Octopodial Chrome

Well, it’s the last day in April and it’s snowing. Golly, I do love Colorado. One can only hope that we get snow in May.

I recall when I was in college down in Texas that the gals would start laying out in their bikinis in late March/early April; here we are almost to collegiate finals-time, and it’s snowing. Of course, we also get nasty hot weather as well (the first half of this week was hella hot): can it get better than girls in bikinis in the morning and girls in sweaters in the evening? I really don’t think so.

Colorado: you know you want to live here.

Ben Shapiro notes the slanders, libels and calumny of the leftist press and its readers in regards to the deceased Pat Tillman: they label him a dumb jock who was blinded by nationalist mythology. They celebrate the death of that fine man.

Animals! Mewling malcontents! Beasts! Pox-ridden perverts! They should be censured—but they will not be. They should be decried—but they will not be. They should be ashamed—but they will never be. A plague take them all!

Jeff Jacoby supports the ban on photos of soldiers’ coffins. His reasoning is that it is disrespectful to show photos of those anonymous coffins, that the photos utterly dehumanising. He’s incorrect: it’s not the photos that are dehumanising, but war itself. He writes:

They reduce Americans who died for their country to an abstraction. They deprive them of every shred of their individuality and personality. They turn them into nothing more than an icon—a seven-foot box covered with an American flag, just like every other seven-foot, flag-covered box in every other picture of caskets coming off a C-5 cargo plane at Dover Air Force Base.

The truth of the matter is: that’s what they are. For every one of those men, every hope, every dream, every effort of his parents to raise him well, every love, every pain, everything about him: all those things have been reduced to an anonymous seven-foot box. That’s the great tragedy of war. Even when done for the very best of reasons, it’s a terrible thing.

Peter Norvig wrote an excellent article entitle Teach Yourself Programming in Ten Years which faces the reality that no skill—particularly one so complex as programming.

Elton John thinks that the voting on American Idol is racist. The issue is that the three contestants who got the lowest number of votes happen to be black (incidentally, the show is more popular with blacks than whites). What’s not mentioned by Elton John (because he’s a twerp) is that there is a much simpler explanation: the three black gals did poorly in the votes because they did so well in fact. How can this be? The answer is that the vote-for-your-favourite system (formally called plurality voting) breaks down when there are more than two contestants. Let’s imagine that there are three contestants: A, whose fans prefer B slightly to B, but well over C; B, whose fans prefer him slightly over A but well over C; and C, whose fans prefer him over the other two about equally (this could be the case in a contest between Brahms, Mozart and Madonna). Madonna might win with 35% of the vote when Brahms got 32% and Mozart 33%. Would that mean that she was the favourite of the contest? Of course not—60% of the voters disliked her. Amusing, a similar contretemps occurred on Pop Idol, the English show which gave birth to American Idol, when I was in London last.

The problem gets worse as the numbers increase. Jef Raskin has written on this; the solution is instant runoff voting. Voters rank their preferences, and if there is no majority winner then the least-voted for alternative is removed, and for each of his voters we change his vote to be for the next-ranked candidate. This continues until there is a majority candidate.

In the example above, there would be no clear majority winner, so Brahms would be knocked off (having only gotten 32% of the vote) and each of his voters would be transferred to that voter’s second choice. 95% of Brahms voters would prefer Mozart to Madonna, so Mozart would now have 33% + 95% × 32% = 63.4%, and Madonna would have 35% + 5% × 32% = 36.6%. Mozart would be the clear winner.

We saw this happen in the ’92 election, when Perot stole enough votes from Bush that Clinton won (most Perot voters would have preferred Bush to Clinton); we saw it happen again in ’00 when Nader stole enough votes from Gore that Bush won (luckily for our nation, but still not the fair result). I saw it happen in college, when the options on the designated smoking area for our dorm were: kitchen; game room; lobby; computer lab; no smoking area. The majority preferred a smoking area, but the votes were scattered about, and the anti-smoking minority won.

Instant runoff voting is not perfect (Kenneth Arrow has demonstrated that it is impossible for there to be a fair voting system), but it is much better than plurality voting.

Of course, the deeper question is why anyone bothers to watch such claptrap.

Andrew Stuttaford writes about Micheal Martin, the tobacco-hating fiend of Ireland. He labels him, this nanny, this ninny, this drone, this nosey, hectoring clown. Bravo!

I just finished watching Guns n Roses’ Use Your Illusion I life from Tokyo (one hasn’t lived until one has heard ten thousand Japanese shouting Guns and Loses!). There were two noteworthy items. First was just how talented a band GnR really were. The second was how gay Axl Rose was. The man pranced—pranced!—about in extremely tight, extremely short shorts. He flirted coquettishly with the camera. He minced about in a fashion certain to embarrass Nathan Lane. It was painful to watch.

But man was the music good.

Neil Boortz writes about the Federal Censorship Commission and the implications for free speech. As he notes, today the concentration is on content of a sexual nature, but the seeds for control of political content have already germinated. He also points out that not once has anyone accused Howard Stern of violating anyone’s rights to life, liberty or property.

On Thursday I received the digital camera I had ordered last weekend. It rocks, completely and totally. The photo of the snow on Friday was taken with it; I am slowly but surely recording various things I wish to remember, but don’t wish to keep lying around the house. And example is a bottle of 2000 Fuler’s Vintage Ale (number 59,497) which I drank on the 13th of February: as cool as it is, I’ve no need for the bottle to lie around the house. Now, I have a photo and can toss the thing itself.

The camera is a Fujifilm A330: 3.2 megapixels; 3x optical zoom and optical viewfinder. It works with Linux (a standard USB mass storage device) and takes very nice photos. I highly recommend it.

D. Daniel Andriës has written an icon & Quenya translation of the Hail Mary. It is one of only a few Tengwar icons in existence.

As to the question of whether or not it is appropriate to do such a thing, I cannot see why not. Although Tolkien’s languages and alphabets were invented, they are no less real for that. If God can be praised in Russian, surely He can be praised in Quenya or Sindarin. Tolkien translated most of the Our Father into Sindarin and Quenya (calligraphy by the same artist). In fact, one could even argue that by deliberately using the invented language & alphabet that one is being more intentional about what one is doing than when using one’s own tongue. It’s much like praying in Liturgical Greek, Church Slavonic or Syriac—for most of those who use them, they are meaningless of themselves, but meaningful in how they are used.

I myself have often thought that it would be fun to write the entire Bible—in English—using the Tengwar.

Plus, it’s just cool to see Theotokos and Tolkien in the same paragraph (or, as here, in the same sentence).

I discovered the source of the Pentagon silliness I wrote about earlier. The Memory Hole (site is very slow at the moment; I should note that I do not agree with what seem to be its political views) requested the photos under the Freedom of Information Act. Yesterday I viewed many of the 361 photographs (again, at this time the site is nearly unusable). None of them are offensive in any way (they were, after all, taken by Air Force photographers); they tend to be much like this:

In fact, the images are well-taken, and will in the future no doubt be seen in museums covering our time. I can see no reason why they should be suppressed.

Note: I have been informed that the Air Force mis-sent photos of the arrival of the Columbia astronauts along with those of soldiers. Although the site does not reliably indicate which is which, I judge that those with dress uniform are most likely the astronauts, and those in BDUs are most likely soldiers.

I recently saw quote by the English poet Norman Douglas, and was struck by his dates of birth and death. Born 1868, he passed away in 1952. The latter is the year my parents were born: I know them, and they almost certainly lived at the same time as someone (if not him, another) who had lived when Robert E. Lee did. For that matter, my grandparents lives overlapped with that of Kaiser Wilhelm II. It’s odd how long a century is, and yet how quickly passes.

I recently found the Yuni Library of Latin Phrases, which is an invaluable reference guide to all manner of useful phrases. I highly recommend it.

Many have written, far better than I could, about the recent death of Pat Tillman, but I feel I must put in my own two cents. What strikes me the most about him is this: from what I can tell, he was a true paragon of the manly virtues. He fulfilled the old saying, mens sana in corpore sano: while a good football player, he was also an excellent student (graduating summa cum laude with a GPA of 3.84). Despite being offered $9 million by another team, he felt a loyalty to the team which had given him his first professional chance, and turned the offer down. He married his high school sweetheart, but enlisted after their honeymoon because he felt called to serve. Through it all, though, he was modest—the one common theme which runs through the many articles being written is that he didn’t hold press conferences, he didn’t seek publicity: he just gave up $3.6 million to fight for his country.

The vice president of his team noted, in sports we have a tendency to overuse terms like courage and bravery and heroes, and then someone like Pat Tillman comes along and reminds us what those terms really mean. That’s the truth (on both sides: athletes tend to have delusions of grandeur about what are essentially children’s games). True heroism is not passively accepting what happens to one (that’s why those killed on 11 September ’01 cannot be considered heroes, save for those who actually stood and fought); rather, heroism is actively taking a stand for what is right, no matter the potential or actual cost. Pat Tillman did that: he gave up a promising career; he gave up time with his wife; he gave up his life.

Requiescat in pace.

This was the view off my balcony this morning:

I had to dig a sweater out of storage and take my overcoat & hat off their pegs (always a good day when I can wear that coat). When I left my house, my car had over six inches of snow on it. A lot wetter than our normal powder, which is a right nuisance. Gosh, Colorado weather is interesting. And by interesting I mean weird.

My pager news service had an item this evening, that the Pentagon has ordered that photographs of war dead be forbidden. I disagree quite strongly, not because I am anti-war, but because I am pro-truth.

War is slaughter on a massive scale. While studying the Great War in Europe, I was privileged to see the ossuary at Verdun. The ossuary is a series of great rooms filled with the bones of the unknown dead. The bones are the only evidence of things I wouldn’t wish upon my worst enemy. Every single one of this skulls represents a young man: born of a mother & father; almost certainly loved; raised to manhood; the product of years of work, effort, resources & money; and now he’s an unknown heap of shattered bones, all that remains of his shattered body, all that remains of a life cut short. That’s the reality of war.

War is sometimes necessary (cf. World War II); it is sometimes unnecessary (cf. the Great War); sometimes no-one knows until afterwards (cf. the current Gulf War). But we shouldn’t deceive ourselves about its nature: when we send men to fight a war, some number of them will die—and they don’t die as they do in movies. They are gut-shot, they are shredded, their bodies are flung into trees (a museum in Belgium has an interesting set of photos from the Great War—it’s quite disturbing); some of them are never found at all, or are so mangled as to be unidentifiable. We should be forced to see them die, as their comrades were forced to watch them die—as they were made to die. If the fight is worth their pain, surely it is worth our pain.

It’s hardly disrespectful to show a man in death; indeed, it’s quite the opposite. This modern squeamishness about death is in part a lack of respect; it is indicative of embarrassment. If we are embarrassed about how a man died, surely he died in vain? Shoudn’t we be proud of him, not ashamed? If we are ashamed, perhaps we should examine why we sent him to die. This extends from the phenomenon of closed coffins (an abomination in itself, about which I might write someday) and on to this nonsense about forbidding photos of the dead.

At work we use a chat product called Sametime. It’s not very good, but being able to instantly communicate with one’s colleagues is very helpful. At home I use gaim to use both Jabber and AIM (the latter of which is loathsome but popular). Using chat programs so often has led me to consider how there are different rules of spelling & punctuation.

The basic rule of chat is economy. Don’t waste bandwidth; don’t waste time hitting more keys than necessary; and don’t over-annoy your correspondent.

In normal hand-written communication, if one misspells a word, one indicates the proper spelling in some fashion (perhaps by inserting the proper letter, or crossing out the misspelled word and rewriting it), so as to demonstrate education. In emails, of course, one just corrects the spelling. But when chatting, one shouldn’t bother to send a new message with the corrected spelling, as it merely annoys one’s correspondent by alerting him (via a raised window, a beep or some other indication of the incoming message) and disturbing his work for a null-content transmission. Education is assumed when chatting; typos are simply the side-effect of such rapid communication. When the error is so bad as to lead to misunderstanding, or is so egregious as to be embarrassing, a simple =CORRECTION suffices.

Capitalisation, too, is almost always dispensed with. To type a capital letter, one must use two keystrokes instead of one. The only instance where capitalisation is properly used is to indicate respect, as when typing God, or perhaps a dearly loved one’s name.

Common words and phrases are often abbreviated: thx for thanks, np for no problem, l8r for later &c. These are not misspellings but shorthand, and there’s no shame in using them.

Punctuation, too, is affected by the rules of chatting. Final punctuation may be omitted if and only if it is superfluous. A period serves solely to indicate this is a normal sentence, and is over now; well, the end-of-message serves that purpose perfectly well, and thus a final period may be omitted. An exclamation point, on the other hand, indicates that an otherwise-normal sentence is not only ending, but carries some emphasis; in its absence there is significant ambiguity, and so an exclamation point may never be omitted. The question mark is an interesting case (one so complex that I fear that my—normally quite intelligent—brother cannot grasp it): in some cases an interrogative sentence may be ambiguous and in others not. The rule here is to use the question mark if needed, but not otherwise. For example, the sentence Where is Jim? is so clearly asking a question that only an ape would need the question mark—and thus only a simian would think it mandatory. OTOH, the sentence You’re coming to dinner may be asking a question or not, and thus the question mark is necessary. Of course, such interrogatory declaratives should be avoided in normal writing, but in the informal atmosphere of chat they are quite acceptable, and even to be praised for their economy.

I suppose that in Spanish, which prefixes exclamatory and interrogatory sentence with the appropriate marks, one could omit the final punctuation, since there would be no ambiguity. Regardless, inter-sentence punctuation can never be omitted, ever, nor can intra-sentence punctuation. Omitting apostrophes is a sin against God and man.

In general, one should attempt to cram as much information as seemly into a message, no more and no less. Over-long messages are difficult to read quickly: the ideal message is comprehended in the blink of an eye. Over-short messages mean that one sends in three or four messages what should have been in a single transmission, causing the recipient to be swamped with incoming notifications. This is quite rude, as it assumes that one’s correspondent has nothing to do but wait for one’s messages, and is so dedicated to this that he has turned off all notifications (e.g. window-raising, bell-sounding or visual bells). Avoid it all costs.

Of course, one can choose to be more formal, perhaps to get one’s point across. But I like to do so sparingly—to constantly capitalise sentences, use final punctuation &c. comes across as pretentious.

It’s an interesting subject, I think. I wonder what different rules be come into being with future rules of communication.

Today’s is marked by some as Earth Day. Sally C. Pipes notes that our environment is doing quite extraordinarily well, due in no small part to the fact that we are increasingly wealthy. But for my part, I find the whole thing silly. Celebrating the planet smacks of paganism at best and silliness at worst. Stuff-and-nonsense.

Mordechai Vanunu, an Israeli who converted to Christianity and revealed that state’s secret nuclear program (which I suppose counts as treason, but then so too were Rommel and Solzhenitsyn to their respective governments) was released today. He had left the country before telling what he knew, but was drugged, kidnapped and dragged back to Israel to stand trial, instead of being properly extradited (a habit with the Israelis, who think they are above international law—cf. the USS Liberty). Firm supporter of freedom, the rule of law and general decency my foot!

Terence Jeffrey reports on California, where mountain lions are stalking man, particularly children. The state issues all sorts of advice about how to scare a mountain lion (clear brush from children’s play areas; pick up kids so they don’t panic & run) but doesn’t advice—in fact has made illegal—the best advice for dealing with predators: kill them. Were I a parent, I sure as hell wouldn’t passively let a mountain lion devour my kids; rather, I’d quite cheerfully and preemptively give it a nasty case of lead poisoning.

Who was given mastery over the world: man or beast?

An aborigine woman in Australia placed a curse on her prime minister because he wishes to reform the commission which oversees aborigine issue. She had better hope that naught untoward happens to him; there would be very good grounds to try her for malicious witchcraft.

Speaking of which, historically the Roman Church vacillated between two positions: either there is no such thing as witchcraft, and thus it is foolish to prosecute it; or it exists, but it is only a civil matter when harmful. So far as I know, not a single witch trial was for practising magic—they all were for harming others thereby. Something the neo-pagans with their utterly insane talk of Burning Times don’t like to admit (although the more intellectually honest ones will).

Anyway, it shows great irresponsibility and a lack of seriousness for the chairman of the commission to cheer on such action. Utterly ridiculous.

The Romans marked the passing of the months by a complex reckoning originally related to the phases of the moon. In time and as a solar calendar was introduced, it calcified into quite an interesting artifact of an earlier time.

The first day of the month was the Kalends; the seventh (in March, May, July & October) or fifth (in other months) was the Nones; the fifteenth (in March, May, July & October) or thirteenth (in the other months) was the Ides; the rest of the days of the month were numbered by counting backward from the next named day. The named day counted as 1, the day before it as 2 and so on. The day before a named day was called Pridie Name. Oddly enough, this means that the second half of a month was named after the Kalends of the following month.

Thus, 1 January would be the Kalends of January; 31 December would be I Kalends January; 2 January would be IV Nones January, and so on. Here’s a sample calendar for April & May of this year:

As you can see, today is the Twelfth Kalends of May. Now you can reckon time as a Roman!

Well, my car has been producing smoke recently, and I was finally able to take it by the mechanic’s to find out what’s wrong. Well, I’m essentially rebuilding the engine (a true rebuild would involve a bit more, but…). As expensive as this is, it’s cheaper than buying a new car, so I’ve little choice. If the light rail line down here were ready, I would consider not fixing it, and only using the car when necessary, but as there’s no good public transportation (despite RTD’s absurd claim that they are best in the US) I’ve little choice.

Since my car is in the shop (a tale for another entry), I walked home from work today (having hitched a ride in). ’Twas well worth it: as I strode along, at one point I was nearly overpowered by the most magnificent perfume flowing from flowers planted along the side of the road. In my car I’d never have noticed that.

That reminds me of how in my old place I’d walk to the light rail station (a 30–40 minute stroll) in the winter, and once was privileged to see the most notable thing: water frozen as it poured forth from a gutter and onto a plant. It was like the most splendid sculpture ever, with facets and scintillations galore—and I was the only one to see it. One wonders how much one misses, being in the glass & steel cocoon so often.

The Christian Science Monitor reports that it’s now cheaper to scrap a new car than replace it, due primarily to over-use of air-bags and other non-reusable parts. Is there anything which can be done? Probably not: it’s the very things we (or our elected representative) find desirable that drives up the cost of repair so badly.

…because her son drove a car into a light pole at 90 mph. Naturally, it couldn’t possibly have been her darling little angel’s fault—it was because Coors glorif[ies] a culture of youth, sex and glamour while hiding the dangers of alcohol abuse and addiction. She also sued her son’s girlfriend, who lent him the car, and the girl’s mother, who had given the girl the car. What a supreme lackwit.

Coors makes a rotten product, but it’s not their fault in a legal sense—and probably not in a moral sense—if that product is misused. Although they do sell it as fit for human consumption, which is a bit of an exaggeration.

I recently played several games of FreeCiv, a free clone of the game civilisation. One starts out the game without even knowledge of pottery, and slowly works up to nuclear armament and interstellar missions.

The best part is that instant when one has won—not when one’s enemies have been defeated yet, but when victory is a certainty. There’s a point at which one becomes invincible, when superiority is attained, when triumph is a mere matter of time. I love that feeling.

Otherwise, not really a game I can take much interest in. Still, glad to have played it.

The last funeral of the War Between the States is being held down in South Carolina today. I agree with Carl McClung that it’s a travesty to fly US flags: the crew of the Hunley died in the service of their country (which was not the United States) shortly after sinking a ship belong to those said United States. Like every single Southerner of their time, they were robbed of their freedom; like far too many Southerners, they were robbed of their lives; why must they be robbed of their dignity? Additionally, Mr. Smith (the author of the article) is wrong: the crew were not American heroes but Southern; the first submariners to sink an enemy warship in combat were Southerners, which is something far finer.

A dear cousin once removed has sent me an interesting article which notes that math whizzes coördinate both sides of the brain better than others. Not surprising, really—after all, math is the pinnacle of both art and science, the next best thing to theology. It is the zenith of intellectual endeavour. Additionally, one will note that mathematicians tend to appreciate the arts far more than artists appreciate math—and far more than lesser scientists appreciate art (although as a rule scientists appreciate art more than artists do science; scientists tend to be more complete human beings).

An old article notes that Tim Berners-Lee received his knighthood at New Years. Also interesting is a photo of Eric Clapton sans beard—proof positive that a man needs facial hair to be a man.

CNN has an article about Burundis who stood against the genocides of the mid-90s (genocides which Clinton did naught against—not that it’s the US president’s job). Reading the article, it’s amazing how primitive the whole thing sounds. It’s like reading English history from a thousand years ago (speaking of which, should I be unfortunate enough to live to be 88, I shall see the millennial anniversary of the Norman invasion). Africa’s a miserable continent—a Middle East to make the actual Middle East seem as naught. But no-one cares about a bunch of black skilling one another.

I showed my folks my Italian wardrobe this evening, and I’m afraid to say that they hate it—the braghetta (codpiece) at least. Silly, really, considering that it’s quite within spec, as shown in the picture below, c. 1499–1503:

Mine’s actually slightly more modest, so I figure I’m alright. Parents!

It was ten years ago that Canter & Siegel sent their Usenet spam. I remember reading rec.games.bolo (or was it alt.netgames.bolo back then?) and wondering what this strange advertisement was. I was more bemused than annoyed at the time: it was so odd that someone would try to advertise online. It was as though some stranger walked up ton one on the street trying to shill a jet fighter to one.

IMHO the best solution to the spam problem is to resort to the old English punishment of outlawing: and outlaw is outside the protection of the law; whatever anyone does to him is legal. Defraud a spammer, steal his car, assault him: it’d all be legal.

Mac Owens thinks that victory in Vietnam was possible. I’ve thought so for a long time, not that I know anything whatsoever about war-fighting.

An Englishman sold all he owned, went to Vegas, bet everything on Red and won. Mondo foolish, but pretty cool anyway.

Robert Littell arranged for his son’s saviour to attend college in thanks. Akhdan Susarov was driving Jonathan Littell about Chechnya when they were set upon by gunmen; by some clever driving he managed to elude them while another car in their convoy was less fortunate.

How very old-fashioned: the man called up his old college, made some connections and next thing one knows, young Susarov is a student. Good for them all! We need more old-fashioned folks in this world.

My buddy Dean hosted an Easter party at his & his wife’s home yesterday. It more than beat my alternative plan of watching Netflix movies until midnight, then going to sleep. What a fun bunch of folks he knows, from his co-workers to his friends to his in-laws. A great time was had by all.

Which is to say, my hope yesterday came to fruition: this morning the sun came up and burnt away the clouds and snow; it’s now a very nice day. All creation celebrates this great day: Christ is Risen! Truly He is Risen!

Michigan has trampled upon a Detroit family which ran a lottery game. Nowhere in the article is it stated that the family was dishonest in their business dealings; in fact, it notes that the payoff was greater than that for the state game. But Leviathan demands his monopoly, and will devour anyone who stands in his way.

For my part, should it indeed be the case the family were as honest as Michigan is, my hope is that every one of those involved in taking them down be stricken with some horrid disease. Smallpox or syphilis, or bubonic plague or even uncontrollable chronic diarrhœa—something to make the point.

Today is Tax Freedom Day—every single day you’ve worked until today has been to support the government, whether of the federation, your state or your city. Hope that you feel it was worth it, because I sure as hell don’t.

According to CNN, St. George, Utah doesn’t want spring business any longer. To make their point, it is no longer possible for anyone under 21 to rent a hotel room, there is a midnight curfew for 18 year olds and anyone smoking under the age of19 faces fine. The wonderful quote from a member of their police force is, they can't have the fun they want to have here anymore.

What a bunch of jerks. They don’t deserve the money that spring break brought in for them. Not that I can understand why anyone would go to Utah for spring break. The damn place is too dry, too hot and full of Mormons to boot. Now, the tales I’ve heard of South Padre Island…

Not that I condone the modern Spring Break phenomenon. It takes what was once a vacation for Holy Week and perverts it rather terribly.

A local radio station has a so-called throwback weekend in which the songs are supposed oldies. Many of them post-date my arrival in college! That’s not an oldie, that’s a damned good song. It’s not an oldie until one is thirty or so.

OTOH, No Doubt’s Tragic Kingdom was released in 1995 before I was even in college. Frightening, that. And the 14th of May will mark the four-year anniversary of my graduation; the following day I will have spent more time out of school than in (well, full-time school anyway—I went to college for five years before going to college). I’m so old I might as well sleep in a coffin to save time for everyone: just nail on the lid should I happen to not wake up.

Blur’s Song 2 (you know, the one that goes Woo-hoo/I got my head checked/by a jumbo jet/it wasn’t easy/but nothing is) was released 10 Feb. 1997. I was a sophomore then. Sigh.

I can only imagine when I have to work with folks who were born after every event I find important or interesting. My co-workers are in the same boat: I do not believe a man of them is less than 36 years of age, and to tell the truth I’m not certain that any is less than 40. I don’t see how they can take me seriously. I know I couldn’t take someone seriously who had not heard Duran Duran when they actually played.

Yes, folks, it’s true—it’s Holy Saturday, but four days short of the middle of April, and we’re covered in snow. On Holy Thursday (the evening we mark the Crucifixion), what had been a pleasant week turned outright nasty: cold & blustery. Yesterday (the evening we mark Christ’s burial), it started snowing sometime in the afternoon, IIRC about 1500 (the ninth hour, when Christ died, according to the Gospels). And now creation is asleep under a blanket of snow.

It would be apt indeed if tomorrow the sun comes forth and destroys the snow as Christ destroyed Death.

I’ve added yet another bachelor recipe; this time the South Padre Island, a cocktail which is pretty much a tequila Cape Cod. I actually invented it on the 26th of August ’03, but I finally got around to writing it down in recipe form tonight.

Driving back from the grocer’s, I passed a Fantastic Sam’s (a unisex salon). There was the most attractive girl who’d just stepped out. For a moment I considered sacrificing my locks (three years’ growth; it’s been more than a year since the last time shears touch ’em) to the end of speaking with her. Perhaps fortunately, she was closing up shop, though, and so I remain a whole man.

But man, was she pretty!

When I stopped in at the supermarket to buy some wood glue to repair my desk, the clerk asked em for ID. Apparently it is the policy of the Albertson’s Corporation, or whatever their name is, not to sell wood glue to minors. Why? Are they afraid to encourage carpentry and woodworking amongst the young?

The only thing I can think of is that it’s a drug. But how does one use it? It’s hardly model æroplane cement.

We like short skirts!

While in Boulder today I saw a gal wearing a pleated skirt shorter than my hat size. ’Twas rather fetching, to tell the truth. All I can say is, we live in a wonderful time, a truly magnificent age.

Back in 1921 Lord Baden-Powell (I believe he was a lord) wrote about the Scouts’ Thanks Badge. Its design may surprise you…

Tonight I purchased a membership in the Society for Creative Anachronism, something I’d avoided doing ever since the non-member surcharge was instituted. I figure that, much as I might disagree with some of the Society’s methods, its goals are worthy. Plus, now that I’m a member I can whinge with the rest of ’em.

I’ve completed my calze, after an arduous day’s sewing. Now my set of fifteenth c. Italian clothing is basically done—everything else is gravy.

After beginning to diet back in August, I have managed to get my weight from a high of 183 down to 160! What’s my secret? Eat less—it’s that simple. I’ve still drunk beer, eaten fried foods and otherwise enjoyed myself; I’ve just been smart about it. Life is good.

Mona Charen writes illuminatingly on Sen. Kerry’s past half-truths and lies, as does David Limbaugh. The danger of this man—if that is the word for him—becoming President is very real. As much as I dislike Bush and disagree with his policies, Kerry is far, far worse. His grasp of economics is negligible; his concept of foreign policy is laughable; his understanding of the world is deservedly mocked. The man is a mite.

Persia has suffered under Islamist tyranny for twenty-five years today. Weird to think that it’s been that short a time. Perhaps in the next decade we can aim our sites on Persia, after we’ve straightened out Afghanistan and Mesopotamia.

Why can no-one nowadays create such lovely music as Dream Academy’s masterful cover of the Smith’s Please, Please, Please? If the reader does not recognise the piece, recall that wonderful interlude in Ferris Bueller’s Day Off; it’s what is played as they wander the museum of art. Absolutely superb.