Octopodial Chrome

I still remember where I was when I heard that Princess Diana had died in a car accident. I was at a start-of-school party at the Tri-Gam house, sitting on the front porch enjoying a beer and smoking my pipe when Kevin Craig ran out shouting Princess Diana just died! My response? Good riddance to bad rubbish.

She was an adultress and an accomplice to treason (sleeping with the Princess of Wales has been high treason since 1351). That wouldn’t have been so bad, but she was indiscreet, which is worse. After her divorce, she entertained New Age gurus and was thoroughly unrespectable, finally ending up involved with a department store owner’s son.

The massive maudlin display of grief on her death is yet another indication that England has fallen quite far from the nation which ruled the waves and on whose empire the sun never set.

A decade (and a few months…) ago I finished my freshman year of college and got a summer job at what was then called ResNet. I figured it’d give me a chance to save some money and hopefully gain a little independence from my folks—as I recall my goal was to by all my books for the ’97–’98 year.

After getting the job, I had to find a place to live. I don’t remember now if I checked the classified ads or not, but I do know that I spent several afternoons walking around the neighbourhoods near AC looking for places to rent. I was actually getting quite panicky when a friend mentioned that his girlfriend was looking for a housemate for the summer, and so I ended up moving into 820 N. Crockett St. in Sherman, Texas. My parents were pretty upset; they thought I was shacking up with the girl. Which is pretty funny in hindsight: how could they be so clueless as to not notice that I simply don’t understand girls enough to have any success with them? But they sure were convinced I was going off to live in a den of iniquity. Sigh—I haven’t the luck!

It was a wonderful summer. I had no money to speak of ($4.75/hour, IIRC) and managed to spend, so I spent but $7/week on food. Back then Lipton Noodles ’n’ Sauce were 85¢ apiece; I’d buy 7 of them, leaving me $1.05 to splurge on a bag of pork rinds, or some sodas or whatever. I’d no car, so I couldn’t go anywhere my bike or feet couldn’t take me—and there’s nothing to in Sherman anyway. So I’d go to work, ride home at lunchtime to grab a granola bar or just relax, ride back to work, ride back home, make dinner, then relax on the back porch reading a book of philosophy, smoking a pipe and drinking a snifter of brandy.

I had to sit on the back porch, you see, because we didn’t run the air conditioner, as it was too expensive. The house baked like an oven; it was miserable inside. So I’d sit out back watching the sun set—it was a very nice time, actually.

Sometimes I’d walk to Sherman’s downtown: motley collection of lawyers, land agents and furniture stores. But that summer a great little coffeehouse opened up, and the owner & I would smoke cigars and discuss the world. Sometimes I’d walk by the storefront black church, with the people interjecting amen, ah-huh, hallelujah &c. as the preacher spoke. Or, if I had a little bit of extra money, I’d get an ice cream cone at the Braum’s.

I had two housemates: Lara & Alicia. Alicia was pretty unhappy to share a house with a guy, and a week or two after I moved in she moved out; we were fortunate enough to pick up another renter instead, a fellow named James. He was 24 or 26, in the master’s programme and was engaged: he seemed a very old man to us. After all, he’d actually worked after college!

Lara’s boyfriend—my buddy—was away in Mexico for the summer, and the girl I’d been pining after was home on vacation, so the two of us spent a good time moping. One time it got so hot inside that we walked downtown, then back home, and for some reason decided that starting a fire would be neat. So we did, on the sidewalk in front of the house. Not, perhaps, the best idea ever. She ended up marrying her boyfriend, and is now rather an accomplished photographer.

James had worked at a video store, so he had a huge library of old display videos (they scroll THIS VIDEO NOT FOR RESALE every five minutes or so, but are otherwise great); he even had the uncut version of Branagh’s Hamlet, which was a treat. He had also been an actor, and had a tape of perhaps the worst film ever, Gay TV, in which he played a part. It was so bad that Lara & I pretended to be asleep halfway through it. He’s now married and has a few daughters, and teaches and directs.

Sherman in the summer was something else; I actually grew to appreciate it. The city hosted concerts on the lawn of high school; a good chunk of the townsfolk would attend, and since many of them were faculty, staff or students one was sure to spot someone one knew. The few students in town bonded more than during the school year; parties which in term would have been quite exclusive were much more inviting. It was really nice; I’ve often wished that I’d spent the next two summers there. But of course, the internships I pursued instead led to the job I work now, which is what affords me the opulent lifestyle I enjoy, so I guess it all works out in the end.

All in all, that was an excellent summer. At the end of it, I was 140 pounds and in excellent shape from the combination of too little food and all my cycling. It was grand!

A man was arrested in Norfolk, Virginia for carrying a gun openly. Only one problem: it’s legal to do so, and the city ordinance against it is illegal. So over hundred gun owners showed up with guns on their hips to protest peacefully. Amusingly, I think that the city more-or-less got the message. Except for the councilman who walked out to protest the protest: he should be impeached. An elected official has a responsibility to do his duty.

Whilst peeling peaches for jam this evening, I’d a frightening realisation: I’m as close to 40 as I am to 18. How the hell did that happen? I really don’t feel that old!

The Atlantic has a survey of American military memoirs of Vietnam. Very different stuff from what most Americans remember; very different stuff from what Hollywood depicts; very different stuff from what the newspapers reported. This, y’see, is true, unlike that other drivel.

A brother & sister pair of runners were arrested and charged with a felony for marking a running trail with flour in the parking lot of a New Haven, Connecticut, Ikea. Police freaked out, evacuated & shut down the store. Quoth the mayor's trained monkey, one Jessica Mayorga, You see powder connected by arrows and chalk, you never know, it could be a terrorist, it could be something more serious. We're thankful it wasn't, but there were a lot of resources that went into figuring that out.

Or, y'know, you could just figure it's 99.999999% likely to be perfectly harmless. Grow up. It's almost certainly not a threat. Grow up. It's not someone else's fault that the city over-reacted (c.f. Boston's insanely idiotic response to the Lite Brites). Grow the f—— up.

An Austin police officer was fired because his Christian beliefs do not permit him to abuse people. While dealing with a domestic disturbance, one of the folks involved tried to walk to his car; a senior police officer tackled the man without warning, then demanding that his junior tase the man; he refused, believing that the situation didn’t warrant it. Afterwards, a psychologist stated that his Christianity impairs him such that he is incapable of taking in and processing information.

In other words, the Austin Police Department apparently believes that Christianity is incompatible with being a police officer. They also apparently believe that unlawful, unconstitutional and excessive force is just peachy.

Steve Tucker returned to society a year ago, after ten years in federal prison. His crime? Selling lightbulbs. He, his brother and his sister-in-law had owned & operated a hydroponics store, and some of their customers used the systems to grow dope. Despite the fact that they would eject any customer who mentioned marijuana; despite the fact that they returned any merchandise bearing a hemp leaf; despite the fact that they refused to sell High Times, rolling papers or anything else to do with the weed culture; despite the fact that they were a legitimate business selling a legal product, they were thrown in prison for 10, 16 and 10 years respectively.

Their real crime? Not allowing the DEA to install surveillance cameras in their store. Yes, in return for not co-operating with America’s Stasi they were thrown into prison.

Here’s a startling set of three pictures: Park Avenue before 1922, when cars weren’t allowed; after the 1922 changes; and today. Who could possibly think it an improvement?

Here are some pictures of the same locations in San Jose in 1975 and 2006. Apparently, people in the 1970s hated trees with a passion, drove everywhere and hated pedestrians. Also, they considered parking lots the height of urban design.

It’s hard to express the strength of my emotions on reading Tim Page’s account of his life. I feel like I’m reading my own autobiography, in broad strokes as well as in many particulars. Like him, I was marked as bright by the same people who gave me failing marks; like him, I read the World Book Encyclopædia for fun. He writes of assembling a personality, piece by piece, almost robotically, from models we admire; that’s almost an exact description of me. His words on the ease of empathy for the inanimate and the difficulty of connecting with people strike far too close to home. His many monomanias reflect my own; one that stands out in particular is his high school decision to wear a rabbit’s foot in each buttonhole of his shirt and button it at the neck, which reminds me rather painfully of my own sweater-vest and tweed-coat stage in college. I needn’t even go into his—and my—general cluelessness with girls, or the horrors of the grade school PE field (and yes, I heartily concur with his plans for PE teachers).

The quote which best describes it all is this:

My efforts have been only partly successful: after fifty-two years, I am left with the melancholy sensation that my life has been spent in a perpetual state of parallel play, alongside, but distinctly apart from, the rest of humanity.

That’s the matter in a nutshell.

This summer, Roy Baumeister gave a deeply insightful speech entitled Is There Anything Good About Men?. His essential points are these: that a culture—any culture—is a system which uses men and women in order to survive against other cultures; that most cultures use men and women differently; that while most winners are men, so too are most losers; that men tend towards the extremes (most genius and retards are men); that men are social too, but instead of being individually social, we are social in the great community; that we are as concerned with fairness as women, but rather than equality we seek equity. You need to read it now.

An interesting item is this: about 2/3 of your ancestors are women; only 1/3 are men. That means that a few men were very successful—and many more were utter failures. In fact, of all the men who ever existed perhaps 40% actually have descendants now living today; the majority of men have died without heirs. For women, the number is 80%. That single difference can explain a whole host of behaviours among men and women.

Another item: the survival rate on the Titanic was worse for upper-class men than for lower-class women. You won’t hear too many leftists mention that one…

I’m pretty good at doing things myself: I brew beer, sew historical clothing, grind wheat into flour, bake bread from the same flour, make various pickles (including sauerkraut), cook my own food, make my own soap; paint my cabinets; replace my plumbing and so forth. I’d never made jam, for some reason thinking that it’s some difficult task. Inspired by a cookbook I’ve been reading, I decided to make a batch.

Egad, it’s easy. As in, I don’t know why I haven’t been making it all my life. I don’t know why my mother ever bought jam. I don’t know why anyone would buy jam.

Here’s how to do it. First get six cups’ worth of washed, peeled, cored, roughly chopped &c. fruit, berries or what-have-you, three cups of sugar and the juice of a lime or lemon. Mix these together in a pot over medium-high heat until the fruit starts to give up its water and the sugar is completely dissolved. Turn the heat down to medium-low and let cook for at least half an hour. Every fifteen minutes thereafter, pour a bit of the cooking liquid onto an ice-cold plate and refrigerate for two minutes: once it’s gelled, the jam is ready. If it hasn’t gelled at the half-hour point, add in another cup of sugar and cook down for at least another 15 minutes, maybe longer. Seal up in self-sealing jars, invert for at least fifteen minutes, then turn upright, make sure the seals are tight and stow. As long as the jar dimples are sucked in, they’re sealed.

Yes, it’s really that easy. It’s insanely easy. The hardest part is peeling the fruit (which can be helped along by parboiling for a minute, then rinsing in cold water). There’s no reason one shouldn’t have one’s own fresh & pure preserves. My first batch was peach and the second was apricot-pear (I had to add some pear because I didn’t buy enough apricots). They are both stunning.

I looked up the difference between jam, jelly & preserves. It turns out that a jelly is made with fruit juice and sugar; a jam is made with crushed or pulped fruit and sugar; preserves are made with chunks of fruit and sugar syrup. Now you know—and as G.I. Joe taught as, knowing is half the battle.

The leftist Guardian has an article about a British journalist’s nightmarish experience in the United States. She did not properly fill out her immigration form, and for this was cruelly mistreated.

While she was in the wrong, the Department of Homeland Security (egad, I loathe that name!) was also in the wrong—and IMHO far worse. There’s no excuse to treat an innocent human being that way.

This evening I watched It Happened One Night, a Frank Capra film featuring Clark Gable & Claudette Colbert. The plotline is fairly simple: girl (involved with a fellow) falls in with a guy while headed to New York to meet her fellow; they hate each other; they have transportation trouble; zany adventures ensue; they fall in love. I was thinking how cool it’d be to remake it in a modern vein, and was amusing myself with how to update it when I realised something: I’ve already seen it remade. Three times in fact. Forces of Nature: guy (engaged) falls in with a gal while headed to his wedding; they hate each other; they have transportation trouble; zany adventures ensue; they fall in love. The Sure Thing: girl (with a boyfriend) falls in with a guy while headed to visit the boyfriend (and the guy’s sure thing); they hate each other; they have transportation trouble; zany adventures ensue; they fall in love. Planes, Trains & Automobiles: guy falls in with another guy while headed to his family; guys hate each other; they have transportation trouble; zany adventures ensue; they become friends. Heck, one could even argue that 48 Hours and Lethal Weapon play with the same sort of ideas.

I don’t know that It Happened One Night originated such plots—perhaps Aristophanes played with ’em—but it was very cool to watch the inspiration for so much latter cinema. It’s not a terribly great film in itself (despite sweeping the Academy Awards for 1934), but it’s highly enjoyable fluff.

Seventy years ago today, marijuana (then spelt Marihuana) was made semi-illegal. The federal government not having the right to outlaw it (note the Constitutional amendment required to outlaw alcohol; note too that there is no amendment giving the Congress the ability to outlaw it even today), they instead levied a modest tax ($1), and imposed gargantuan fines ($2,000—a large sum in 1937—and five years of prison) for violations of any provisions of the labyrinthine regulations imposed.

I don’t think marijuana is a particularly good thing—but it should be a legal thing. I don’t think that Congregationalism is a particularly good thing either, but it too should be legal. Lots of folks don’t think alcohol is a good thing—it is, for the moment, legal.

An Assistant Director of the FBI thinks it’s more important to prosecute drug crimes than murder. The FBI would rather that innocent men rot in prison in order to protect drug informants. Hurray for Prohibition, Version 2!