Wednesday, April 29, 2009; 9:19 AM:

(CAER DALLBEN, Prydain) - Taran, Eilonwy, and Fflewddur Flam were diagnosed with Swine Influenza this morning, reports High Prince Gwydion from the castle.  Taran, long known for his association with pigs, was likely the initial vector of the outbreak, and has succumbed to the disease, as has princess Eilonwy.  Flags will be flown at half-staff for a week according to the High King's protocol office.

Medwyn, Prydain's High Veterinarian, has examined samples taken from oracular pig Hen Wen and established that the strains of H1N1 are identical to those of Taran, Eilonwy, and Fflewddur Flam.  Flam was further diagnosed as being "too irritating to die," according to Gwydion, and is expected to make a full recovery.  Farmers Aeddan and Llassar have also been diagnosed with the flu but are recovering. 

 

So it started with this:  http://booksquare.com/open-letter-to-amazon-regarding-recent-policy-changes/

My first comment was that I had a dollar that says someone at Amazon loses a job over this once it gets corrected. Amazon has always been reasonably market savvy - this is a fail of epic proportion. "Should be interesting to watch this play out over the next week."  (Prediction Fail.)

A week, Mr. Big Ugly Man Doll?  This is the INTERNET.   Try less than 24 hours.  Right now, watching the latest, a hacker is claiming credit: http://www.pcworld.com/article/163024/hacker_claims_credit_for_amazons_gaythemed_book_glitch.html

This puts Amazon in a real bind from the PR perspective - do we admit fault and look like buttheads for being bigoted pigs, or do we blame the hacker and look like buttheads because we got burned?  Firing some sacrificial middle manager makes it go away faster and doesn't look as bad as "we can get hacked, you might not be able to trust that the site wasn't compromised."  Bad scene all around.  No one wins.

On the other hand, SOBUMD's first comment when I told her some hacker has claimed credit was "How much did they pay him?"  Not really that farfetched....

The whole kerfuffle does raise questions similar to an arms race, though - who can respond faster?

• Amazon has a *legal* right to decide which books it carries.
• The government has a legal and moral obligation to both uphold the law and prevent discrimination.
• Big Media can bias any given story in whatever direction it feels will help continued sales.
• The mob market has a growing ability to inflict damage where it will as it feels justified.

Should be fun to watch this play out. 

It’s often been noted that great artists and poets and scientists and that ‘creative’ lot seem to do their best work early in life.  (When John Keats was my age, for example, he’d been dead for 14 years.) 

This was hammered home to me this morning as I cooked bacon and eggs for SOBUMD, the Human Tape Recorder, and myself – the Reigning Queen of Pink has no truck with eggs, but claimed the bacon by divine right.  Number One Son had eaten more than 2 hours earlier, having woken at 0Dark:30 to play international Wii MarioCart challenges under his internet pseudonym, Wiimaster™.  (This proves that on the Internet, no one knows the Wiimaster is 8, or that he hasn’t had his meds, which might explain why people on the other side of the planet seem surprised that someone with the cajones to call themselves “Wiimaster™“ keeps driving down the track in the wrong direction, crashing into the other players.  He doesn’t worry about what happens in the game; Number One Son happens to other people.)

But I digress.  Once SOBUMD and the rest of the girls woke, I snapped off the couch and out of my coffee-induced reveries and got to cooking.   The HTR was press-ganged into service whisking the eggs, and SOBUMD did her part as DJ – which is surely a term as antiquated as “Tape Recorder”, but again, “MP3 Playback Device Jockey / YouTube Selection Committee” just lacks that je ne se qua. 

So there I was, wreaking hen’s fruit with sautéed fungi and goat cheese and frying thick smoked strips of yummy pig, when SOBUMD graced us with the dulcet tones of Simon and Garfunkel.  It hit me, as I wailed along with Paul and Art that I, too, was a rock, and that I, too, was an island, that this song could never have been written by a parent.

“I am alone.”  OK, epic fail right from the start.  The concept of “alone” starts to mean, you know, except for the baby, I am alone.   “Silent shroud of snow” – First off, the word ‘silent’ moves into off-line storage with the first kid; rather than being part of your daily vocabulary, it’s just a distant corollary related to the omnipresent “Can you please shut up for one second!”

So let’s review how this classic might have gone if Paul had tried to write it while home with his 3rd Grader:
 

A winters day, 
and the goddamn schools are closed.

I am alone, 
Gazing from my window to the yard below
At my crazy kids out playing in the snow.

I need some sleep, I need some coffee.

These old board-books,
And this ancient stuffed giraffe,
I should throw this stuff out.
Next time I clean their rooms, where the hell’d I put the broom?
I swear to god I’ve lost my friggin’ mind!

I need some sleep, I need some coffee.

And I can’t sleep while they’re outside.
And my coffee’s gotten cold.

 

Ya, just not the same. 

 

So there I was, minding my own business, when Number-One Son ordered me to listen to him read from the book that SOBUMD and I got him when we were in NYC this weekend. First thing to note is that when I walk downstairs and find him watching TV, he's usually watching the Discovery Health channel - so the idea that we got him "The Visual Dictionary of the Human Body" from the Eyewitness Visual Dictionary series isn't as farfetched as it might seem.

When SOBUMD got her hands on the long-awaited seventh book, "Harry Potter and the Shakespearian Ending," she immediately flipped to the end and read the last chapter first. Some people just do that - I used to think it was a nurture thing, but Number-One Son skips around a lot in books as well. Might be genetic.

Speaking of genetic, what do you think you would find at the end of The Visual Dictionary of the Human Body? Right. Give an eight-year-old boy a book - any book, shape, size, length, author, and topic notwithstanding - and in about 7 seconds he's going to find you every instance of any mention of The Reproductive Organs.

(There are entire search engines based on the ability of eight-year-old boys to find the word "penis" in literature.)

"Daddy, you *have* to see this. Come here." I sit down, and he starts reading to me about the different parts of the tongue. So far, so good. He explains that the back section of his tongue, where we taste bitter foods, is where he tastes mint - which is why he doesn't like it. "Well OK," says I, getting up to leave.

"No, wait, you have to see this too! [flip, flip, flip] The Reproductive System!"

Oh boy. And my eight-year-old son, cheerfully sitting next to me on the couch and pointing at the picture of the cutaway cock, starts reading:

"Sex organs located in the pelvis create new human lives. Each month a ripe egg is released from one of the female's ovaries into a fallopian tube leading to the uterus (womb), a muscular pear-sized organ. A male produces minute tadpole-like sperm in two oval glands called testes. When the male is ready to release sperm into the female's vagina, many millions pass into his urethra and leave his body through the fleshy penis. The sperm travel up the... Daddy, what's so funny? Why are you laughing?"

Oh. My. God.

To my credit, I didn't *really* lose it until he said "vag-EEN-a" with a hard "g". The Fa Lupé ion tube, the utter-us, and the OvAre Es, those were funny, yes, but I was able to hold it together and just correct his pronunciation. But the Vag-een-a, followed closely by the fleshy penis... I just doubled over. Never mind that he's eight, has NO idea what he's talking about, and is, I hope, at least 12 years away from finding out that when the male is ready to release sperm into the female's vag-EEN-a, many dollars pass through his wallet before any sperm pass through his fleshy penis.

I'm just glad I didn't have to listen to him try to pronounce clitoris, I'd've needed an inhaler.

Next time, I’m getting him the goddamn Star Wars book.

This needs some work, but....


One day as the Little Red Hen was scratching in a field, she found a grain of wheat.

"This wheat should be planted," she said. "Who will help me plant this grain of wheat?"

"Can’t you even plant a freaking grain of wheat by yourself?" said her asshole boyfriend.

"Is it difficult for you to see situations or individuals realistically?" said her therapist.

"You need to respect other peoples’ boundaries," said her mother.

"Then I’ll do it myself," said the Little Red Hen. And she did.

Soon the wheat grew to be tall and yellow.

"The wheat is ripe," said the Little Red Hen. "Who will help me cut the wheat?"

"Only if we’re going to smoke it," said her asshole boyfriend.

"You must learn to do these things for yourself," said her therapist.

"Put on a sweater if you’re going to be outside for long," said her mother.

"Then I’ll do it myself," said the Little Red Hen. And she did.

When the wheat was cut, the Little Red Hen said, "Who will help me thresh the wheat?"

"Why don’t you come over here and thresh my wheat," said her asshole boyfriend.

"Your parents were never married, were they?" said her therapist.

"Tell your therapist to shut his overpaid, overeducated mouth," said her mother.

"Then I’ll do it myself," said the Little Red Hen. And she did.

When the wheat was threshed, the Little Red Hen said, "Who will help me take this wheat to the mill?"

"Pick me up a six-pack while you’re out," said her asshole boyfriend.

"Did you MapQuest the directions?" said her mother. “Don’t forget the GPS.”

"Are you afraid of allowing other people to be who they are or of allowing events to happen naturally?" said her therapist.

"Then I’ll do it myself," said the Little Red Hen. And she did.

She took the wheat to the mill and had it ground into flour. Then she said, "Who will help me make this flour into bread?"

"Yeah, be out in just a minute hon," said her asshole boyfriend.

"Ohhh!" said her mother.

"You know you’re mother’s sleeping with your boyfriend while you’re out," said her therapist.

"Then I’ll do it myself," said the Little Red Hen. And she did.

She made and baked the bread. Then she said, "Who will help me eat this bread?"

"Oh! I will," said her asshole boyfriend.

"And I will," said her therapist.

"And I will," said her mother.

"You can all go screw yourselves!" said the Little Red Hen. "I’m outta here."  And she left, taking her bread with her. 

Some holiday music is just fine.  Some of it is really, really hard to explain.  I have to wonder about the songs that give away a little too much about the holidays, if you know what I mean - kids are listening to this, you know?

I've heard so many different lyrics to "Carol of the Bells" that I no longer recognize the real ones when I hear it.  ("Would you like an apple pie with that?") 

And then there are the wholly inappropriate songs that should have been retired long, long ago.   SOBUMD and I refer to "Hey Baby, It's Cold Outside" as The Date Rape Song.   Case in point, the fourth and fifth stanzas below are almost completely verbatim from the Frank Loesser original published in 1948.  What the hell was he thinking?   This is probably how it should go:

 

I really can't stay
(but, baby, it's cold outside)
I thought you were gay!
(honey my beard just died)
This evening is done
(Been looking forward to this)
so say buh-bye
(You know you want it, come on don’t lie)

My mother will start to freak
(you’re beautiful when you're humming)
You’re such an ostentatious bore
(listen to the fireplace roar)
My folks are gonna bitch a blue streak
(don’t leave me up blue-ball creek)
well, maybe just a half a drink more
(look over there while I pour)

I know what you think
(this couch has a bed in there)
say, what's in this drink?
(some roofies I mixed in there)
I wish I knew what
(you’re gonna be mine, you slut)
what in the hell?
(Turn off your phone, it’s just as well)

I want to say no, no, no sir
(mind if I move in closer?)
At least I'm gonna say that I tried
(what's the sense of hurtin' my pride?)
I really can't stay
(You know that you can’t hold out)
Ah but it's cold outside
(See baby, it's cold outside)

I simply must go
(but, baby, it's cold outside)
The answer is no
(but, baby, it's cold outside)
The welcome has been
(how lucky that you dropped in)
so nice and warm
(look out that window at that storm)

The gossip’s gonna be horrific
(Gee, your hair smells terrific)
my brother stands six-foot-four
(lose the bra you two-bit whore)
He’s a starting linebacker with
(I said lose the what did you just say)
The Cleveland Browns
(you know I just been clown’n around)

My father has a shotgun
(but, baby, it's – what’d you say?)
He just got out of prison
(but, baby, it's – what’d you say?)
You're really a prick
(I’m feeling a little sick)
You lousey schmuck
(her dad’s done time, it’s just my luck)

We’re gonna have a talk tomorrow
(I hope you don’t remember tomorrow)
unless you get your ass out of town
(you know I love those Cleveland Browns)
I really can’t stay
(Yeah, I’ve called you a cab)
Ah, but it’s cold outside
(Here’s your coat, get outside)
Baby, it's cold outside

 

I mean, sheesh.

One of the many dangers of helping your kids with their homework is that you won’t be able to – sometimes for vastly different reasons. Number One Daughter got halfway through her homework this evening before shouting for help. The assignment was to take any eight of her 18 weekly study words and write at least 8 jokes, with a study word as the answer. 

You can imagine the issue. Can I write jokes? Don’t call me surely. Can I write the kind of jokes a ten-yr-old would come up with, that she can pass off as hers? You must be Lupin, ’cause you’re surely not Serious. I’m just not 10 anymore – no comments, you.

The words to choose from are: applaud, appoint, balloon, cocoon, counsel, coward, daughter, devour, doubtful, exploit, faucet, fountain, laundry, noodle, poison, rejoice, rowdy, shampoo. 

I thought I’d take a moment to share why I can’t do my daughter’s homework for her. The best I could do for her were the following:

• What do you get when you cross a cow with a yard? A coward! 
• Why was Sham in the bathroom? Because he had to shampoo. (They were begging for that.)
• Why did Barack Obama appoint Hillary Clinton to be Secretary of State? He thought she had appoint!
• If a cannibal divorces his wife, does he devour?

 The first two, OK, I’m channeling my inner child. The third, my kid, maybe. The last one, let’s face it, her teacher’s gonna know it’s not a 4^th Grader writing anymore. And then there’s a whole list of “no, don’t write that down.”

• What do you do when your teacher makes you read “Ulysses” twice? Rejoice! 
• What do you do when Oon, the new girl in class, asks to meet you behind the bleachers? Balloon! 
• What do airlines do with dyslexic pilots? Exploit them!
• What did the Boston plumber advise when told the handle on the sink wouldn’t turn? Faucet!

 Please comment with your own examples. You will be graded on punctuation, spelling, and usage. (There will be no math.)

That's right, your favorite game is back - "You know you work in DC when!"  I had a great example today, which I'll use to start the game; please share your own, if anonymously - or as we say here, "not for attribution."

 

You know you work in DC when your kids don't ask if you can teach them to throw a ball, they ask if they can leverage your spherical acceleration experience.

You know you work in DC when you hear about the Attorney General collapsing, and the first thing you think of are the people you know who won't be getting much sleep that night.

You know you work in DC when your idea of "going blackberry picking" has nothing to do with fruit.


 

So there I was, contemplating good excuses for not having updated the Big Ugly Man Doll in way too long, when I was called away to Duty. And by Duty, I mean putting the kids to bed. 

Originally, SOBUMD and I decided, by which I mean she told me, that I should be the one to put them to bed since I didn’t see them most of the day, and this way I could have some bonding time with my lovely children, doting on them in much the same way that you’ll sometimes see a fat guy doting on a really good meal before he tucks into it or, in my case, tucks them into bed for the night. Now that they’re all older and mostly reading on their own, this doting generally involves ensuring the doffing of clothes, brushing of teeth, donning of PJs, hushing of cats, closing of closets, and finding of books, and ends with professions of love and admonitions not to read for too long and to sleep “tight,” whatever that means. (Luckily, they’ve never asked.) 

Tonight it included, as it so often does, researching the immortal question, “Why are you crying?” For the Reigning Queen of Pink was inconsolable to the point of being irritating, which while not exactly a huge feat still merits discussion. I finally got her to stop fussing long enough to whisper the trouble in my ear, “The Pink Bear.” 

Now I need to interject, because the remainder of the story requires knowledge of the evening, which involved Chinese food while watching GodSpell on DVD. All the kids have seen it several times, and they all wanted to see it again. They all sat through it and sang along – despite not finishing their lo mein.

Back to, where was I? Oh, of course, the Pink Bear. “What pink bear, hon?”   [Here let it be known that the accused stood and pointed across the room at her sister.] Ah, I should have known. The rest of the conversation went as follows:

BUMD:  Number One Daughter, what pink bear is she talking about?
Number One Daughter:  She gave it to me, and I told her she was going to cry later, but she said I could keep it.
BUMD:  RQP, did you give it to Number One Daughter?
RQP:  Yes but now I want it back.
BUMD:  Ah ha. OK, you really did give it to her, right?
RQP:  Yes I gave it to her but now I want it back now. [Those who rule by divine right don’t need to use a lot of commas.]
#1 Daughter:  She gave it to me.
BUMD, to RQP:  OK, why don’t you just lay down and I’ll tuck you in, and we’ll see what happens, OK?
RQP [suddenly cheerful]:  OK, goodnight Daddy!
[I walk over to #1 Daughter’s bed and lower my voice.]
BUMD: Where is this bear now?
#1 Daughter: It’s this jelly-bear thingy [here she points at 4 of them that she’s connected into a necklace/thingy]. She gave it to me, and I told her she was going to cry later, but she said I could keep it.
BUMD: Number One Daughter, if you knew that she was going to want it back, did she really ever give it to you?
#1 Daughter: [silence]
BUMD: Number One Daughter, you just watched GodSpell. What would Jesus tell you to do?
#1 Daughter:   [deafening silence]
BUMD: Number One Daughter, you must have known she’d want it back, because you told her she’d cry later. If you knew she was going to ask for it back, was it ever really yours?
#1 Daughter: She gave it to me.
BUMD: OK, you just watched the show, GodSpell. I think you know what Jesus would tell you to do in this situation. You’re a smart girl. Do the right thing. Good night!

And with that I left the room, after having laid a pretty heavy trip on a 10-yr-old who goes to church and CCD. I then, of course, waited outside the door to listen to what would unfold. 

There's a place that I travel
When I want to roam
And nobody knows it but me.

The roads don't go there
And the signs stay home
And nobody knows it but me.

It's far far away
And way way afar
It's over the moon and the sea

And wherever you're going
that's wherever you are
And nobody knows it but me.

The author (who wrote it for the commercial) has updated his site, and mentions a few neat things about the cultural phenom it's become. 

Who says poetry isn't relevant anymore? 

OK, so there were no flings with time, losing track of or otherwise. You really want to know? Well, I’ll tell ya.
 

I was on the campaign trail with Sarah Palin. Oh, sure, the Republican handlers will issue a statement denying it, but that just proves my point, or rather it will, in the event that I have one. But I don’t want to talk about that right now. I want to talk about higher taxes.
 

No, not really. That may have been a cheap shot, but then again these days, shots are the only things that are cheap in this economy. I am glad I don’t have to worry about having money in the stock market right now. You know, anymore. I worried about my money in the market last week. That money would have been safer with my good friend General Mumbate Shambalessen, who was until two weeks ago the Secretary of the Treasury of Nigeria, and needs help cashing his bonus checks now and then.
 

If you wonder how bad the global economy is right now, consider this: I just got a spam email that asked me to please paypal the sender five bucks, in exchange for which he’d take me off his spam list. I was tempted to just send the poor bastard the money, but I needed the $5 for an extra 8 ounces of gasoline so I wouldn’t have to push the car all the way home next time.
 

Lately I’ve been running the car on booze. It’s cheaper. Plus, I get such great looks from the cops who ask me if I’m driving drunk. “No, sir – but the car is!”
 

On the inside of the car, of course, we have the usual suspects. The Human Tape Recorder listens to music – hers, if she has her iThingy with her, or whatever SOBUMD is playing otherwise. (I’m not allowed to touch that dial – no one wants to hear Big Ugly Music.) So there we were, rocketing along the highway, and listening to Pink Floyd. You know the song, because you didn’t need no education either – Hey! Teacher! Leave those kids alone! In this song, if you’ll recall, there is a choir of children in the background (and sometimes foreground) singing with the band – “All in all you’re just another brick in the wall!”
 

The HTR pipes up after listening to the kids for a while, and asks “Is this Kids Bop or something, except without the bad singing?”
 

Of course, in the time it took us to stop laughing we’d used up another $287 in gasoline.
 

Also, and I’ve put it off long enough, but it’s time I stopped moping. They lost. It was the sense of inevitability that did me in, the whooooshing noise of getting to October and just knowing that the 100 years were up, that the Cubs could finally take the World Series and sweep it – they had a great season. It was our turn. Boston had their day a few years back. But this year wasn’t next year.  It was just this year – a good year, but not Next Year.
 

There’s not even anyone to blame. They didn’t even self destruct, or play bad ball. LA just played better baseball. They just got beat.
 

Eh. There’s always Next Year. We’ll get ‘em then, you’ll see.
 

Incidentally, in the time it’s taken me to write this, my car has used 15 cents worth of gasoline. Just sitting there, parked.
 

“Hey, come on – you started this with politics, you can’t just stop writing now,” I hear you cry. OK, I’ll tell you the truth – I’m not just voting, I’m endorsing my pick. I’m endorsing the only ticket to tell it like it is, to always put the needs of American viewers first. I’m writing in Dave Letterman and Tina Fey for the White House in 2008. Can’t you just see Letterman throwing things off the roof of the White House? He won’t veto bills – President Letterman rolls over them with a steamroller. And Tina Fey as VeeP? Heck, she can see the Jersey Turnpike from her house, and a good bit of Long Island.
 

“But where’s the Time Suck?” you ask. Ah, and I’m glad you did. Last week’s TSoW was called off in deference to the grief of Cubs fans everywhere. This week, though, the Suck is ON.
 

This week highlights the fun you can have in the UK, with the British Library. It’s easy. It’s addictive. It’s the whole damn world. I love to read (books, haha!), and if I can’t actually get my hands on them, at least I can turn the pages (though you have to install their plug-in). Plus, I can look at Blake’s original draft of The Tyger. Sheesh. It’s like looking over his shoulder – you can see where his mind was, what he wrote and then decided better of. I often wonder about what the future will find from our drafts – do we save them? How many of us draft on paper anymore; or even keep the drafts if we do? My backups are all of finished copy – I tend to delete the drafts once I’m done with a poem. (Done is a relative thing – they’re never really done. Sometimes they just stop getting better for a long long time.)
 

Anyway, that’s the TSoW. Make of it what you will.
 

This week's time suck came to me just recently, as most of them do. If you are anything like me - and I am not for one minute suggesting that you are, although you do keep reading this - you probably have a thing for maps. Who doesn't? A map gives us a sense of where we are in relation to the world, how we fit in, and in a small way perhaps a reminder that we're all on this shiny blue marble together.

Which brings me to http://www-personal.umich.edu/~mejn/cartograms/ and the wonderful world of the world, along with the WorldMapper Project/. Here are some interesting maps of the 2004 and 2006 elections, as well.

Then there's the Re-Visions of Minard site, which is a great way to dive into the technical aspects of what makes a map more than a map - how you can pack a terabyte of data into a megabyte of space.  I could spend hours with this, and have.

Once again it is time for the TSoW.  This week's Time Suck is for all of us readers, in case you're wondering what to read next - you know, once you're done with the never-ending exploits of the Big Ugly Man Doll. 

The wonderful people at http://www.literature-map.com/ have gifted us with a handy, if erratic, piece of code that will suggest to you other authors you might like based on a proximity map - the closer two writers are, the more likely someone will like both of them.  It's handy despite having an obviously "odd" algorithm, both from the perspective of "well, someone liked it" and from the perspective of "look at all the pretty colors" - just watching the names in the map float around is really kind of mesmerizing.

Useful?  Perhaps not.  A time suck?  Oh yeah.

Look at all the pretty colors!

Whew, that was close!   Hilary Swank is recovering from her recent hospitalization for something benign, and was released from the hospital. That was a pretty near break - Clint Eastwood was on his way to give her an overdose of adrenaline.
 

A long time ago, it became necessary for me to explain the creation of the Universe.  Since there's a lot of concern these days about the Large Hadron Collider getting ramped up to collide us into a black hole, I decided to share with you, Gentle Reader, the true story of how the Universe got the way it is.  It's time you knew.

The void Was.  In perfect symmetry was the void.  Then, without warning or preamble, the space-time continuum Was, and the symmetry was broken, and the void Was Not. 

The continuum brought with it the quantum field, and thus the quantum field Became.  The continuum spun and grew, and the quantum field spun and grew with the continuum. 

Because the symmetry was broken, the continuum did not spin and grow evenly.  Because the continuum did not spin and grow evenly, the quantum field did not spin and grow evenly.  The continuum spun and stretched unevenly, and the quantum field became lumpy.  The quantum field started to clump together throughout the continuum.  The continuum continued to expand and spin and stretch. 

As this happened, without warning or preamble, some very few of the clumps in the quantum field started to duplicate themselves, and life Was.  The continuum continued to expand and spin and stretch.  As this happened, some very few of the self-replicating clumps in the quantum field became self-aware. 

This happened very slowly.
 
The continuum continued, and the living, self-aware clumps in the quantum field began to do interesting things.  They started to count, and math Was.  They started to name things, and language Was.  They started to rail against the parameters imposed upon them by the space-time continuum, and religion Was.  They became self-important, and politics Was. 

They started to use tools.  They manipulated non-living clumps in the quantum field to control the shape of other non-living clumps in the quantum field.  Their best three tools were math, language, and religion.  They used these tools to create stories.  They used these stories to create more math and more language and more religions.  This happened very slowly, and the continuum continued to expand and spin and stretch. 

As this happened, without warning or preamble, some very few of the self-replicating, self-aware clumps in the quantum field realized that they were self-replicating, self-aware clumps in the quantum field, drifting on the surface of the space-time continuum, in the face of the void, and intelligence Was.

Now you know.

I just found out that an old boss and old friend, in every sense of that term, just lived through a quadruple bypass and is doing well.  Always glad to hear good news for a change!  Bill was famous for his unique outlook on life, particularly at work:  "Fuck it.  Doesn't matter."  I'd occasionally find "FIDM" pencilled in as a response to questions of "whadda we need to do about XYZ issue?"   He was *great* to work with!  Glad he's alive.

There are plenty of people who believe that the Large Hadron Collider, CERNs gigantic underground particle accelerator, will re-create the moment of the big bang that created the universe. There are plenty more people who believe that Dr. Frankenstein has really overreached his grasp this time - that as they try to peer into the deepest past of the universe, the LHC will create tiny blacks hole, which "could eat the Earth."  My favorite part is that the objections are based on CERNs failure to provide an environmental impact statement, on grounds that this is a major government action "significantly affecting the quality of the human environment."

Yeah, I can see the paperwork on that.  Just to save everyone some time, I'm posting the first draft here:

Introduction:  We’re CERN, baby.  Do you live around here often?  What’s your sign?

Purpose of LHC:  To boldly collide opposing beams of protons charged with approximately 7 TeVs of energy where no beams have been collided before. 

Need for LHC:  Ever heard of E=MC2?  He was one of us.  We need to reach, to know, to learn.  As we think, so we dream; as we create, so we become.  And besides, we love blowing stuff up.  We’re kids at heart. 

Affected Environment:  Whole goddamm planet, and a sizeable chunk of the solar system. 

Range of Alternatives
Alternative 1:  Well, I guess we could just not turn it on.
Alternative 2:  Instead of colliding the beams, we could cross them!
Alternative 3:  Just Do It.

Environmental Impacts
Alternative 1, Don’t turn it on:  Seems like a waste.  It’s so pretty. 
Alternative 2, Cross the beams:  Try to imagine all life as you know it stopping instantaneously and every molecule in your body exploding at the speed of light.
Alternative 3, Nike:  Might create a few Black Holes here and there.  Eh, just little ones – very tame, is no worry.

 

So there I was, enjoying another birthday party filled with 6-year-olds and women.  And by enjoying, I mean leaning against a wall.  One of the children was late to the party; he ran in and jumped into playing with the rest of the kids.  His mother looked through me, smiled brightly and said, “Hi ladies!” 

Right.  I am the big ugly man doll.  This is why. 

For those of you who may not yet know the reference, you’ll have to see the second of the wonderful Toy Story movies, called Toy Story 2.  (Go figure.)  Near the end, the evil misguided Prospector Pete is strapped to the backpack of a cute little girl, next to a brightly painted Barbie.  The little girl picks up her backpack, notices the new Pete doll, and exclaims to her mother, “Look, Mommy!  A big, ugly MAN doll!” 

When I take my children to these birthday gatherings, filled with pre-pubescent partying and estrogen energy sharing, I am that big, ugly man doll.  The nannies, the moms, the milfs, they do not speak to me unless in dire need.  (“Excuse me, um, the building is on fire, and, um…”)  I used to think that by hanging out with a bunch of cute kids – even my own – the cuteness would rub off on me, and perhaps I would be spoken to.  I also used to think monkeys would fly out of my butt if I waited long enough.  The monkeys are still the more likely outcome.  Er, so to speak.

So, I hear you ask, why in the name of Dr. Horrible and his Sing Along Blog would I not simply ask SOBUMD to take the Reigning Queen of Pink, Grand Duchess of Fluff, and High Protector of Barbies to the damn party?  Well, I’ll tell you.  I did.  She decided that I needed to attend this one myself, in my capacity as the BUMD, simply because “you need more material for the blog.” 

Now, a person with a larger ego than mine might consider this an accolade, in that my work as the BUMD is being requested, being fed, as it were.  There are some issues with this theory.  First, it is widely held to be a fact that there is no such person – you may travel from New York to Norway, from Araboth to Arkansas, from Greece to Gehenna, and you will not find anyone with a larger ego.  (My ego has its own passport, and travels the world.)  Therefore, since only someone with an ego larger than mine would consider this an accolade, and there is no such person, this must be subtrefuge of the highest order.

Since I am, if not the smartest person in the world, the smartest person you’re likely to meet, I have sussed the subtrefuge in play here.  SOBUMD sent me on this mission to remind me that our marriage is the best thing that ever happened to me – (true!) – and that, in her absence, the chances of my having sex with actual women are zero.  (Also true!)

So there I was, enjoying another birthday party filled with 6-year-olds and women.  I was, to the surprise of no one at all, largely ignored – until I overheard someone mention the word Starbucks, whereupon I most cheerfully made it clear that I would certainly be happy to join any such coffee-bound person or group.  (Hey, how about a Venti Caramel Milfiato, with extra whip!)  As I made my way out the door with one of the women, all the rest – and I am not making this up – decided they’d come too.  I can only assume that their decision was based on the desire to protect one of their own.  For the record, that one looked like she could hold her own against two of me, the barista, and the truck parked outside, but hey.  Women are from Venus, I have a penis, and that’s all there is to it.  So, instead of having to actually talk to me, they split into 2 groups – one in front of me, and one in back – and in this fashion we walked to Starbucks.  Once there, I ordered something masculine and tossed it back in one shot, crushed the empty cup against my forehead, and nailed the three-pointer by hitting the trash can from 17 feet.  After finding a napkin and looking like I’d meant to drip hot espresso down my forehead – which Real Men do all the time, of course – I moved closer to the estrogen constellation and overheard a discussion of the Eighties. 

I missed the Eighties, largely due to apathy, but one likes to keep one’s hand in, so I attempted a foray about how old I was getting (relative to said decade).  One of the ladies indicated that she’d recently passed her 20^th High School Reunion.  I mentioned that I had also recently passed – and skipped – the same milestone.  Since there was a pause in the general buzz, I asked her if she’d attended high school in this area. 

This being MY life, she cheerfully recited the name of my high school and the year of my graduation.  When I mentioned that I was in her graduating class, we remarked upon what a small world it was, and checked memories for names in common. 

She, of course, didn’t remember me at all, proving that SOBUMD is right – without her, I could build a freaking TIME MACHINE and my chances of having sex with actual women would STILL be zero.  I remain grateful that the SOBUMD loves me.  I don’t know why, but she does. 

Damned birthday parties. 

Ah yes, the immortal TSoW, in which the Big Ugly Man Doll philosophizes about many things, not least of which is which part of my personal insanity I should be sharing with you, Gentle Reader.  In the case of this week, the topic is death and philosophy - in fact, the causes of death of different philosophers through the ages.  

Here you will find out - because you've been dying to know - what really killed Nietzsche, Ockham (shaving accident), and Aristotle (excessive moderation), among many, many others, many of whom I've actually heard of.  So go on, expand your horizons.  http://people.pwf.cam.ac.uk/dhm11/DeathIndex.html  

Fair warning - unless you have a degree in comparative philosophy, it's not as funny as the cakes.  ;-)

Yes, just when yo thoguht it was safe to get back on the net, there's the Big Ugly Man Doll posting another TSoW.  Jeez.  

Today's time suck is hilarious; stop me if you've seen them before, but if you're a food fan you'll love Cake Wrecks.  We've watched Warren Brown turn wedding cakes into works of art at Cake Love.  We've watched Duff Goldman at Ace of Cakes blow shit up make cakes soar, scream, and write bad checks.  

Now, we can see how the rest of the world lives.

Stay tuned boys and girls, a headline roundup is just around the corner!

1. Straps

• Effectiveness: Not Very Effective
• Downsides: These are single-purpose straps meant to clip the sheets to the mattress. The sheets viewed them as “single use” and fed them to the dust bunnies when I was sleeping. I never found them again.

2. Superglue

• Effectiveness: Very Effective
• Downsides: High cost of THAT much glue makes this an expensive option. The glue did seem to stun the sheets. Also, wait until the glue dries before getting into the bed. I cannot emphasize this enough.

3. Staples 

• Effectiveness: That Was Easy (But Only Moderately Effective)
• Downsides: The sheets were able to turn many of the staples during the night, so that they either let the sheets pass or, in several cases, actively participated in the cause. I woke up wrapped and bleeding, looking far too much like Christ at about the 10^th station than I prefer. 

4. Duct Tape 

• Effectiveness: Moderately Effective
• Downsides: Since “percale” is actually French for “Teflon” the sheets were too slippery for even the inimitable Duct Tape to adhere well. I had to wrap the whole bed, getting the roll of tape under the mattress (between the mattress and the floor). Needless to say, I promptly got a call from the ASPCA about my heartless murder of 3,472 dust bunnies who had been building a culture of values, harmony, and understanding under my bed until they got stuck to the tape. I say fuck ‘em.

5. Fire 

• Effectiveness: Abject Failure
• Downsides: This attempt didn’t go so well. The only things to survive in the room, in fact, were the fireproof sheets (which did NOT melt into the mattress like I’d hoped they would) and 2 cockroaches, who got high while watching 862 dust bunnies shrieeeeeeeeek as they hopped around, lighting each other on fire trying to get out. I had to buy a new Sertans-Pedic. 

6. Quikrete 

• Effectiveness: Moderately Effective
• Downsides: Hard, and itchy if you get in before it’s cooled. Also, as with the glue – don’t test it until it’s hardened. Believe me. Just take my word for it. 

7. Negotiation 

• Effectiveness: Abject Failure
• Downsides: I asked the sheets what they wanted. They showed me a book entitled “To Serve Man”. Bitches.

8. Couch 

• Effectiveness: Very Effective
• Downsides: I just bought that new Sertans-Pedic. Besides, the dust bunnies miss me. The cockroaches told them that the sheets lie, in exchange for me dropping a few buds now and then. 

This weeks' _The New Yorker_ cover, and stop me if you've heard this one before, has a cartoon of Barak and Michelle Obama.  



Yep, that's the one.  There's been a lot of talk about it on both sides of the punditry, and reactions from both campaigns.  Obama told Larry King, "It's a cartoon ... and that's why we've got the First Amendment.  And I think the American people are probably spending a little more time worrying about what's happening with the banking system and the housing market and what's happening in Iraq and Afghanistan, than a cartoon."   

The New Yorker, which (full disclosure) the Big Ugly Man Doll reads weekly when he can keep up with it, was unrelenting and unrepentant.  Having gone to press with the cover, titled “The Politics of Fear” by Barry Blitt, New Yorker editor David Remnick told CNN that he believes the irony will be clear to most Americans.  "The idea is to attack lies and misconceptions and distortions about the Obamas and their background and their politics. We've heard all of this nonsense about how they're supposedly insufficiently patriotic or soft on terrorism."  

I have to say this goes to show how far out of touch The New Yorker is with the rest of middle America.  The magazine's subscribers will get it.  The folks walking past and seeing it on the stand, maybe not so much.

Sen. John McCain said Monday that the cover was "totally inappropriate."  This is self defense on McCain's part:  You can just imagine what next week's cover will look like, right?

Yep:  Cindy, sobbing over a coffin in the Rotunda. 

This past Friday the Washington Nationals, currently in the cellar, managed to lose two MORE fans in what can only be called the worst doubleheader ever.  These two fans, possibly having seen M. Night Shamalamadingdong’s The Happening once too often, decided to stand up while riding on the open top of a National’s-sponsored tour bus as it drove under an overpass, which turned out to be the last thing on their minds.  Always wear your seatbelt.  Besides, so what if your team is 16 games back?  It’s not that bad.  (Easy for me to say while the Cubs are on top.  Check this space in October…)

For other new and creative ways of dying, we need look no farther than Anheuser-Busch, which has collectively decided that $52 billion is worth dying for.  As they become Anheuser-Busch-InBev and sell out to Belgium, god-fearin’, gun-totin’, beercan-crushin’, right-thinkin’ Amuicans everwhar are putting down their cold ones and singing:

There goes the King / There goes the King / There goes the big Number One
Them profiteers / They got my beer / but they will not get my gun!
When you sold Bud you sold a mouthful
When you sold Bud you sold your soul
When you sold Bud you sold your soul

And America wept.

Mind you, I don’t much care for Budweiser – I’m more likely to crack an import than a mainstream domestic – but I feel the same way about Bud as I do about Harley-Davidsons:  I don’t own one, but I’d hate to lose something so quintessentially American.  

Speaking of things quintessentially American, we seem to have a new tradition for entrants in the Miss Universe pageant to live up (down?) to.  For the second year in a row, the American entrant in the pageant failed to meet the crucial challenge of walking and smiling at the same time, tripping over her feet on stage.  I guess this Crystle doesn’t shatter too easily…

Last, the Formula One chief is under fire for having kinky sex.  His detractors claim, "There was a general attempt … to present it as some kind of worthy activity … as though it was all being carried out under the guidance of the Bondage and Sadomasochism Regulatory Authority."  Man, talk about Big Government.  I didn’t know we had an agency for that!  Imagine applying for a job there, doubtless using the Government SF-69 form.  

That’s about it for the headline roundup – all the news I can make myself give a damn about.  Tune in next time!

OK, OK, I know, it's only July, but it has been ONE HUNDRED YEARS, and they do just happen to have the best record in baseball at the moment.  

You know, today.

Now.

At this very minute.

I'm sure that will change; after all, I've only been waiting for 39 years.  I know how this works.

But still.  It's been 100 years. 

It's time.

I'm just sayin', is all.