Each year scientists conduct tens of thousands of studies on subjects of all kinds, which produce mountains of reports, most of which occupy pride of place on remote, dusty shelves, never to be taken down unless they're the right size to level up an uneven table leg. Many of those studies are funded by your tax dollars and examine all sorts of obscure subjects important to one congressional district or another...you can read about many of them in "The Pig Book," which was discussed in this CNN report the other day.
But today I call your attention to this valuable study which - amazingly enough - seems not to have been funded by a Congressional earmark, and which will be of interest to men everywhere.
A survey of sex therapists, the results of which will be published in the Journal of Sexual Medicine next month, concluded that the optimal amount of time for sexual intercourse is 3 to 13 minutes. This will, of course, be welcome news to those overly excitable men who finish their sexual encounter if their partner smiles at them across the dinner table.
There are asterisks, of course...the 3 to 13 minute time span documented in the study does not count foreplay, and the surveyed therapists rated sexual intercourse that lasts from 1 to 2 minutes as "too short" (well, duh...).
Now, I'm no expert on either scientific studies or sex (at my age, I have but vague memories of the latter), but somehow I have to think it was unnecessary to spend any money on a study of the optimum time for a sexual encounter: most men, if asked, would probably say, "until I'm done;" most women would probably say, "until I'm done;" end of study, thank you very much. In any case, since the women in the study were armed with stopwatches (!), one has to imagine that the results may have been skewed by more-than-usual performance anxiety on the part of the men...the ticking of a stopwatch in the hands of ones partner could tend to be a little more off-putting than soft jazz playing in the background.
So, male readers, take heart if you are challenged in the arena of sexual endurance...it's not as bad as you think! Just make sure your partner has a chance to read the study. You can even underline the good parts, and block out the part about 1 to 2 minutes being too short.
Female readers, it has been officially documented that 1 to 2 minutes is too short, and the 3 to 13 minutes doesn't include foreplay. Stand up for your rights! Or lie down, whatever.
Have a good day. More thoughts tomorrow.
Bilbo
Thursday, April 03, 2008
Wednesday, April 02, 2008
America's National Pastime
No, it's not waiting for the next Britney Spears meltdown, or the next message of imminent disaster for the financial community.
Baseball season has started.
Not that I care very much, of course, not being a baseball fan on the order of John. I enjoy playing baseball, but don't find it all that interesting to watch, and I've never been able to get into the Talmudic parsing of the most obscure statistics and game trivia that seem to inspire true baseball fans:
Announcer: "And now Schmidlap steps up to bat. He was 3 for 4 last season, with a batting average of .300, 563 RBI's, 5200 RPM's, and an RDA of 300 mg's. Schmidlap holds the American League record for at-bats by a right-handed, blue-eyed, cross-dressing lapsed Catholic history buff with three children and a dog."
Bar Patron: "That's wrong!! He had 5204 RPM's last year, which was his personal best record for a year divisible by 3! And he has a cat, not a dog!"
One of the time-honored traditions of American baseball is that the President throws out the first pitch of the opening game. This is not necessarily a bad thing, as it gives presidents something to do that they can't really screw up. Of course, in my opinion, we should have thrown out the president and kept the ball, but that's just me. Or as writer Gore Vidal once said, "These presidential ninnies should stick to throwing out baseballs and leave the important matters to serious people."
I think Mr Vidal was on to something.
Here in Washington, DC, the brand-new stadium for the Washington Nationals has just opened to generally rave reviews, except from the nearby small shop-owners who are finding their rents soaring out of sight as developers rush to build up the previously-distressed neighborhood. Parking? If you want to park within a day's walk of the stadium, take out a second mortgage on your house first. Or you could take the Metro to the stadium and save the parking money to pay for your hot dog, popcorn, and drink, which will cost you an amount equal to the GNP of a small African nation.
But if that's your thing, by all means go for it. In fact, treat your congressman to a trip to a game. For the few hours he'll be watching the game, he won't be able to foul up the economy any more.
Have a good day. More thoughts tomorrow.
Bilbo
P.S. - Last night was the second elimination on Dancing with the Stars, and actor Steve Gutenberg was voted off the hardwood island. Too bad. I personally think Marissa Jaret Winokur should have gone, but that's the breaks. The high point of the results show was the "Mango" danced by Steve Gutenberg and Jonathan Roberts. Roberts had stepped in to train Gutenberg during the previous week while his wife - Gutenberg's partner Anna Trebunskaya - was sick. It was hysterical.
B.
Baseball season has started.
Not that I care very much, of course, not being a baseball fan on the order of John. I enjoy playing baseball, but don't find it all that interesting to watch, and I've never been able to get into the Talmudic parsing of the most obscure statistics and game trivia that seem to inspire true baseball fans:
Announcer: "And now Schmidlap steps up to bat. He was 3 for 4 last season, with a batting average of .300, 563 RBI's, 5200 RPM's, and an RDA of 300 mg's. Schmidlap holds the American League record for at-bats by a right-handed, blue-eyed, cross-dressing lapsed Catholic history buff with three children and a dog."
Bar Patron: "That's wrong!! He had 5204 RPM's last year, which was his personal best record for a year divisible by 3! And he has a cat, not a dog!"
One of the time-honored traditions of American baseball is that the President throws out the first pitch of the opening game. This is not necessarily a bad thing, as it gives presidents something to do that they can't really screw up. Of course, in my opinion, we should have thrown out the president and kept the ball, but that's just me. Or as writer Gore Vidal once said, "These presidential ninnies should stick to throwing out baseballs and leave the important matters to serious people."
I think Mr Vidal was on to something.
Here in Washington, DC, the brand-new stadium for the Washington Nationals has just opened to generally rave reviews, except from the nearby small shop-owners who are finding their rents soaring out of sight as developers rush to build up the previously-distressed neighborhood. Parking? If you want to park within a day's walk of the stadium, take out a second mortgage on your house first. Or you could take the Metro to the stadium and save the parking money to pay for your hot dog, popcorn, and drink, which will cost you an amount equal to the GNP of a small African nation.
But if that's your thing, by all means go for it. In fact, treat your congressman to a trip to a game. For the few hours he'll be watching the game, he won't be able to foul up the economy any more.
Have a good day. More thoughts tomorrow.
Bilbo
P.S. - Last night was the second elimination on Dancing with the Stars, and actor Steve Gutenberg was voted off the hardwood island. Too bad. I personally think Marissa Jaret Winokur should have gone, but that's the breaks. The high point of the results show was the "Mango" danced by Steve Gutenberg and Jonathan Roberts. Roberts had stepped in to train Gutenberg during the previous week while his wife - Gutenberg's partner Anna Trebunskaya - was sick. It was hysterical.
B.
Tuesday, April 01, 2008
Who's the April Fool?
Today is April 1st - April Fool's Day. The origins of this celebration of tomfoolery are complicated, but you can read two versions of its history here and here. One version of the history tells us that the celebration of April 1st as a day of trickery and lightheartedness can be traced back to the change from the Julian Calendar to the Gregorian Calendar in the West...because a week went missing in the change, and communications at that time were quite slow and unreliable (comparable to the speed and quality of communication between Congress and the President today), some people either didn't get the word, or elected to stay with their traditional calendar and be a week out of sync with their fellows...who made fun of these "April Fools."
Today, we celebrate April Fool's Day with silly practical jokes - who hasn't seem something like an office with everything in it wrapped in aluminum foil, or received a message to call "Mr Lyons" at a particular number...which turns out to be the number of the local zoo?
But the real April Fools, I say, are you and I. We are the victims of an enormous practical joke played on us by those who have wrecked the economy through their shameless greed and lack of willingness to accept responsibility for their actions. Lots of people made a killing in the subprime mortgage market, leaving a vast mess for the April Fools - taxpayers like you and I - to clean up. We're the victims of a joke far more disastrous than having our offices shrink-wrapped or our telephone numbers spread around with the note to "call ... for a good time."
The real April Fools are the people who have lost their homes because unscrupulous lenders convinced them to take out mortgages they couldn't afford, the Enron employees whose life savings vanished in an instant, and the people whose retirement plans are in the toilet because they were invested in unregulated and irresponsible financial instruments.
At a time when our national infrastructure is crumbling, we're bogged down in ugly wars in Iraq and Afghanistan, and we're awash in a flood of illegal immigrants, our taxes must now be used to fix the mess caused by greedy and irresponsible financial "managers" who tried to enrich themselves without thought of the consequences.
Happy April Fool's Day. At least there's one day a year we can celebrate each other.
Have a good day. More thoughts tomorrow.
Bilbo
Today, we celebrate April Fool's Day with silly practical jokes - who hasn't seem something like an office with everything in it wrapped in aluminum foil, or received a message to call "Mr Lyons" at a particular number...which turns out to be the number of the local zoo?
But the real April Fools, I say, are you and I. We are the victims of an enormous practical joke played on us by those who have wrecked the economy through their shameless greed and lack of willingness to accept responsibility for their actions. Lots of people made a killing in the subprime mortgage market, leaving a vast mess for the April Fools - taxpayers like you and I - to clean up. We're the victims of a joke far more disastrous than having our offices shrink-wrapped or our telephone numbers spread around with the note to "call ... for a good time."
The real April Fools are the people who have lost their homes because unscrupulous lenders convinced them to take out mortgages they couldn't afford, the Enron employees whose life savings vanished in an instant, and the people whose retirement plans are in the toilet because they were invested in unregulated and irresponsible financial instruments.
At a time when our national infrastructure is crumbling, we're bogged down in ugly wars in Iraq and Afghanistan, and we're awash in a flood of illegal immigrants, our taxes must now be used to fix the mess caused by greedy and irresponsible financial "managers" who tried to enrich themselves without thought of the consequences.
Happy April Fool's Day. At least there's one day a year we can celebrate each other.
Have a good day. More thoughts tomorrow.
Bilbo
Monday, March 31, 2008
What the Toddler Wants...
One of the problems with having four grandchildren, three of whom live a ten-hour drive away (four hours, if Agnes is at the wheel) is that the nearest grandchild tends to get the immediate attention. It has nothing at all to do with how much you love all four...it's just that it's easier to cuddle the one that lives just a half-hour away.
We spent the afternoon yesterday visiting our daughter Yasmin and her family. This was a special occasion, as we were celebrating Yasmin's birthday, and so Leya was in Grandparent Overload, with two sets of old fogies all jockeying for cuddling time. I got on the scoreboard early...
I'm still not quite sure if she was happier at the attention of Grandpa or the ability to play with her feet.
After a very nice Indian lunch prepared by Grandma Indira, we got ready to cut the birthday cake. Yasmin is actually a bit more than six years old, but it's never too soon to stop calling attention to a woman's real age. Leya was very interested in the cake...
We thought it would be nice to have a three-generations picture of all the ladies, and so Grandpa Gopi and I tried to herd all the cats into an appropriate pose...Leya's not too sure about the whole thing...
Now we're ready for the picture. Everyone is looking at the camera...now!...quick - while everyone's attention is distracted...
Yep, you guessed it:
It's a little-known fact of child physiology that a toddler's arms can extend to a reach of approximately four feet when something interesting is within range. I believe she's thinking something like, "Forget all that pureed peas stuff...gimme the cake, NOW!"
Happy Birthday, Yasmin! You've got your work cut out for you!
Have a good day. More thoughts tomorrow.
Bilbo
We spent the afternoon yesterday visiting our daughter Yasmin and her family. This was a special occasion, as we were celebrating Yasmin's birthday, and so Leya was in Grandparent Overload, with two sets of old fogies all jockeying for cuddling time. I got on the scoreboard early...
I'm still not quite sure if she was happier at the attention of Grandpa or the ability to play with her feet.
After a very nice Indian lunch prepared by Grandma Indira, we got ready to cut the birthday cake. Yasmin is actually a bit more than six years old, but it's never too soon to stop calling attention to a woman's real age. Leya was very interested in the cake...
We thought it would be nice to have a three-generations picture of all the ladies, and so Grandpa Gopi and I tried to herd all the cats into an appropriate pose...Leya's not too sure about the whole thing...
Now we're ready for the picture. Everyone is looking at the camera...now!...quick - while everyone's attention is distracted...
Yep, you guessed it:
It's a little-known fact of child physiology that a toddler's arms can extend to a reach of approximately four feet when something interesting is within range. I believe she's thinking something like, "Forget all that pureed peas stuff...gimme the cake, NOW!"
Happy Birthday, Yasmin! You've got your work cut out for you!
Have a good day. More thoughts tomorrow.
Bilbo
Sunday, March 30, 2008
Random Thoughts on Fine Dining
Agnes and I decided to eat out last night after our dance coaching session, and enjoyed a marvelous dinner at a great, modestly-priced Indian restaurant in Bethesda, MD - Haandi. Strongly recommended if you are in the area. But it also got me to thinking about the dining experience...
I was reading a collection of Sniglets (words that aren't in the dictionary, but ought to be) over at Verbicidal Tendencies the other day, and one of the words included was my old favorite, Peppier. The Peppier is the floating waiter in restaurants whose sole job seems to be circulating with a pepper mill, offering to grind fresh pepper onto whatever happens to be on your plate. I find this a little annoying, partly because I prefer to grind my own pepper, and partly because a whole subculture has grown up in restaurants around pepper mills and the drones that wander around operating them. One of the best I've seen was a restaurant that had a pepper mill with a built-in flashlight (no kidding) so that the Peppier could accurately grind in the low-light conditions prevalent in the establishment. I have also noted a trend toward ever-larger pepper mills...it won't be long before you'll have three guys marching up to your table with a pepper mill the size of a utility pole: one to aim, one to grind, and one in the middle to help hold it up. One of my Army friends once said the next thing would be the "crew-served pepper mill," and I think he was pretty close.
Waiters in most fine restaurants cultivate that aura of hauteur that tells you you're going to have a coronary when you see the bill. At more moderate restaurants, they're a bit more laid back - "Hi! I'm Wendy, and I'll be taking care of you this evening!" I sometimes reply, "Hi, we're Bilbo and Agnes, and we'll be your customers today!" This is where Agnes always hides her face behind the menu.
Next comes the Ritual of the Announcement of the Specials, in which the waiter reels off a list of the day's specials at high speed in a single breath: "Todaywehavethepureeofoctopuswithfenugreeksauceoverpastaforeighteenfifty." I can't listen that fast, particularly with the usual restaurant background noise, and so I always end up looking like a doofus by asking them to repeat a few times.
Why does every passing waiter need to stop and ask whether everything is satisfactory? It's extra annoying because they all learn at Waiters' School to carefully observe you so that they can properly time their approach and ask the question when your mouth is full:
Waiter: "Is everything delicious, sir?"
Bilbo: "Ummph glog hrumm!"
Waiter: "Great! Enjoy your dinner!"
Then there's that magic moment when the bill is presented. In the distant past, the waiter would automatically hand the bill to the man, on the expectation that he was treating the lady. Now, of course, many modern women would be gravely insulted to think that they were dependent on a lowly man to provide for their sustenence, and so the waiter carefully positions the bill on the table at a neutral spot midway between man and lady. And then the man pays it, anyhow. At least, in my experience. Maybe I need to go out with richer women.
And don't you just love it when the waiter sets the bill down and says something like, "I'll take care of this whenever you're ready." I always want to say, "Wow, that's really generous of you - thanks!", or, "Okay, come back in 2014."
But somehow, I don't think they'd appreciate the humor as much as I do.
Tonight, I'm fixing dinner. Unless I can talk Agnes into doing it. Enjoy your own dinner, whether you make it, order it, or go somewhere to have it. And see if my observations aren't right on the money.
Have a good day. More thoughts tomorrow.
Bilbo
I was reading a collection of Sniglets (words that aren't in the dictionary, but ought to be) over at Verbicidal Tendencies the other day, and one of the words included was my old favorite, Peppier. The Peppier is the floating waiter in restaurants whose sole job seems to be circulating with a pepper mill, offering to grind fresh pepper onto whatever happens to be on your plate. I find this a little annoying, partly because I prefer to grind my own pepper, and partly because a whole subculture has grown up in restaurants around pepper mills and the drones that wander around operating them. One of the best I've seen was a restaurant that had a pepper mill with a built-in flashlight (no kidding) so that the Peppier could accurately grind in the low-light conditions prevalent in the establishment. I have also noted a trend toward ever-larger pepper mills...it won't be long before you'll have three guys marching up to your table with a pepper mill the size of a utility pole: one to aim, one to grind, and one in the middle to help hold it up. One of my Army friends once said the next thing would be the "crew-served pepper mill," and I think he was pretty close.
Waiters in most fine restaurants cultivate that aura of hauteur that tells you you're going to have a coronary when you see the bill. At more moderate restaurants, they're a bit more laid back - "Hi! I'm Wendy, and I'll be taking care of you this evening!" I sometimes reply, "Hi, we're Bilbo and Agnes, and we'll be your customers today!" This is where Agnes always hides her face behind the menu.
Next comes the Ritual of the Announcement of the Specials, in which the waiter reels off a list of the day's specials at high speed in a single breath: "Todaywehavethepureeofoctopuswithfenugreeksauceoverpastaforeighteenfifty." I can't listen that fast, particularly with the usual restaurant background noise, and so I always end up looking like a doofus by asking them to repeat a few times.
Why does every passing waiter need to stop and ask whether everything is satisfactory? It's extra annoying because they all learn at Waiters' School to carefully observe you so that they can properly time their approach and ask the question when your mouth is full:
Waiter: "Is everything delicious, sir?"
Bilbo: "Ummph glog hrumm!"
Waiter: "Great! Enjoy your dinner!"
Then there's that magic moment when the bill is presented. In the distant past, the waiter would automatically hand the bill to the man, on the expectation that he was treating the lady. Now, of course, many modern women would be gravely insulted to think that they were dependent on a lowly man to provide for their sustenence, and so the waiter carefully positions the bill on the table at a neutral spot midway between man and lady. And then the man pays it, anyhow. At least, in my experience. Maybe I need to go out with richer women.
And don't you just love it when the waiter sets the bill down and says something like, "I'll take care of this whenever you're ready." I always want to say, "Wow, that's really generous of you - thanks!", or, "Okay, come back in 2014."
But somehow, I don't think they'd appreciate the humor as much as I do.
Tonight, I'm fixing dinner. Unless I can talk Agnes into doing it. Enjoy your own dinner, whether you make it, order it, or go somewhere to have it. And see if my observations aren't right on the money.
Have a good day. More thoughts tomorrow.
Bilbo
Saturday, March 29, 2008
Of Terrorists and Nipple Rings
You may have seen this story on CNN, or on one of the other news outlets. The Reader's Digest version of the story is that the guardians of our ability to travel safely, the TSA, recently forced a female traveler to remove her nipple rings - but not her navel ring - in order to proceed through security to board her flight. Nipple rings apparently not being designed for easy removal (not that I know much about the topic), the woman had to use a pair of pliers and suffer great pain and humiliation in order to endure the sheer joy of modern air travel.
Leaving aside for a moment the obvious question of why a sane human being would want to pierce her nipples in the first place, this unfortunate incident illustrates the ridiculous lengths to which we have been driven by fear of terrorism, not to mention the death of common sense in 21st century America.
The lady in question, when her nipple rings set off the airport metal detectors, apparently offered to submit to a private visual search or pat-down by a female security officer to prove that she was not carrying an explosive bosom. This right (which the TSA's own regulations permit) was evidently denied, and the lady suffered needless pain and humiliation.
This ranks right up there with our discussion the other day of the fellow who shot his wife while trying to drill a hole in a wall with a .22 caliber pistol. What's wrong with people nowadays? In the immortal words of Ripley in the movie Aliens, "Did IQ's just drop sharply while I was away?" Consider all the questions this incident raises:
1. Why didn't the TSA follow its own rules?
2. Why didn't the TSA supervisor who was summoned exercise a little common sense?
3. How will my security be enhanced by the inevitable lawsuit which will follow this incident, which will no doubt result in a large cash settlement to the aggrieved lady? Wouldn't that money be better spent on measures which really enhance our security? And by the way, don't forget that you and I as taxpayers are the ones who will ultimately be paying the lady.
4. Why would someone want their nipples pierced, anyhow?
I fly fairly often, and thus have a vested interest in the security of the air traffic system. I have been willing to accept the many delays and indignities inherent in our approach to ensuring this security. But I expect the people who are responsible for security planning to evaluate the risks and take appropriate measures to minimize them. Risk management involves a balancing of threats and countermeasures...it's impossible to protect against everything, and so rational decisions must be made on what to look for and defend against.
For the record, the TSA has admitted that proper procedures weren't followed, although they point out that they are "...well aware of terrorists' interest in hiding dangerous items in sensitive areas of the body. Therefore, we (TSA) have a duty to the American public to resolve any alarm that we discover." This is, of course, prudent. But so is common sense in the performance of a difficult job.
I will feel much better on my next flight, knowing that the lady sitting next to me won't be packing heat in her bra. Nevertheless, you can be sure that I will be carefully observing the potentially dangerous breasts of ladies from now on.
Have a good day. More thoughts tomorrow.
Bilbo
Leaving aside for a moment the obvious question of why a sane human being would want to pierce her nipples in the first place, this unfortunate incident illustrates the ridiculous lengths to which we have been driven by fear of terrorism, not to mention the death of common sense in 21st century America.
The lady in question, when her nipple rings set off the airport metal detectors, apparently offered to submit to a private visual search or pat-down by a female security officer to prove that she was not carrying an explosive bosom. This right (which the TSA's own regulations permit) was evidently denied, and the lady suffered needless pain and humiliation.
This ranks right up there with our discussion the other day of the fellow who shot his wife while trying to drill a hole in a wall with a .22 caliber pistol. What's wrong with people nowadays? In the immortal words of Ripley in the movie Aliens, "Did IQ's just drop sharply while I was away?" Consider all the questions this incident raises:
1. Why didn't the TSA follow its own rules?
2. Why didn't the TSA supervisor who was summoned exercise a little common sense?
3. How will my security be enhanced by the inevitable lawsuit which will follow this incident, which will no doubt result in a large cash settlement to the aggrieved lady? Wouldn't that money be better spent on measures which really enhance our security? And by the way, don't forget that you and I as taxpayers are the ones who will ultimately be paying the lady.
4. Why would someone want their nipples pierced, anyhow?
I fly fairly often, and thus have a vested interest in the security of the air traffic system. I have been willing to accept the many delays and indignities inherent in our approach to ensuring this security. But I expect the people who are responsible for security planning to evaluate the risks and take appropriate measures to minimize them. Risk management involves a balancing of threats and countermeasures...it's impossible to protect against everything, and so rational decisions must be made on what to look for and defend against.
For the record, the TSA has admitted that proper procedures weren't followed, although they point out that they are "...well aware of terrorists' interest in hiding dangerous items in sensitive areas of the body. Therefore, we (TSA) have a duty to the American public to resolve any alarm that we discover." This is, of course, prudent. But so is common sense in the performance of a difficult job.
I will feel much better on my next flight, knowing that the lady sitting next to me won't be packing heat in her bra. Nevertheless, you can be sure that I will be carefully observing the potentially dangerous breasts of ladies from now on.
Have a good day. More thoughts tomorrow.
Bilbo
Friday, March 28, 2008
Halfway to Creation
One of the websites I check every day without fail is the Astronomy Picture of the Day. This site features a daily picture of some aspect of our universe, with an accompanying explanation written by an astronomer. There aren't very many things more fascinating and beautiful than some of the photos of the distant universe taken by the Hubble Space Telescope or other observatories. I have downloaded hundreds of these pictures and integrated them into my screensaver (along with pictures of the World's Most Beautiful Grandchildren, dancing, fabulous Alaska landscapes from Jill, etc).
I don't know how it's possible to look at some of these gorgeous astronomical photos without a sense of wonder and humility at our tiny place in the inconceivable vastness of the universe. I don't think for a moment that we are alone in the billions of beautiful galaxies we can see, even if we are so far away from them we may never know for sure. It's no wonder that we refer to outstanding people as "stars."
The photo on the APOD website today isn't one of the most vivid and beautiful...nothing like the famous "Pillars of Creation" image or some of the glorious nebula photos like this one. It's a pretty nondescript photo of an exploding star...but what makes it unique is that it is so unimaginably distant - quite literally, halfway to creation.
The idea that something is so far away that it takes 7.5 billion years for its light to reach us is just about as amazing and humbling as anything I can imagine. On those days when I wake up feeling like I'm a hundred years old, it's useful to think of what that span of time means in the great scheme of things.
There are two ways to look at the immensity of the night sky. You can feel tiny, lost, and utterly insignificant, or you can feel wonder at being a part of something so awe-inspiring. I choose the latter.
Although I'm not a conventionally religious person, I don't see how you can look at the universe and not believe in God. But I also don't see how one can see the immensity of creation and believe in a God that worries about whether or not men grow beards or women cover themselves from head to foot, whether you eat meat on Fridays, pray five times a day, or worship in a church, synagogue, or mosque. Somehow, I think God - whatever that means - sits back and shakes His (Her? Its?) head at the things we do in His (Her? Its?) name.
The universe is a grand and glorious place that we seem to work very hard at diminishing. As for me, I prefer to keep the sense of wonder at this vast, unknowable place that God - however you choose to understand the term - has laid out for us. It's a comfort in difficult times.
Have a good day. More thoughts tomorrow.
Bilbo
I don't know how it's possible to look at some of these gorgeous astronomical photos without a sense of wonder and humility at our tiny place in the inconceivable vastness of the universe. I don't think for a moment that we are alone in the billions of beautiful galaxies we can see, even if we are so far away from them we may never know for sure. It's no wonder that we refer to outstanding people as "stars."
The photo on the APOD website today isn't one of the most vivid and beautiful...nothing like the famous "Pillars of Creation" image or some of the glorious nebula photos like this one. It's a pretty nondescript photo of an exploding star...but what makes it unique is that it is so unimaginably distant - quite literally, halfway to creation.
The idea that something is so far away that it takes 7.5 billion years for its light to reach us is just about as amazing and humbling as anything I can imagine. On those days when I wake up feeling like I'm a hundred years old, it's useful to think of what that span of time means in the great scheme of things.
There are two ways to look at the immensity of the night sky. You can feel tiny, lost, and utterly insignificant, or you can feel wonder at being a part of something so awe-inspiring. I choose the latter.
Although I'm not a conventionally religious person, I don't see how you can look at the universe and not believe in God. But I also don't see how one can see the immensity of creation and believe in a God that worries about whether or not men grow beards or women cover themselves from head to foot, whether you eat meat on Fridays, pray five times a day, or worship in a church, synagogue, or mosque. Somehow, I think God - whatever that means - sits back and shakes His (Her? Its?) head at the things we do in His (Her? Its?) name.
The universe is a grand and glorious place that we seem to work very hard at diminishing. As for me, I prefer to keep the sense of wonder at this vast, unknowable place that God - however you choose to understand the term - has laid out for us. It's a comfort in difficult times.
Have a good day. More thoughts tomorrow.
Bilbo
Thursday, March 27, 2008
The Right Tool for the Right Job
One of the great things about being a curmudgeonly blogger is that one can never run out of things to inspire new posts. Each new day dawns revealing new horizons of breathtaking stupidity at every level of life from the great and aristocratic to the humble and ordinary.
I call your attention to this news story from Sedalia, Missouri. The headline: "Man Installing Satellite TV Shoots, Kills Wife."
This is the story in brief: a fellow trying to install a satellite TV dish needed to drill a hole through the wall of his house. Either lacking a drill or being too mentally challenged to use one (in the words of the story, "after several unsuccessful efforts to punch a hole through the exterior wall using other means"), this mental giant decided to use a .22 caliber pistol to shoot a hole through the wall. The first shot didn't quite work; the second not only made the desired hole in the wall, it also made a hole in the chest of his wife, who was standing out in the yard.
As I have often admitted in this space, I'm not much of a handyman. In fact, I'm a terrible handyman. The only tool I'm adept at handling is a pen, and I've even been known to draw blood by accidentally stabbing my hand with a fountain pen. But that said, I have to yield primacy of place in the pantheon of ineptitude to someone who could shoot his wife while installing a TV.
Morons!
But there's a larger, more serious dimension to this tragically ridiculous tale, and it deals with our uniquely American fixation on the right to own firearms. Last week I wrote here about the gun control case now before the Supreme Court, which focuses on the constitutionality of the ban on handguns in Washington, DC, and - in a larger sense - attempts to determine the real meaning of the Second Amendment to the Constitution. What did the founders really mean by a right "to keep and bear arms?"
As I said in my earlier post, I have no problem with gun ownership. I don't have any guns myself, but I don't have a problem with anyone else having them for any legal purpose. I do, however, have a problem with stupid people having unlimited access to deadly firearms. If you're dumb enough to try to use a handgun to drill a hole in a wall, you're probably too stupid to own a deadly weapon in the first place.
My point remains as it's always been: reasonable people can have a reasonable discussion of practical and defensible limits on the possession of firearms. Rabid advocates of unlimited freedom to own weapons of all types are as silly as rabid advocates of a complete ban on guns. Where to draw the legal line is the hard part...but that line will never be established by people shouting at each other across a vast philosophical chasm.
So, let's have the discussion. The case now before the Supreme Court is a starting point, and the decision is expected in June.
Hopefully, before one of my neighbors shoots me while installing an appliance.
Have a good day. More thoughts tomorrow.
Bilbo
I call your attention to this news story from Sedalia, Missouri. The headline: "Man Installing Satellite TV Shoots, Kills Wife."
This is the story in brief: a fellow trying to install a satellite TV dish needed to drill a hole through the wall of his house. Either lacking a drill or being too mentally challenged to use one (in the words of the story, "after several unsuccessful efforts to punch a hole through the exterior wall using other means"), this mental giant decided to use a .22 caliber pistol to shoot a hole through the wall. The first shot didn't quite work; the second not only made the desired hole in the wall, it also made a hole in the chest of his wife, who was standing out in the yard.
As I have often admitted in this space, I'm not much of a handyman. In fact, I'm a terrible handyman. The only tool I'm adept at handling is a pen, and I've even been known to draw blood by accidentally stabbing my hand with a fountain pen. But that said, I have to yield primacy of place in the pantheon of ineptitude to someone who could shoot his wife while installing a TV.
Morons!
But there's a larger, more serious dimension to this tragically ridiculous tale, and it deals with our uniquely American fixation on the right to own firearms. Last week I wrote here about the gun control case now before the Supreme Court, which focuses on the constitutionality of the ban on handguns in Washington, DC, and - in a larger sense - attempts to determine the real meaning of the Second Amendment to the Constitution. What did the founders really mean by a right "to keep and bear arms?"
As I said in my earlier post, I have no problem with gun ownership. I don't have any guns myself, but I don't have a problem with anyone else having them for any legal purpose. I do, however, have a problem with stupid people having unlimited access to deadly firearms. If you're dumb enough to try to use a handgun to drill a hole in a wall, you're probably too stupid to own a deadly weapon in the first place.
My point remains as it's always been: reasonable people can have a reasonable discussion of practical and defensible limits on the possession of firearms. Rabid advocates of unlimited freedom to own weapons of all types are as silly as rabid advocates of a complete ban on guns. Where to draw the legal line is the hard part...but that line will never be established by people shouting at each other across a vast philosophical chasm.
So, let's have the discussion. The case now before the Supreme Court is a starting point, and the decision is expected in June.
Hopefully, before one of my neighbors shoots me while installing an appliance.
Have a good day. More thoughts tomorrow.
Bilbo
Wednesday, March 26, 2008
Sorry, Passengers!
If you've traveled by air in the last year or so, you have almost certainly experienced the precipitous decline in the quality of the experience. Seats seem to be narrower (although that may just be a factor of your big, wide American backside), fewer flights take off or arrive on time, more luggage goes to the dreaded Black Hole of Vanished Bags, and you often have to pay for the yucky food that at least used to be free. Sometimes, as a result of weather, traffic jams in the air and on the ground, or scheduling errors, you can end up sitting on the tarmac for hours without food, water, air conditioning, or even working toilets. That's all bad enough, but the worst part of it is that the airline owns you during that time, and you have no recourse to compensation for discomfort, lost time, and general aggravation.
Things got so bad last year that the state of New York enacted a Passengers' Bill of Rights Law to address some of the more flagrant abuses. The airline industry, of course, objected to such a law, which would cut into profits already battered by the soaring cost of fuel.
And your Federal government, in the form of the Second U.S. Circuit Court of Appeals, has stepped in to help you. In a recent decision, the court struck down New York's law requiring airlines to provide food, water, clean toilets and fresh air to passengers stuck in delayed planes, saying that while it was well-intentioned, it interfered with federal laws governing the price, route or service of an air carrier. The court's decision called the goals of the law laudable and the circumstances that prompted New York to adopt it deplorable, but said that only the federal government has the authority to pass such regulations.
Can you spell stupid? Few recent decisions so well illustrate the famous quote from Charles Dickens' novel Oliver Twist, in which character Mr Bumble said that "the law is an ass...an idiot." While its legal reasoning is technically sound (Article 1, section 8 of the Constitution gives the federal government the authority "To regulate commerce with foreign nations, and among the several states..."), what we have here is a classic example of the states stepping in where the federal government has failed to exercise its responsibility. Instead of recognizing the problem and allowing the New York law to stand as a prod to Congress to start doing its job, the court simply struck down the law, saying it was a federal, not a state issue.
And you know, of course, how quickly Congress will move to protect your interests, as opposed to those of the airlines (which, as a general rule, contribute more to political campaigns than you do).
Think about that the next time you get ready to fly, and think about it again the next time you get ready to vote.
Have a good day. And try not to have it stuck in an airplane without basic services.
More thoughts tomorrow.
Bilbo
P.S. - Dancing with the Stars update: magician Penn Jillette and tennis star Monica Seles were the first two stars eliminated from competition last night. Both decisions were righteous, although I hated to see Monica Seles go, if only because I liked her. Sigh.
B.
Things got so bad last year that the state of New York enacted a Passengers' Bill of Rights Law to address some of the more flagrant abuses. The airline industry, of course, objected to such a law, which would cut into profits already battered by the soaring cost of fuel.
And your Federal government, in the form of the Second U.S. Circuit Court of Appeals, has stepped in to help you. In a recent decision, the court struck down New York's law requiring airlines to provide food, water, clean toilets and fresh air to passengers stuck in delayed planes, saying that while it was well-intentioned, it interfered with federal laws governing the price, route or service of an air carrier. The court's decision called the goals of the law laudable and the circumstances that prompted New York to adopt it deplorable, but said that only the federal government has the authority to pass such regulations.
Can you spell stupid? Few recent decisions so well illustrate the famous quote from Charles Dickens' novel Oliver Twist, in which character Mr Bumble said that "the law is an ass...an idiot." While its legal reasoning is technically sound (Article 1, section 8 of the Constitution gives the federal government the authority "To regulate commerce with foreign nations, and among the several states..."), what we have here is a classic example of the states stepping in where the federal government has failed to exercise its responsibility. Instead of recognizing the problem and allowing the New York law to stand as a prod to Congress to start doing its job, the court simply struck down the law, saying it was a federal, not a state issue.
And you know, of course, how quickly Congress will move to protect your interests, as opposed to those of the airlines (which, as a general rule, contribute more to political campaigns than you do).
Think about that the next time you get ready to fly, and think about it again the next time you get ready to vote.
Have a good day. And try not to have it stuck in an airplane without basic services.
More thoughts tomorrow.
Bilbo
P.S. - Dancing with the Stars update: magician Penn Jillette and tennis star Monica Seles were the first two stars eliminated from competition last night. Both decisions were righteous, although I hated to see Monica Seles go, if only because I liked her. Sigh.
B.
Tuesday, March 25, 2008
Lower Mathematics
Different people are good at different things. Agnes, for instance, is very good at crafts of all kinds...she can make beautiful things out of stained glass, knit sweaters, sew elegant dresses, mat and frame pictures, cook, teach ballroom dancing, and live with me without resorting to murder. If you gave her 500 pounds of steel wool, she could probably knit you a suit of armor.
I, on the other hand, have different talents. I write reasonably well, am a fairly good public speaker, tell great shaggy dog stories (well, I think they're great, anyhow), take good pictures, and plant a mean herb garden.
Just don't ask me to do anything with numbers.
I admit it - I've never been much good with math of any sort. Arithmetic in grade school, okay. Algebra, plane geometry and trigonometry in high school, not so good. Differential and integral calculus in college ... well, that's why I majored in Linguistics instead of Chemical Engineering. Count in other than base ten? My brain starts to smoke and melt and run out my ears.
Numbers and I just don't get along. I can count to ten with no problem, twenty when I'm in bare feet, and twenty-one with my fly open. But manipulating those numbers gets a bit problematic. Long division, short division, multiplication tables, matrix algebra, the Pythagorean Theorem, and all that stuff - forget it. Perversely enough, the only higher mathematical concept I ever found a use for was imaginary numbers - government accounting is all based on imaginary numbers anyhow, so they're fairly useful as long as you forget all that stuff about i being equal to the square root of -1 or some such nonsense.
Numbers are important in traveling, because you need to know how much your dollar is worth in the local currency...if you find yourself on Yap Island, for instance, it's useful to be able to calculate how many tons of stone money you can get for your poor, battered dollar. It's also helpful to aid in calculating how many truckloads of dollars you'll have to exchange for Euros for that European vacation this year. This website can help. And humorist Robert Benchley once offered a way of calculating the value of the French Franc based on the day of the week: Monday: 1 franc = 45 cents; Tuesday: 1 pound of chestnuts; Wednesday, 2-1/2 yards of linoleum; and so on.
One of the reasons I enjoy dancing Waltz is that I only have to be able to count to three. Paint-by-numbers; forget it. If my checkbook balances to within $10 of what I think it ought to be, I'm happy. And Pat the nice lady from H&R Block helps keep me out of jail by calculating my taxes for me.
Numbers. Don't leave home without them. But please don't bring them to me unless they're in very large quantities (for instance, in the form of a Power Ball or MegaMillions lottery jackpot).
Have a good day. By the numbers. More thoughts tomorrow.
Bilbo
I, on the other hand, have different talents. I write reasonably well, am a fairly good public speaker, tell great shaggy dog stories (well, I think they're great, anyhow), take good pictures, and plant a mean herb garden.
Just don't ask me to do anything with numbers.
I admit it - I've never been much good with math of any sort. Arithmetic in grade school, okay. Algebra, plane geometry and trigonometry in high school, not so good. Differential and integral calculus in college ... well, that's why I majored in Linguistics instead of Chemical Engineering. Count in other than base ten? My brain starts to smoke and melt and run out my ears.
Numbers and I just don't get along. I can count to ten with no problem, twenty when I'm in bare feet, and twenty-one with my fly open. But manipulating those numbers gets a bit problematic. Long division, short division, multiplication tables, matrix algebra, the Pythagorean Theorem, and all that stuff - forget it. Perversely enough, the only higher mathematical concept I ever found a use for was imaginary numbers - government accounting is all based on imaginary numbers anyhow, so they're fairly useful as long as you forget all that stuff about i being equal to the square root of -1 or some such nonsense.
Numbers are important in traveling, because you need to know how much your dollar is worth in the local currency...if you find yourself on Yap Island, for instance, it's useful to be able to calculate how many tons of stone money you can get for your poor, battered dollar. It's also helpful to aid in calculating how many truckloads of dollars you'll have to exchange for Euros for that European vacation this year. This website can help. And humorist Robert Benchley once offered a way of calculating the value of the French Franc based on the day of the week: Monday: 1 franc = 45 cents; Tuesday: 1 pound of chestnuts; Wednesday, 2-1/2 yards of linoleum; and so on.
One of the reasons I enjoy dancing Waltz is that I only have to be able to count to three. Paint-by-numbers; forget it. If my checkbook balances to within $10 of what I think it ought to be, I'm happy. And Pat the nice lady from H&R Block helps keep me out of jail by calculating my taxes for me.
Numbers. Don't leave home without them. But please don't bring them to me unless they're in very large quantities (for instance, in the form of a Power Ball or MegaMillions lottery jackpot).
Have a good day. By the numbers. More thoughts tomorrow.
Bilbo
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