Octopodial Chrome

I was watching the telly tonight at Fado, an Irish pub (so-called) here in denver, when an advertisement for a Lexus sales event came on. What the bloody hell is a sales event, and how is it different from a sale? I imagine that the answer is that it’s simply a stupid way of referring to a sale. Idiot moron marketers.

I’d a depressing realisation yesterday: despite the fact that my brother Thomas & I get along quite well, we’re not likely to see one another all that many times in the future—very probably, less than two dozen. That’s the problem with dispersed family (and, of course, friends): those not in the same geographic area must make a specific effort to see one another, an effort which becomes ever more tedious as the years increase.

Two dozen seems an awfully small number, but it makes sense. I hope to visit him for his winging ceremony (when he gets his pilot’s wings), and of course I’ll be there at his wedding. But after that, he’ll be stationed all over the world—nowhere near Colorado—and his own family & holidays. First it’ll be a two-year gap between, then four, then more. Pretty soon we’ll be strangers.

It’s not unique to Thomas & myself, of course: the same applies to each of us brothers. John is still in Colorado, but it’s not at all certain that he’ll that he would stay. Even should he, when one lives in another end of a Western state the opportunities to cross paths are few and far between. Stephen is still at home, but who knows where his future path will take him? One would imagine that with four brothers the odds would be good that two would end up in the same place, but that’s not the case at all. Interestingly, we Uhl brothers have a far smaller chance of knowing one another in the future than do those I know with but a single sibling.

It’s not even limited to family. The same holds for me & my college friends: they’re all in Texas, and I’m here. As the years pass, I have become less and less likely to go down there, and they have become less and less likely to come up here. I see no reason for that trend to reverse.

The technology for keeping us together has not kept up with the technology for separating us. No longer can one rely on meeting with all one’s circle in the nearest local pub—or even in any pub anywhere, ever. Someone needs to perfect virtual reality Right Now, so that we can meet with all our friends and acquaintances as though in real life.

My brother Thomas’s fiancée, Miss (also Ensign) Emily Burgess, was baptised today. A most enjoyable service; one almost wishes that we were all baptised as adults. It’s so very cool: do you renounce Satan, all his angels, all his works, all his services and all his pride?; I do renounce him. thrice. Of course, Baptism is an excellent thing which should not be with-held from infants. But still…

Anyway, we’d all a good time. My good friend Dean’s wife Chrisanne Gartelos was her godmother, and so her folks & his mom were there, as was Fr. Gabriel from Cheyenne, Wy., and of course all four of us boys were there, and Mom. Dad, naturally, served (benefits of being a PK: we get first-class service, and first-class services). Emily is a great girl, and it’s wonderful that she’s now a baptised Christian.

Happy Thanksgiving to everyone out there. It seems to me that on balance I’ve more to be thankful about than otherwise: I live in the best country in the world (it has a lot of problems, but it’s still the best); I’ve a good job; I’m comfortably in the lower middle class; I have three fine brothers; and I’m in good health. Despite how fun it can be to be pessimistic and negative about things, I figure that most of us are probably as lucky—compared to 99% of the world’s past and present population, we’re very fortunate.

Two nights ago I saw Elf with some friends. A nice, pleasant film. Not intellectually challenging, sure, and a bit by-the-numbers—but sometimes that’s alright. A good way to spend a few hours, methinks. Not every film should make one think.

And Zooey Deschanel is hot. Good voice, too.

Years ago in school there was a wonderful site which by the name of mixdrinks.com; it was one bartender’s collection of recipes. It gave me & my buddy Phil more than one idea, let me tell you. Nearly a year ago I tried to visit it again, and much to my chagrin it had disappeared: the name was now owned by some domain squatters. It was a terrible blow.

But that’s all changed now. Steven Foster now has a new site: brightredlipstick—drinks to infinity & beyond. Life is good again. Hopefully a whole new generation of college students will be able to pull victory from the jaws of party-going defeat.

At Fred on Everything I saw this quote:

Consider urinals and the Army. They were never a problem because men regard the entire earth as a urinal in waiting. The side of the road, the middle of the road, a tree, the ocean—they don’t discriminate. The way feminists see oppression everywhere, men see urinals. It’s a design feature.

How true. I often feel sorry for women: they’ll never know the joy of having a beard or of making one’s mark on a tree, fence or snow. On the other hand, I think I prefer them just the way they are, thankyouverymuch…

An amusing site, Fred on Everything; extraordinarily politically incorrect. Passed on my an aunt of mine, who thought I’d enjoy it—and I have.

The town of Geuda Springs, Kansas, passed an ordinance requiring citizens to own guns and ammunition. There are exceptions for the impoverished, the handicapped and those who object to weapons.

There’s part of me that like the idea. We should all take responsibility for the safety of ourselves, our families and our guests. Certainly, those who are not willing to be responsible should be allowed not to be, and thus it is necessary for a process to exist whereby individuals who so wish may declare that they’ve no wish for the responsibility adulthood requires, and thereby be freed of its obligations and privileges. One might no longer be required to own weapons, to be subject to the draft or certain taxes—but then surely it would be fair that one could no longer vote or own more than a small amount of property.

On the other hand, the whole business smacks of statism. If some folks are not willing to take responsibility for their own welfare, well then they should be allowed to, without penalty. If some wish to be foolish, then they should be allowed to. And thus I really cannot seriously support an enforced-arms provision, despite how amusing I find the entire thing.

Eugene (Russian: Evgeny or Yevgeny; Greek: Evgenios) Rodionov was a young (but 19 years old) Russian soldier captured by Chechens seven years ago. Held prisoner for 100 days, his captors spotted his cross and demanded that he remove it and renounce the faith. He naturally refused, and was martyred (New York Times article; requires free registration); three other soldiers were killed along with him. It seems to me that, assuming the veracity of the tale, the man must be a saint; martyrdom automatically includes one in that class, or so I’ve been taught.

The very last line of the New York Times article above notes that although glad to do his duty, the boy wanted to be a cook. Pondering that lead me to consider what a waste a war is. Even when in the noblest of causes; even for the best of reasons; even with a minimum of casualties war is a waste of resources: of time; of money; and of that most precious resource of all—human life. Every single man who dies was born of a mother who’d carried him for nine months; every single one had a father; many had siblings; many were loved; many were respected; all had grown up, had experienced a little or a lot of life—and the life of each one was snuffed out far too soon.

War’s not necessarily senseless: sometimes it can be very sensible indeed. Defeating a Hitler or a Hussein, a Lincoln or a Cromwell: these are worth killing and dying for. But war is never a good thing; it’s never to be hoped for or celebrated. The cult of war is the cult of death.

Thy martyr Eugene, O Lord, in his sufferings has received an incorruptible crown from thee, our God, for having thy strength he has brought down his torturers, has defeated the powerless insolence of demons. Through his prayers save our souls.

A Westerner might wonder how it can be sung that Eugene brought down his torturers and defeated the powerless insolence of demons. But I believe that it’s rather obvious: seeking to dispatch him, his slayers instead sent him to Heaven, to receive a martyr’s crown; seeking to demoralise the Russian people, they instead strengthened Russia’s resolve.

Well, I got back tonight from a beer tour of Madison, Wisc. I’d a great time drinking all sorts of wonderful beers and visiting and old friend and her friends. More on the whole thing later; for now I must sleep.

The Supreme Court of the state of Massachusetts has apparently decided that, somehow, that state’s constitution demands that homosexuals be allowed to civilly marry. I’m not certain what reasoning lead to this conclusion, but it seems sure that excessive use of self-delusion was involved.

Predictably, conservative news outlets are in a tizzy. Many are calling for a Federal Marriage Amendment. My thought is that to do so would be laughably silly. The better idea is to eliminate civil marriage entirely. Marriage is a religious state, not a legal one. True, there are various privileges which spouses get; I see no reason that those privileges could not be extended to anyone who wishes to claim them.

Get the State out of the Church—get rid of civil marriage.

John Derbyshire points out that hatred of England drove English greatness. An interesting thought. Also, the article notes that in some ways Communist China is freer than the modern US.

Despite coërced confessions and poor & ridiculous evidence, the state of Massachusetts has held an innocent man for 14 years. Unlike the Mumia Abu Jamal case—that malefactor is demonstrably guilty—this is a clear-cut case. Or would be, were the Massachusetts judicial system not rotten to the core. The state supreme court at one point apparently stated that finality is more important than justice.

Of course, what else can one expect from Yankees?

Yes, Python fans, we have an answer. Let there be much rejoicing!

I went to a lecture this evening by the owner of White Labs, the premier producer of yeast cultures. He mentioned something quite interesting: the shape of the fermenter has an effect on the finished product. Beer is truly the most complex of beverages: first there is the malt, which is influenced by sun, rain and soil (normally several types of malt are involved); then there are the hops, also influenced thereby, and by the time at which they are added to the boil (too, several hop varieties are usually used); and there’s the yeast, which can completely change a beer (make one batch of beer, divide it by six and use six different yeast strains, and one has half-a-dozen different beers); and then there’s even the shape of the fermenter!

Wine is a stultifyingly boring beverage by comparison. I don’t know why anyone drinks it. I suppose that it’s better than water—but not by much.

I’ve just been watching some of the third seasons Babylon 5 episodes. What a series! What writing, what stories, what consistency: this is what science fiction television can and should be. Star Trek is Star Drek in comparison (well, even not in comparison: were it the only television show in existence, it would still suck; watching grass grow is more exciting, observing foreigners scratch their armpits would be more intriguing and sneezing is more intellectually stimulating than any episode of that God-forsaken series).

The first season’s production values were not particularly good, and some of the stories were a tad immature, but that can all be written off as the product of studio involvement in a new franchise. The second season got much better, and is quite enjoyable in its own right. If that second season hit the ground running, then the third starts out riding a race horse atop a race car within a bullet train—and gets better each episode. I can only begin to guess what the remaining seasons might have in store.

Go down to the local video store, or go to Netflix or some other online DVD rental, and rent everything that’s out so far, then stock the fridge and settle down for the best series television has produced so far. Well, with the exception of Black Adder, of course.

I went to two local malls this weekend and noticed two disturbing phenomena. The first is that there are a great deal off attractive girls—who happen to have children. This is highly annoying: mothers should be my mother’s age, and thus safely too old. It’s highly annoying to have one’s attention captured by a striking gal, and to then discover that it’s a baby she has.

The second, yet more disturbing, phenomenon is the hyper-sexualisation of even preteens. It’s one thing for those who have hit puberty to be sexual: even if we as a society have decided that they should not be, nature will have its way. But it’s somehow sick for a mere child to be prancing about in eye-shadow and makeup. To put it another way, it’s one thing for those who can be sexual to act sexually (even when they oughtn’t), but it’s something far more disturbing when those who cannot try. Whatever happened to childhood? There were great stretches of years in my youth which were dedicated to frogs and fish and flammables, and not to chasing girls. I’ve outgrown that now, but at the time it was entirely appropriate.

There’s something special about a cover song—in many ways, something even more special than the original. The original has become part of the Gestalt in which we live, while the cover is a kind of riff thereon which serves a two-fold purpose: first, it reveals the coverer’s own take on the well-known; and second, it discloses hitherto unknown facets of the work. I’ve an entire and not insignificant section of my audio collection devoted to covers: they are something of a pursuit of mine.

This extends even to other realms of art. Remakes, as film covers are termed, are always worth watching, no matter how poor they might be. I wish that rewrites, or covers of written works, existed. E.g. imagine what Harry Potter could be, written by an author with talent, wit and attention to consistency.

Well, I’ve just had my first patch for a piece of software accepted: I added comments functionality to audiotag, a tool for editing audio file metadata for MP3, Ogg Vorbis and FLAC files. In the past, I submitted a patch for xmms which let it recognise files ending in .mpeg3 as mp3s, but that patch was rejected. Now I’m an honest-to-goodness contributor to free software!

I’m now in the process of reworking my mp3-filing tools. Currently, mp3file is used to edit an mp3’s tags into a standard (to me) format: artist, title, comments (which are such things as 70s, or romance, or grrrl); the same tool then renames & files the songs alphabetically. There is also a tool, mp3list, which is used to search through my collection for songs matching a particular search specification. Everything’s currently written in bash, while that has been reasonable it’s beginning to reach its limits. I’m rewriting in python and hope to have a good curses-based interface.

The occasion of my brother’s 21st has led me to marshal my thoughts on drinking once more. First of all, drinking qua drinking cannot be evil: our Saviour Himself turned water into wine. Second, it has occurred to me that one cannot really trust a teetotaller.

This seems at first a terrible thing to write, but on consideration one will see that it must necessarily be true. Why might a man not drink? First, he could be philosophically or religiously opposed thereto. In that case, he is a heathen and follower of a false religion, and thus not to be trusted. Perhaps his religion allows it, but he does not like the taste of alcohol: in that case, he is a man of poor taste and hence not to be trusted. It may be that his religion allows it, and he likes it, but he does not trust himself to drink. Why should one trust a man who will not trust himself? The only valid reason not to drink alcohol is if one—allowed to drink, enjoying drink and trusting oneself to drink—takes a vow not to, as a form of mortification or spiritual discipline. That can a man respect. There are no other reasonable excuses to abstain from the product of the yeast.

I discovered tonight that the song with the refrain We had joy, we had fun/We had seasons in the sun is about a condemned man awaiting his fate. He killed his wife’s lover—his best friend. Changes my perception of the song, let me tell you.

Of course, it also gets one thinking. Should a man who kills his wife’s lover, or a woman who slays her husband’s mistress, be considered guilty of murder? I don’t believe so: it seems to me that a spouse has a right to blood in such a situation. Not, of course, a simple right to kill: the guilty party has a right to defend himself. I’ve previously written about duelling; I daresay that such a situation is absolutely perfect as an example of when duelling is acceptable and laudable. The interloper and the guilty spouse have broken the marriage contract; but the injured spouse has no recourse against his mate, as that would be an even greater violation thereof. But the third party is, I think, fair game.

Naturally, it would have to be entirely on the up-and-up. An ambush; a sniping bullet; a poison: these would be quite unfair. But a fair fight, mano a mano: that is quite reasonable, I feel. The cuckold has his chance to receive satisfaction, and the libertine has his chance to dispatch his rival and win his paramour.

Of course, it would be better were none of this to happen. But once the marital bed has been defiled by adultery, I think that a duel—not necessarily to death—is a perfectly reasonable way of settling things.

Tonight I lit a roaring fire in my grate; later on I kindled a cigar therefrom; at the moment I’m drinking a dram of Talisker. What do all these things have in common? Smoke, of course. In fact, the aroma in my rooms is really quite incredible: the smoke from wood and cigar are combining to form a kind of spicy velvetiness which transports one to the ethereal realm. The peaty smokiness of the Talisker is an added pleasure on top of it all. It is sublime.

Of course, it’s horribly poisonous: smoke causes cancer (it’s almost the entire reasons that cigarettes are so dangerous, and in addition is why grilled meat tends to lead to various nasty digestive-tract cancers). But I really don’t care: what is life for, if not to enjoy the years we have on this great Earth which God gave us, and to prepare ourselves for the next life? No philosopher can abstain from smoke: like incense, it spirals upward; like prayer, it rises to the heavens. It draws one’s mind to higher things. It is divine.

The BBC reports that kilts will no longer be considered women’s wear by the Brussels bureaucracy. I’m highly annoyed—but not shocked; what else could one expect from such morons—that this was ever an issue.

One of these days I’m going to purchase one for myself. Gals like guys with good legs, and the kilt shows them off well.

Rosemary Œlrich Bottcher writes that feminists should support Terri Schiavo, since not to gives weight to the legal assimilation of a woman by her husband. Of course, most feminists will not, given that for some thirty years or more so many of them have lead the charge to establish culture of death and destruction.

Ed Morrow comments on Andy Rooney, and by extension leftists in general. He correctly notes their habit, which is to insist he said things he didn't say, then claim he was lying. I’m no great fan of Bush—he’s presided over the greatest increase in social spending ever; he’s an authoritarian; I didn’t vote for him (or Gore)—but the man at least deserves to be dealt with honestly.

My brother John turned 21 yesterday (yup—his birthday is Armistice Day) and so I took him downtown to show him the good places. Had a fun time, although the kid is a bit of a lightweight. The older I get, the more I appreciate having brothers. I really do feel sorry for the poor saps who are only kids or only have a single sibling.

No—not women’s skirts (as pleasant a subject as that is to discuss): skirted clothing in general. I’ve long said that one looks much more dashing in clothing which flows rather than that which tucks, but only recently it occurred to me that everyone agrees, only often without realising it. Why do mean’s coats have tails? Why do kids leave their t-shirts untucked? Why did we blouse our t-shirts as kids, to find a median between the options? Why are overcoats so popular? Why does Keanu Reeves gad about in a long coat-cassock throughout the Matrix films?

It’s because flowing, skirted clothing looks better. It’s more dashing, more dramatic, more impressive and more organic.

Also, I look hot in an overcoat.

I have added a short monograph on punch to my bachelor recipes page. It has the receipt for the punch I made myself while recently ill.

I didn’t believe that they actually existed, but rather considered them to be excuses for missing work—but it turns out that there is such a thing as a twenty-four hour fever after all: I just had one. I woke up at about 0300 Friday morning parched and burning, and now seem to have more-or-less recovered.

What really amazes me is how much energy one burns when under a fever. I normally try to eat 3,600—4,800 BTUs (900–1,200 calories—which incidentally aren’t calories at all, but actually kilocalories; so much for French units’ vaunted consistency); on Friday I consumed 18,417 BTUs (about 4,600 calories), more than four times my normal and 1¼ the energy in a pound. Not just that, I weigh nearly about 1¼ less today than yesterday. Considering that I was about equally dehydrated, with about the same food in my gut, one could estimate that I went through about 30,000 BTUs; I normally burn about 5,200 a day. Thus I was running at nearly ½ horsepower. Unfortunately, my physics is not good enough to back-figure how much my temperature must have been. One BTU will heat one pound of water one degree, and that I weigh 167 lbs., and that I was burning for almost exactly 24 hours, one could guess that my temperate went up 30,000/167/24 = 7½°, but I’ve no idea if that’s the right way to go about the calculation.

To tell the truth, I kinda wish that I’d not eaten, so that I’d burned off that much fat instead. But most of the energy came from a strong punch I made to soothe my throat (the recipe for which will come in another article), and it was a life-saver. Without it I’d be a wreck, and possibly would not have healed as quickly.

Rich Lowry writes an excellent defence of toy guns, complete with quotes from Chesterton.

This article has been retracted.

The National post reports that a pillar of the Kyoto Accord is based on flawed calculations, incorrect data and an overtly biased selection of climate records. It turns out that its supposed proof of global may have been essentially, nonsense.

Just finished listening to that great old German soldiers’ love song, Lili Marlene. It’s a masterfully melancholy old lay:

At the barracks compound,
By the entry way
There a lantern I found
And if it stands today
Then we’ll see each other again
Near that old lantern we’ll remain
As once, Lili Marleen,
As once, Lili Marleen.

Both our shadows meeting,
Melding into one
Our love was not fleeting
And plain to everyone,
Then all the people shall behold
When we stand by that lantern old
As once, Lili Marleen,
As once, Lili Marleen.

Then the guard to me says:
There’s tap call, let’s go.
This could cost you three days.
Be there in half a mo’.
So that was when we said farewell,
Tho’ with you I would rather dwell,
With you, Lili Marleen,
With you, Lili Marleen.

Well she knows your foot steps,
Your own determined gait.
Ev’ry evening waiting,
Me? A mem’ry of late.
Should something e’er happen to me,
Who will under the lantern be,
With you Lili Marleen,
With you, Lili Marleen?

From my quiet existence,
And from this earthly pale,
Like a dream you free me,
With your lips so hale.
When the night mists swirl and churn,
Then to that lantern I’ll return,
As once, Lili Marleen,
As once, Lili Marleen.

It has been translated into many languages, including Latin.

Once again it has been demonstrated that drinking is healthy. This time, nipping down to the local for a pint has been shown to help maintain mental agility in the aging. This is, of course, why tee-totallers are such a sad, drifty, senile lot.

I’ve been informed by my team lead (right-hand-man of my manager) that I must use up my vacation days & personal holidays—all 16 of them. I’ve only taken two this year, you see. And I cannot take off the end of December, because I’m working hot pager over Christmas. So it looks like half of November and part of December will be mine to do with as I will.

Sadly, I’m pretty much out of ideas. My brother’s fiancee will be in town over Thanksgiving, and a friend has invited me to visit in Wisconsin, but other than that I’m at a loss. Oh well—not working trumps working any day. Maybe I’ll borrow my kid brother’s camping gear and just walk about the mountains.

In 2007 the entire world will celebrate the quadricentennial of the first English settlement in the New World, at Jamestown. A good 13 years before the Mayflower, I hasten to add. My family are descended from John Rolfe, the man who first planted tobacco in Virginia. These Yankee-come-latelies ever brag of their vaunted ancestry—hah! We were here while they were still gadding about the Netherlands.

Sometimes, Scott Adams says it best.

Last night for a friend’s birthday I went up to Central City to gamble at Harvey’s—the first time I’ve ever legally gambled (naturally, I’ve wagered off-the-record in the past). It was alright, but I think that I’m too mathematically inclined to really enjoy a losing game like that.

What I really don’t get are the video slot machines. So many of the folks in front of them are grim and unhappy—they’re certainly not enjoying themselves. It’s not even as though the games themselves are intellectually engaging: all one does is bet, then see if one has won. There’s no challenge, no excitement, no fun.

Now, the bunch I went up with all had a good time, and they approached the games with the right mindset: to have fun. After all, when one sees an opera, there’s no chance that one will get one’s ticket refunded, but when gambling one may actually come out ahead—properly understood and enjoyed for itself, gambling is the only fun activity which can reward one. I’d a great time with everyone, but it’s just not something I can see myself doing often, or much at all.

Plus, there was no roulette. I don’t know how one can call oneself a casino without roulette.