heh.

Of late, using the public library system more and more because, with the new house, I simply cannot afford further profligate expenditures on luxury items.

Unfortunately, the Clackamas County Library’s books on CD — and their graphic novels — are poorly organized. Each branch has its own method of organization. Some group all books on CD together. Others have them interspersed with the books on tape. Some branches have ten books on CD. Some have hundreds. And there’s no way to make the library’s web site, “Show me all books on CD.” (Or, “Show me all graphic novels.”) This frustrates me.

Somehow, though, I’ll find good audiobooks.

The Lake Oswego branch has all of Shakespeare’s plays on CD. And the county-wide library system has many of the Aubrey-Maturin novels.

Yes, I’ll find plenty to read. Or to hear.

Comments

On 08 September 2004 (07:39 AM),
mac said:

At present, I am reading Dracula on CD Now that’s funny!

On 08 September 2004 (07:47 AM),
Dana said:

“100111101001 11010011 00111 101011100011 0001001…”

Dang. Lost my place. I’ll have to start again…

On 08 September 2004 (07:56 AM),
Jeff said:

So, if you listen to a book on tape or CD, it is still considered reading it? Cool. I’ve read Angela’s Ashes – a few years ago when JD was reading it on tape here at work. Woo-hoo!

That’s one whole non-reference type book since college. Book group, here I come! Well, maybe not…

On 08 September 2004 (08:19 AM),
J.D. said:

So, this is a fine question, one that I’m sure has been argued many times before in other places:

Is listening to a book on tape the equivalent of reading a book?

At one time, I would have argued, “No, they are not the same.” Now I would take the opposite stance.

Having read books on tape, I know that I absorb more, comprehend more, am more aware of the richness of the work when I listen to a book than when I physically read it.

This does not mean that I’m going to stop the physical act of reading; I enjoy that too much to ever give it up. However, I am open to listening to books as a supplement to my normal reading regimen (which, at present, consists solely of comic books, anyhow).

One problem, as Mac and Dana have noted, is semantics. If I listen to a book on tape, can I really be said to have “read” it? To be reading it? I don’t know. But for now, I say yes. Unless somebody has a better verb, I’ll stick with “reading”.

Now, if only there were such a thing as “comic books on tape”… :)

On 08 September 2004 (08:30 AM),
Dana said:

Um, dude.

The verb you are looking for is LISTENING. You used it yourself in a couple sentences there.

You are listening to a reading of the book. You are not reading the book yourself. The physical act of reading is what we call reading, whereas the physical act of listening is what we call listening.

On 08 September 2004 (08:40 AM),
J.D. said:

ARGH!

I have such a tough time with this distinction because, for me, the important thing is the act of consuming the book. To me, when a book is consumed, it is read, whether that consumption occurs via the eye or the ear.

So, Dana, if you listened to an unabridged Asimov book on tape, and I asked you, “Have you read such-and-such a book?” how would you answer? Would you say, “Yes, I’ve read that book,” or would you say, “No, I’ve not read it, but I’ve listened to it.” Is this an important distinction?

On 08 September 2004 (09:09 AM),
Dana said:

Would you say, “Yes, I’ve read that book,” or would you say, “No, I’ve not read it, but I’ve listened to it.” Is this an important distinction?

I would say, “No, I’ve not read it, but I’ve listened to it.”

Do you say, “I’ve read that play,” or “I’ve seen that play?” It depends on which thing you did.

When you sit down and read a kid a book, would you say the kid has read the book? Or would you say you have read the book to the kid, and the kid has listened to the reading?

I think it is an important distinction. And so do you, really, judging by the fact that you seem to be more aware of the contents of the book when you hear it read, at least in part because of the forced pacing.

Maybe it’s just me. But I think your ‘consuming == reading’ distinction is a unique JD-ism that’s not bourne out in the populace as a whole. I could be wrong.

On 08 September 2004 (09:11 AM),
Denise said:

Hmmm…although I agree that you have consumed the book if you have listened to it…I don’t think you can actually say you have read it. You have listened to it, but you yourself have not read it.

BUT – either way – you have experienced it and I would say, if asked the question above, “Yes, I have read that book.”

Oh – this one is a toughie, no?

On 08 September 2004 (09:54 AM),
Jeff said:

Nick thinks that listening is very similar to reading because you are still able to create your own images inside your head. Whereas watching the movie is different because you are seeing the images that one person created inside their head – and are not able to create your own.

Maybe he will post to clarify this… but I doubt it.

On 08 September 2004 (10:16 AM),
Pam said:

Once I remember Mac and I having a discussion with you about the baseball term “games above .500.” Mac and I argued that the term is mathematically incorrect and should be changed. Your stance was that the term has been defined a certain way, has been used that way throughout history, and is understood by the general public to mean a certain thing, so that the term should not be changed. But now you want to change the definition of reading?? Hasn’t it been defined a certain way and been understood to mean a certain thing, too??

On 08 September 2004 (10:20 AM),
Dana said:

Pam,

JD has very particular, and somewhat idiosynchratic, ideas about what certain words mean. And he’s not that consistent, sometimes.

This has the potential to shear off into a very different conversation about meaning and relativism…You Have Been Warned! =)

On 08 September 2004 (10:37 AM),
J.D. said:

Edited because I’m not really feeling that cranky or defensive and shouldn’t have come off that way:

Dana: This has the potential to shear off into a very different conversation about meaning and relativism.

You’ll note that today is the anniversary of “Everything Here is True”, by the way. :)

I’m usually well aware of the literal definitions of the words I use, of the words’ denotations. But I’m also concerned about connotation. What does a word mean in actual usage?

In this case, however, it’s more a matter of confusion than of anything else. My brain is jumbling various actions, and is having a difficult time sorting how these actions should be labeled.

I can understand that the physical act of listening to a book on CD should be referred to as “listening to a book”, but I cannot force myself to believe that after I have listened to, for example, Dracula on CD I could not be said to have read it. I most certainly have read the book.

And what about the blind? After all, they are not reading; they’re merely feeling the page. It’s not the same thing!

The act of reading, according to the primary definition of the word, is a visual one. But once one has read, felt, or listened to a text, I do not see why one cannot be said to have read it, by a secondary definition.

I guess what I’m seeing here, or wanting here, is evolution of the language. In this case, the verb “to read” already has multiple definitions, and I believe another one (if it doesn’t already exist) should include the act of having listened to an audio book, should be something like “the act of having consumed a piece of text”.

Language is mutable. It evolves.

As is the case when Dana makes idiosynchratic use of the word “shear” when she means “sheer”…

:)

On 08 September 2004 (11:06 AM),
Dana said:

Shear vs. Sheer — typo.

I think there is a very great difference between processing a series of physical symbols (printed or embossed on a page) with either your sense of sight or your sense of touch vs. listening to someone else do that processing and then repeating the words audibly for you to hear.

Listening is passive. Reading (either words or braille) is active.

If you listen to an audio book, I would contend that, yes, you have access to the contents of the book, just as someone who has read the book will. But you have gained that access through another process.

You want to take and push the additional meaning “access to the contents of a book” into the word read, which previously has referred to the action of actually reading words.

Does language evolve? Yes. Does anybody other than you actually use the word read to indicate that they have listened to an audio book? I don’t know. I’ve never heard it used that way, but that means nothing.

When I hear a radio drama, I have not read it. I heard it. I listened to it.

I do not read the NPR news broadcasts, which the reporters are, in fact, reading off of news copy.

When I listen to Garrison Keillor’s Writers Almanac, I do not say I have read the poem he recites — I have listened to him recite the poem.

When I go to a book reading, I hear the author read passages of a book. I do not then say I have read those passages. I have heard them.

I see the connotation you are trying to extend here. I think it’s arbitrary, and not something that is general usage. As a consequence, I see no good argument for simply arbitrarily declaring that it is in fact the way the word should be used.

But that’s just my opinion.

On 08 September 2004 (11:19 AM),
J.D. said:

Dana, my dictionary has forty-six definitions for the word “read”.

The first is “to look at carefully so as to understand the meaning of (something written, printed, etc.).

The fourth is “to apprehend the meaning (of signs, characters, etc.) otherwise than with the eyes, as by means of the fingers.” (This definition comes dangerously close to admitting “listening to a CD” as the act of reading.)

The twentieth definition is “to hear and understand (a transmitted radio message or the person transmitting it)”. As in “I read you”. By this definition, I think I’m quite justified in saying that any book to which I listen I have also “read”.

Dana: I see the connotation you are trying to extend here. I think it’s arbitrary, and not something that is general usage.

Arbitrary? You think it’s arbitrary?

sigh

It’s not arbitrary in any way. In fact, a quick trip to the dictionary shows that I don’t have to argue for connotation, I can argue for denotation.

Also, I think you’re walking a fine line when arguing that all reading is active and all listening is passive. I believe that a person can be active or passive at both, or either, or neither. And it is, in fact, the quality of being an active reader or an active listener that allows one to get more from that which one is reading…

On 08 September 2004 (11:48 AM),
Dana said:

Dana, my dictionary has forty-six definitions for the word “read”.

Good for it!

The twentieth definition is “to hear and understand (a transmitted radio message or the person transmitting it)”. As in “I read you”. By this definition, I think I’m quite justified in saying that any book to which I listen I have also “read”.

Let’s think about the ways read is actually used, shall we?

A computer can, using a variety of peripherals, read a disk, or a CD, or a paper tape, or punch cards. Or an ATM can read a magnetic stripe on a card. In each case, we are talking about a machine performing some sensory process to pick up encoded information.

When we are using a machine with a sensor display, we say we are taking readings — we are using a machine to detect something we normally can’t, or in a way that we normally can’t. We refer to this as a reading the device. We are reading the machine’s display — it’s readout. This has become generalized into a noun, so that instrumentation output is now referred to as ‘readings.’ That’s a noun, though.

When using a radio system, we are faced with a display, much as when we are using sensors. We can say “I’m reading you loud and clear,” and the implication here is that the signal is clear. You do not read the incoming sound signal — you listen to that — but the quality of the signal is described by “reading you clearly” vs. “I’m not reading you, you’re breaking up” — the transmission signal is being picked up clearly and accurately by the machine we’re using.

This usage has bled into a slang usage, “I read you,” meaning, “I understand you.” I have never heard this used except as a specific synonym for understand, and only in the scope of a verbal communication between two people. Usually radio operators.

When we read printed matter — words — we say we are reading. So we can read a sign, read a book, a magazine, a comic book, instructions, ingredients, a recipe, or whatever.

In this meaning, ‘read’ indicates we are using our eyes to actively process encoded symbols — words — into meaning.

When a blind person (or a non-blind person who happens to know braille) reads a braille document, they are using their sense of touch to process encoded symbols — words — into meaning.

When two people talk, they are also processing encoded symbols into meaning. We do not call this reading. When we decode audio signals with our ears, we do not refer to this as reading, we refer to it as listening or hearing.

When we listen to a CD, say a spoken word performance, or a piece of music, we say that the cd-player is reading the CD, using the first sense, above. We do not then say, “I just read Beethoven’s 9th Symphony!”

We certainly could read Beethoven’s 9th Symphony. Such a reading would involve using our eyes to process the encoded symbols — the printed notes — of the music. Or we could read a braille encoded version of the music, assuming there is a braille musical notation. When we process such encoded symbols with our ears, however, we call it listening.

When I said “active”, earlier, I see why you say I misspoke. I can concede that.

But look, when you are reading, you are processing symbols into meaning — an active process in your brain — using your eyes or touch. When you are listening — also an active process in your brain — you are processing symbols into meaning with your ears. This is different. Closing our ears is different than closing our eyes. To read a whole book, you have to actively move your eyes around, turn pages, and whatnot. When you listen to something, you sit there and your ears take in the incoming signal. A book does not control the rate of information intake. The speed of an incoming sound signal is dependent on the source of the sound, not on your processing speed.

I really think there are three discrete things we are talking about:

1. The process of reading a book.

2. The process of listening to a recitation of a book.

3. The awareness and knowledge of the contents of a book.

I take ‘read a book’ to mean 1. And it can imply, but does not mean 3. Likewise, ‘hearing a book’ I take to mean sense 2, and can imply, but does not mean sense 3.

You wish to describe all three things with the single word ‘read’. I certainly can’t stop you.
I don’t see that in common usage of the word ‘read’, though. Perhaps that’s just me.

On 08 September 2004 (12:40 PM),
Sparky said:

JD, are you consuming a book when you riffle through the pages to enhance your ability to smell them?

On 08 September 2004 (01:44 PM),
J.D. said:

For what it’s worth, here’s the (smallish) discussion generated when I asked Metafilter about this.

It cracks me up that when I make seemingly innocuous posts, they end up generating heated discussions. Yet, tomorrow, when I finally post my Proust entry (and I will), there’ll be dead silence, despite the fact that there’s much to think about and discuss in it. :)

For the record, I don’t care whether one says he’s “read” or “heard” or “audited” and audio book. I just don’t care which word is used. The important thing is that person has “consumed” the book.

On 08 September 2004 (02:13 PM),
Denise said:

So, here’s a hypothetical…what if your dog eats a book? Has he consumed the book?

On 08 September 2004 (02:20 PM),
Dana said:

On another topic entirely, George Lucas is insane.

Evidence:

Other minor updates made to the 1997 special editions include… a compromise to the infamous Star Wars cantina shooting, in which Han Solo (Harrison Ford) and Greedo now shoot at each other at the same time, the paper said.

Solo. Shoots. First. Without that, it’s a different movie. Grumble, grumble.

On 08 September 2004 (04:02 PM),
dowingba said:

One time, as I was trying to download tracks to a LOTR soundtrack, I accidentally downloaded a chapter from the book. I must say, it was quite interesting listening to a book, especially one I had already read hundreds of times. But I always thought it would have been better done if it was more like an old time radio show, with actors doing each character’s voice, and a single actor who just narrates. It kinda sounded silly having just one guy put on a myriad of different voices, especially when one of the female characters spoke.

On 08 September 2004 (04:40 PM),
Aimee said:

I must confess that I have never actually read a single book in the Harry Potter series; Joel has narrated all of the books for me, employing a cavalcade of voices. Am I less of a fan for not having read them myself?

Our reading aloud tradition extends far beyond this series, but was born in Joel’s youth as he read books aloud for his blind father, Doug. The first book that seven-year-old Joel read aloud to Doug was The Black Cauldron.

Listening to a storyteller was a time-honored tradition before literacy, and an important skill to keep alive in our current world. Oral storytelling depends as much upon the performance as the writing. As such, storytelling is close kin to theatre; Listening to a book on tape, attending a reader’s theatre, or watching a live performance is a shared experience and a significant one. To me, there is a very important distinction between reading a text with your eyes and hearing a text with your ears. Both, however, easily allow you to “consume” a tasty tale.

On 09 September 2004 (08:10 AM),
tammy said:

Don’t know how I missed this post yesterday but I’m going to add my bit today. I think reading a book or listening to it on tape is the same thing. You’ve read the book. Watching a movie of the book is not the smae thing largely for the reasons Nick said above. But to have to go into detail everytime you want to say you’ve read a book and explain that you really didn’t read it you listened to it, is simply ridiculous in my opinion. As JD, said, you consumed it regardless of how it was consumed.

My daughter is in second grade. They have to read for twenty minutes a day for part of their homework. The school makes no distinction whether those stories are read to her or she reads them herself. It all counts as her reading a book. They have specifically spelled this out in a paper that was sent home.

Seriously, I will continue to say I read a book even though I listened to it on tape.

Peeing Off the Back Porch

I grew up in the country.

One of the benefits of this, for me and my three brothers, was that we could pee anywhere we wanted. If we got the urge — no matter where we were — we’d just pull down our pants and take a whizz.

To the best of my knowledge, this is a luxury not enjoyed by city boys.

Best of all, we could pee off the back porch. Even if the bathroom were free, even if the bathroom were closer, even if there were no reason to pee off the back porch, we’d often choose to do so anyhow.

There was something particularly pleasing aboout the long, delicate arcs of urine we sent into the back lawn. Our favrorite target was the utility pole by the back door.

Sometimes we’d have pissing contests. We’d stand side-by-side and pee together: several long, delicate arcs of urine sent into the back lawn. Dad always won, of course: he had more advanced equipment.

It’s been a long time since I was able to pee off the back porch. In college, there were people who did so, but they generally got in trouble with Campus Safety. In Canby, peeing off the back porch would probably have been noticed by the neighbors.

Now, though &mdash now, I am free to pee off the back porch again!

Ah — life in the country…

Comments


On 30 August 2004 (06:51 AM),
Jeff said:

1. It’s just not as cute when you are 35.

2. I will be sure to avoid the area around your back porch next time I visit.



On 30 August 2004 (08:00 AM),
Dana said:

One of the benefits of this, for me and my three brothers, was that we could pee anywhere we wanted. If we got the urge — no matter where we were — we’d just pull down our pants and take a whizz.

You do realize that indoor plumbing is one of the halmarks of civilization, right? And people wonder why I want to be a woman…

=)



On 30 August 2004 (08:11 AM),
Kris said:

Darling, let me reiterate: You are NOT FREE to pee off our back porch. Gross! The mingling odors of pipe tobacco, cat spray, and human urine will surely rid us of any potential relationships with our neighbors.


On 31 August 2004 (10:07 AM),
Joel said:

Kris: “The mingling odors of pipe tobacco, cat spray, and human urine will surely rid us of any potential relationships with our neighbors.”

I laugh, then I pause and think, and laugh again.


On 31 August 2004 (11:23 AM),
Anonymous said:

As an undergraduate, a friend of mine and I made it a point to sneak onto the roof of every building on campus and pee off the top of the building. There’s nothing quite like the feeling of standing at the top of a 4 or 5 story building, hanging things off the side and lettin’ er rip. Look out below!

Given our occassional degree of intoxication, it’s amazing we didn’t fall off the top of the buildings. Seemed a good idea at the time.



On 31 August 2004 (11:40 AM),
Aimee said:

Do I even need to remind anyone about Joel’s impromptu compost privy? Complete with rationalization: “Nitrogen is good for the soil!”



On 01 September 2004 (02:52 PM),
Dana said:

Good lord, Aimee. Ick.

I remember having to actively convince JD to bring along more than one change of clothing for a week-long geek/camping trip a few years back. He finally relented. It didn’t stop the whole ‘Fire in the Hole’ routine every time he cut the cheese, though.

Sigh.



On 01 September 2004 (02:58 PM),
J.D. said:

I am man, hear me roar!


On 01 September 2004 (03:12 PM),
Dana said:

How about “You are Man, smell you a mile off!”?



On 21 July 2005 (01:11 PM),
skippy said:

i wish i was aloud to do that



On 21 July 2005 (01:12 PM),
skippy said:

i wish i was aloud to do that



On 30 August 2005 (11:16 AM),
Kyle said:

Ah yes, outdoor pissing. One of the great joys of life. I truly love letting it loost outside. I try to pee everywhere. I love being a man…

Photo Gallery: Remodeling

[Dave pries wallboard in the parlor]Today, by popular request, I am sharing photos of our renovations, and relating anecdotes from along the way. Warning: this page may take a while to load.

At least 50% of all work on the house occurred during the first few days after we took possession. Our friends pitched in to pull up carpeting, peel wallpaper, and then remove wallboards and molding. You’d think that we would have taken all sorts of photos during these few days. You’d think wrong. We were too busy to remember to document the project until the flurry of activity had faded. This picture of Dave is the only photo we have from those days.

When Jeremy and Jennifer came over to help the day after we moved, we realized we had a digital camera and Kris snapped a couple of shots.

In the following photo, Jeremy and I are peeling wallboard in the parlor.

The wallboard in the dining room and the den comprised quarter-inch sheetrock of ancient vintage. (Most sheetrock is half-inch thick.) In the parlor, however, the wallboards were some strange laminated paperboard material that was reluctant to peel off in sheets. It mainly wanted to break off into tiny pieces (which you can sort of tell from the pile around Jeremy’s feet).

You can also see a couple of corrugated boxes near us. During this project, we filled about a dozen boxes full of wallboard scrap and set them at the curb. When the Oak Grove trash collectors rejected them, I took the boxes to our Canby house. The Canby trash collectors took them. (And charged us a pretty penny, I’m sure.)

[Jeremy and J.D. remove wallboard]

While the adults worked, the kids played. Actually, Harrison was moderately helpful, except when he was dropping the Superbar XL on the floors, or making like he was going to smash the windows with it. Emma occupied herself by lining up all of the empty cans and bottles. Into each one, she placed a single flower. When she had finished, Kris took a picture of her handiwork:

[Emma helped by picking flowers]

On Karen’s suggestion, we kept samples of the various layers of wallpaper. We’ll mount them and have them framed. I love the old wallpaper patterns, though the women universally found them hideous. (I’m not sure about the men; they never really commented.) In particular, I thought the bottom-most layer of wallpaper was gorgeous:

[The bottom layer of wallpaper -- beautiful stuff]

You can’t tell from the above sample, but there are metallic bits in that pattern. It was directly above the ship-lap siding, so we surmise that this was the original wallcovering, probably from right around 1900. Depending on the room, there were between three and five additional layers of wallpaper above the original stuff.

When we peeled up the carpeting (which had been freshly installed in order to sell the house), we found lovely oak floors which had lain unfinished for about eighty years:

[The unfinished floors in the parlor]

We brought in several contractors to make bids on refinishing the floors. Each one said something like, “These floors are gorgeous. They’ve never been refinished.” One of them pointed out a board to Kris. “See here? From this mark, you can tell that these came directly from the factory and have never been sanded.”

[The unfinished oak floors]

It’s a challenge now to keep the floors safe. As everyone said, we should have done the floors last, after we’d done everything else. Instead, we did them first. Now we have to protect them every time we do any work.

The drywall contractor begins work today (seventy-four minutes ago, actually). He came over yesterday to tour the work area with us. He seems to know a lot about old houses.

I pointed out the door to the closet under the stairs. “I don’t want to paint this,” I told Kris. “I love the way the paint is crackled and glazed. We can paint it when the paint starts to peel.”

The contractor looked at the door and muttered something to himself. Then he looked at the paint around a nearby window. He kneeled and ran his finger along the baseboard. He held it up so that we could see: it was black, covered with soot.

“There was a fire in here,” he said. “That’s why the pain on the door is crackled and glazed. That’s why there’s soot along the baseboards. And look at that window — see how it doesn’t have the same trim as these other two? They may have had to replace it.”

While this would make for an interesting story — and we’ll certainly research the possibility of a fire in the den — we’re not convinced that any trauma ever occurred there. That room used to be the kitchen. It seems more likely to us that the heat damage and the soot were caused by the presence of a wood-burning stove.

I’ve decided to document the daily progress in the three rooms that are being drywalled. To that end, here are photos of the rooms at the outset. (For some reason, I can’t find my photo of the dining room.)

[Day one of the drywall project -- the den]

Above is a photo of the den. Below is a photo of the parlor (facing east). You can see where we finally gave up on removing the wallboards ourselves. I took this photo last night after I finished pulling off the molding, which you can see strewn across the floor. Just after I took this photo, I began to label each piece of molding so that we’d know where to put it when the work was done. I lost my balance at one point, and stepped backward. Directly on top of a nail! Ouch! Kris played nurse for me. We checked the nail, and saw no signs of rust, so I’m not going for a tetanus shot. Yet.

[Day one of the drywall project -- the parlor]

The photo below is of the parlor facing southwest. You can see where we gave up around the circular window. The circular window is vaguely problematic. The current wallboards extend beneath it, but because the thing was custom-built by the previous owner, we’re afraid to remove the framing material. The contractor assures us that he can work around the circular window, so we have our fingers crossed.

[Day one of the drywall project -- another view of the parlor]

In both photos of the parlor, you can see wiring sticking up from the floor outlets. Sometime this week, I’ll try to find the time to complete this project. Jeremy helped me by wiring the den, but the parlor is unfinished. I’m going to try it on my own, but if I run into trouble, I’m going to call upon our neighbor, Mike, who used to be an electrician.

Below, you can see the holes in the wainscot. (Not “wainscoting”, according to Craig.) You can also see that if the contractors had gone up only a couple of inches, they would have avoided the wainscot. (This isn’t true around the windows, of course.)

[The holes in the wainscot]

I find it curious that the dining room has so many electrical outlets. The rooms upstairs that are wired like this have maybe two outlets for the entire room. Yesterday afternoon, we stocked up on power strips.

And here you can see the hole in the ceiling:

[The hole in the ceiling caused by the insulation contractors]

It’s really not that large — maybe eighteen inches by thirty-six inches — but still, it’s going to cost a couple of hundred dollars to repair. It’s just Another Thing, you know? We considered making the hole into an access panel to the attic (since there are none), but there’s only about eighteen inches of clearance above it, which may explain why the contractor was crawling on the sheetrock instead of the joists.

Finally, on a more pleasant note, I’ve got a couple of flower photos to share.

When we bought the house, MJ (the woman who lived here) told us there were 134 roses. That number may be a little high — Kris thinks there’s around 120, though she hasn’t done an official count — but it’s true that this house is surrounded by roses. In fact, it’s easy to forget that there are other flowers here.

And it’s the other flowers I find more beautiful.

In particular, we have several hydrangeas around the property. Two of them are spectacular. There’s a deep blue hydrangea by the workshop, and a gorgeous purple one just outside the utility room door.

[One of our blue hydrangeas]  [Our purple hydrangea]

Kris and I have both commented that doing chores around the new house is not like doing chores at all. It’s a pleasure to take the garbage out, to walk through the locusts and the dogwoods, past the hydrangeas and roses. It’s a delight to water the lawn, pulling the hose past the boxwood hedge, around the corner past the camelia. Kris says that she doesn’t even mind doing laundry any more.

Comments

On 12 July 2004 (10:24 AM),
Dana said:

It’s a beautiful house, and the bits of the views I can make out through the windows look fantastic.

I particularly love the round window.

(re: Electrical outlets. During a retrofit it’s generally a LOT easier to drop wiring down from the ground floor than to fish it up through walls to the second floor.)

On 12 July 2004 (10:33 AM),
Dave said:

I’m hoping that your contractor is paying for the fix to your ceiling since it was their problem (the guy should’ve known better that to have been crawling around on drywall in the first place).

On 12 July 2004 (10:37 AM),
J.D. said:

I’m hoping that your contractor is paying for the fix to your ceiling.

Yes, the contractor is paying for the repairs. And he’s promised that they’ll make it so that the wainscot will be fine after a coat of paint.

Basically, he’s been perfect in responding to our concerns. He’s a good guy, with a stellar reputation. (Our drywall contractor was raving about him yesterday.)

We’re not too worried. Yet, at the same time, we can’t help but be a little concerned because of the bungling so far.

On 12 July 2004 (10:48 AM),
Jethro said:

wainscot?

Hey, I know him. He’s the guy who owns half of Canby.

On 12 July 2004 (11:03 AM),
Amy Jo said:

The house looks beautiful. When can we come visit?

On 12 July 2004 (11:03 AM),
Joel said:

Jeremy’s a man of many sterling qualities. Among them are his shapely calves.

On 12 July 2004 (11:04 AM),
Joel said:

Jeremy’s a man of many sterling qualities. Among them are his shapely calves.

On 12 July 2004 (11:09 AM),
J.D. said:

Joel likes Jeremy’s calves so much, he mentioned them twice. I’ll be sure to post more photos of the Grinch’s legs…

On 12 July 2004 (01:06 PM),
Mom (Sue) said:

I wish I could transfer to you the benefits of the tetanus shot I got a couple of months ago. It hasn’t been doing me any good so far. :-) Maybe it would be a good idea for you to get one, although hopefully that would be a needless precaution. (Why doesn’t Genevieve Gorder ever step on any nails when she goes barefoot through whole episodes of Trading Spaces?)

I have been very tempted to stop over but I don’t want to get in the way of the construction so I have been reining in my curiosity. Your pics here are very much appreciated as they give me a good idea of what all is going on. And I’m glad that the contractor will be responsible for the costs of the repairs that his employees necessitated. I’m really looking forward to seeing the finished work!

On 12 July 2004 (02:15 PM),
Coleen said:

Okay … here’s the deal on tetanus shots. You need a booster every ten years. The old “rusty nail” deal is a myth. It matters not whether something is rusty or not (the rust only indicates that the object has been sitting around for a while). A puncture wound of any type (even from a rose thorn) is cause to remember when you got your last tetanus. Clostridium tetani is the bacteria whose toxin can kill you (there is not cure), and its spores can be anywhere, particularly in dirt. So everyone needs to make sure they have their tetanus shots every ten years (good idea to carry that information in your wallet because if you’re ever in an accident you will be asked when you had your last tetanus). So, j.d., call your doctor, and if it’s been greater than 10 years, go get your shot!

On 12 July 2004 (02:52 PM),
J.D. said:

I’m on hold with the doctor right now. Here’s the encouraging word: “A teanus shot is something that needs to be in your system before and injury. It doesn’t do any good to get a shot after you’ve stepped on a nail.”

Great.

And while I wait on hold, here are tetanus symptoms:

The incubation period from the time of the wound to the time of the symptoms is anywhere from a day to several months, with an average of about eight to nine days. Initially, individuals are very tired, irritable, have headaches, neck stiffness, and difficulty swallowing. Then comes the muscle rigidity and spasm, which you will have sustained contractions of muscles, specifically facial and jaw muscles, hence the term “lock jaw”. The overall mortality rate is around 30%. In individuals over 60 years of age, it jumps to 50%.

In some cases, symptoms will develop in the absence of any cut or wound that you can recall. In addition, you may notice restlessness, lack of appetite, and drooling.

Call Your Doctor If:

You are bitten by an animal or wounded by an object that might be contaminated with dirt, feces, or dust, and you have not been immunized against tetanus or received a booster within the last 10 years. Tetanus infection can be fatal and should be treated as soon as possible.

So, I’m going to get a tetanus shot today at 3:30, though it won’t do any good for my current wound. The woman I spoke with told me that I should just keep the injured area clean and watch for infection. If infection occurs, I’m to call the doctor immediately.

Odds are very slim, indeed, that there’s anything to worry about, but Coleen has put the fear of God into me. Well, the fear of biology, anyhow.

On 12 July 2004 (03:56 PM),
Lynn said:

So, Denise, are you reading these symptoms? Have you been drooling?

On 12 July 2004 (05:14 PM),
Lisa said:

Your floors, BTW, look gorgeous in the pictures (even better than Jeremy’s shapely calves). I can’t wait to see them in all their glowing glory.

On 12 July 2004 (09:24 PM),
Denise said:

Ha, Lynn! No drooling, and I’m still eating a lot. But that is pretty scary. If fevers were in there I’d be at the doctor tomorrow.

On 23 September 2004 (11:50 AM),
cindy said:

Let’s see…. the symptoms are tired, irritable,headaches, neck pain……sounds like what you feel like after a day of home remodelling. Yours looks in better shape than mine started 7/31/04. Keep up the good work. Speaking of which I’d better get back to…….