Kyle sipped his diet soda and thought to himself. Like most, he thought silently, except when he suspected a writer was listening. The writer, though, hid behind a duck blind, observing Kyle through binoculars and jotting notes on grease-sodden napkins. The writer habitually forgot his notebook.
Kyle sat on a park bench because it seemed natural--the sitting, not the bench, which obtruded on an otherwise placid pond scene. He had swept away last week's droppings with his bare hands before landing. This caused the writer no end of theoretical consternation. Kyle sipped again, and again, and again, meditating on a distant billboard.
The writer enjoyed speculating far more than reporting, since it was easier on the imagination. Facts didn't jut out at awkard angles and spoil the narrative arc, or ice up the wings of fancy. Kyle's fifth sip was a deathblow to his Oedipus complex. The sixth shook the very foundations of metaphysics. His seventh startled the writer with its obvious yet subtle elegance.
Kyle's meditations ended as he reached the bottom of the can, sucking out the last few drops of guiltless carbonation. The sour aftertaste of aspartame collided with his thoughts and sent them skittering toward the duck blind. His eyes followed, and he noticed the writer. "Hey," Kyle said.
The writer grabbed notes and pens and binoculars and fled, abandoning the blind to the squirrels.
Kyle crumpled the can, tossed it in a nearby wastebasket, and reminded himself to write a nasty letter to his mother.
[seventeenth in a series]
May 31, 2005
on the way again
I've closed the gates on the next Smarter than I, which will be up sometime tomorrow. Number Six will be hosted at Locusts and Honey.
May 30, 2005
a moment of truth
DaveScot, on Dembski's blog, goes candid:
Elsewhere, DaveScot has said,
*Incidentally, I agree that everyone should know more, much more, about evolutionary theory, starting with its opponents.
I believe the only obstacle to [Intelligent Design]’s success as a valid scientific worldview is defeating Darwin’s exclusive reign as the only valid explanation for life in high school science classes, which is unfortunately the beginning and end of most people’s exposure to evolution-related science....No need to pretend that ID is or ever will be a fully-established research program that will convince actual scientists, right?*
...The major impediment to this is the establishment clause. What DI has been less than successful at is divorcing ID from religion in the view of the judiciary and to a lesser extent in the court of public opinion. My hope is that the tortured latter 20th century interpretation of the establishment clause gets relegated to the dustbin of history where it belongs as soon as our fearless leader President Bush can make a couple supreme court appointments....Anyone who thinks that ID is primarily a scientific movement is deluded. This isn't about who has the better explanation for the diversity of life on earth, fossil evidence, or irreducible complexity. It's about power, politics, and popularity. Science is a tangential concern.
Elsewhere, DaveScot has said,
... [A] bible-toting image of ID proponents is exceedingly egregious to me. I’m an agnostic and ID is perfectly suited to that world view.Yet in calling for a new reading of the Establishment Clause, DaveScot perpetuates that very image.
*Incidentally, I agree that everyone should know more, much more, about evolutionary theory, starting with its opponents.
Coldstone songs tips
I've already expressed my opinion on the subject, but to clarify and expound, I offer a list of suggestions for all involved in the franchise--passers-by, customers, drones, management--to maximize enjoyment of the Coldstone experience.
Passers-by
Yes, that is the proper plural. Go in. Try some ice cream.
Customers
As I've mentioned before, pay and tip with a credit card to avoid humiliation. (Not tipping is also an option, but your servers might sing different songs in that instance.)
Employees
Practice creative resistance to corporate vacuity. If someone tips, sing only if the boss is watching. Ask if the customer wants you to do your song-and-dance; chances are, they'll decline. Mask the clinking of small change by banging loudly on the cash register and announcing, "Darn this computer, it never works right." Teach your coworkers new lyrics to corporate tunes that, like their spiritual predecessors, are code for your escape to the freedom of a better-paying job. (Do not contemplate the strong possibility that you might have to trade liberty for salary.)
Management
Take the bus home from work, and sit next to the guy who boisterously sings with his iPod, and note the reactions of your fellow travelers when you join in. Take your significant other to Red Robin for a birthday treat, and watch closely as delight, horror, embarrassment, and existential angst cross your partner's face in rapid succession. Sit in the outer reaches of your local baseball stadium, in the non-family-friendly bleachers, right behind Drunk Guy who belts out the national anthem, otherwise known as "Take Me Out to the Ballgame."
Ready to reconsider your tipping policy?
[fifteenth in a series]
Passers-by
Yes, that is the proper plural. Go in. Try some ice cream.
Customers
As I've mentioned before, pay and tip with a credit card to avoid humiliation. (Not tipping is also an option, but your servers might sing different songs in that instance.)
Employees
Practice creative resistance to corporate vacuity. If someone tips, sing only if the boss is watching. Ask if the customer wants you to do your song-and-dance; chances are, they'll decline. Mask the clinking of small change by banging loudly on the cash register and announcing, "Darn this computer, it never works right." Teach your coworkers new lyrics to corporate tunes that, like their spiritual predecessors, are code for your escape to the freedom of a better-paying job. (Do not contemplate the strong possibility that you might have to trade liberty for salary.)
Management
Take the bus home from work, and sit next to the guy who boisterously sings with his iPod, and note the reactions of your fellow travelers when you join in. Take your significant other to Red Robin for a birthday treat, and watch closely as delight, horror, embarrassment, and existential angst cross your partner's face in rapid succession. Sit in the outer reaches of your local baseball stadium, in the non-family-friendly bleachers, right behind Drunk Guy who belts out the national anthem, otherwise known as "Take Me Out to the Ballgame."
Ready to reconsider your tipping policy?
[fifteenth in a series]
May 27, 2005
Jesus sends out the twelve
I am leaving for the weekend, once again daring to sleep with the ducks. Happy Memorial Day.
In my absence, check out some of my (life-less?) neighbors, and send in an entry to the next smarter than I. Because of the long weekend, I'll take them until Monday evening. Just email a link or two (and a blurb, if you want) to
smarterthani AT hotmail DOT com
or, even easier, use this handy-dandy automatic form.
Two days without blogging. Will I survive? Stay tuned...
Update: When the shaking and the headaches subsided, I relaxed and enjoyed a pleasant weekend eating too much meat and drinking too much Pepsi. Highlights included two perfect digs in a pickup volleyball game, five straight soccer goals against two limber Pele wannabes, and a crushing defeat of the same two adolescents in consecutive badminton matches. "You're conceited," one of the teenagers complained after the second embarrassment. "Comes with the win-loss record," I replied. (Props to my brother Matt for helping me hone my skills over the past few summers.)
I'm still taking entries for smarter than I #5.
[fourteenth in a series]
In my absence, check out some of my (life-less?) neighbors, and send in an entry to the next smarter than I. Because of the long weekend, I'll take them until Monday evening. Just email a link or two (and a blurb, if you want) to
smarterthani AT hotmail DOT com
or, even easier, use this handy-dandy automatic form.
Two days without blogging. Will I survive? Stay tuned...
Update: When the shaking and the headaches subsided, I relaxed and enjoyed a pleasant weekend eating too much meat and drinking too much Pepsi. Highlights included two perfect digs in a pickup volleyball game, five straight soccer goals against two limber Pele wannabes, and a crushing defeat of the same two adolescents in consecutive badminton matches. "You're conceited," one of the teenagers complained after the second embarrassment. "Comes with the win-loss record," I replied. (Props to my brother Matt for helping me hone my skills over the past few summers.)
I'm still taking entries for smarter than I #5.
[fourteenth in a series]
May 26, 2005
girls eating maggots
Shocked by the title? You aren't completely desensitized yet? You can still see with those eyes? You know what bile tastes like? You're tasting it now from just thinking about tasting it? (Perhaps it's contagious, like yawning. You just yawned, didn't you.)
Jody Folkedahl, an award-winning art major on the Dean's List at Southern Oregon University, is reveling in a little mock scandal.
[thirteenth in a series]
Jody Folkedahl, an award-winning art major on the Dean's List at Southern Oregon University, is reveling in a little mock scandal.
The piece was titled "Bustamante," after Folkedahl's art professor, Cody Bustamante. The canvas included the words: "and she was thinking about her painting professor."I leave it to you, dear reader, to suggest what the next shock-art tactic will be, now that this one's taken.
It wasn't the full-frontal nude which caused the painting to be removed, but rather the title which "singled out" a university member, said gallery adviser Karen Finnegan.
The 21-year-old Folkedahl, a native of Roseburg, said the painting grew out of a conversation with her art professor in which Bustamante "said it would be difficult if not impossible these days to create any art that would shock or offend people," said Folkedahl.
[thirteenth in a series]
information please
In his "letter Nature wouldn't print," Stephen C. Meyer, after citing his own work in defense of his position, adds a little zinger from a late Brookhaven researcher:
(Meyer, ostensibly, was alive during much of that time.)
Also: Who says scientists are a humorless lot?
...design theorists argue for intelligent design not only because natural selection and other materialistic mechanisms seem incapable of explaining, for example, the origin of digital information and complex machines in cells, but also because we know from experience that systems possessing such features do invariably arise from intelligent causes. As the pioneering information theorist Henry Quastler observed, "information habitually arises from conscious activity."Now, if only he had included Quastler's own speculation that his new (for the 1960s) idea
...establishes the possibility of the creation of new information... by an organism much simpler than man, even by a single cell, and even by a prebiological macromolecular system.Quastler thought the last scenario was improbable, and tried working out the probability of its occurrence, but died before seeing the fruits of the next forty years of scientific discovery.
(Meyer, ostensibly, was alive during much of that time.)
Also: Who says scientists are a humorless lot?
meaning of the puerto rican flag
After a minilesson on symbolism led to a dismal formative assessment, I needed to invent an acronym that would help students catch up on that all-important literary concept. Something as facile as ROY G. BIV or HOMES.
So here it is.
SYMBOL: Something You Might Be OverLooking.
(Unless you're reading The Scarlet Letter, in which case you'd have to be Arthur Dimmesdale to withstand the itching, kvetching persistence of SYMBOLISM.)
We'll see how it goes tomorrow.
[twelfth in a series]
So here it is.
SYMBOL: Something You Might Be OverLooking.
(Unless you're reading The Scarlet Letter, in which case you'd have to be Arthur Dimmesdale to withstand the itching, kvetching persistence of SYMBOLISM.)
We'll see how it goes tomorrow.
[twelfth in a series]
changing wineskins
Just when everyone is ready to write off the antiquated MSM (dinosaur media? old guard media? can we create a better term for this?), along comes David Postman of the Seattle Times, doing what's pretty close to a liveblog of the Rossi / Gregoire election trial in Wenatchee. Keep busting down the barriers, antediluvian media. Insta-opinion for all!
(Check out bloggers' takes at Gregoire-favoring The Horse's Ass or a Rossi-favoring Sound Politics.)
(Check out bloggers' takes at Gregoire-favoring The Horse's Ass or a Rossi-favoring Sound Politics.)
"...he vomits out all of his grief..."
A terabyte of storage on a plastic disc? Welcome to the future.
Whaddya bet they'll just stuff more inane, self-aggrandizing commentaries on them?
Whaddya bet they'll just stuff more inane, self-aggrandizing commentaries on them?
joshua golding
Or, an open letter to Google
Dear Google,
I do not deserve to be ranked fifth on a search for Joshua Golding, an upstanding scholar and chair of Bellarmine's department of philosophy. My addition to the library of knowledge on his work is a mere link to this review of a Richard Swinburne tome.
And really, the credit goes to Brian Weatherson, whose tireless efforts to catalogue philosophical papers available online is a labor of love and genius that too often goes unpraised.
So do what you must, Google, and move my piddling entry to the bottom of the link pile where it belongs.
Regards,
Jim Anderson
[eleventh in a series]
Dear Google,
I do not deserve to be ranked fifth on a search for Joshua Golding, an upstanding scholar and chair of Bellarmine's department of philosophy. My addition to the library of knowledge on his work is a mere link to this review of a Richard Swinburne tome.
And really, the credit goes to Brian Weatherson, whose tireless efforts to catalogue philosophical papers available online is a labor of love and genius that too often goes unpraised.
So do what you must, Google, and move my piddling entry to the bottom of the link pile where it belongs.
Regards,
Jim Anderson
[eleventh in a series]
May 25, 2005
Thurston County slogans
(Not to be confused with the official Thurston County motto, which doesn't exist.)
Just like King County, except smaller and liberaler.
We can pronounce "geoduck." Can you?
You can afford to live here, for now.
Rednecks and Greeners all.
Slow down.
Most of us know how to vote right.
The capital city is Olympia, dammit.
[tenth in a series]
Just like King County, except smaller and liberaler.
We can pronounce "geoduck." Can you?
You can afford to live here, for now.
Rednecks and Greeners all.
Slow down.
Most of us know how to vote right.
The capital city is Olympia, dammit.
[tenth in a series]
join the dark side and get a cookie
What, the previous offer wasn't good enough?
You drive a hard bargain, Mr. / Ms. Nerd. But the Dark Side needs hard-driving people.
Fine then. I'll throw in a cookie. Chocolate chip, steaming hot, moist and succulent, with a delicate balance of dough and chocolate. Real butter, not shortening or margarine or that soy crap. Tiny crumbs breaking apart on the tip of the tongue. Savory melting morsels of the finest cocoa. Tiny flakes scraped from the armpits of the Keebler elves. Love and goodness in every bite. Baked in a facility that processes nuts.
[ninth in a series]
You drive a hard bargain, Mr. / Ms. Nerd. But the Dark Side needs hard-driving people.
Fine then. I'll throw in a cookie. Chocolate chip, steaming hot, moist and succulent, with a delicate balance of dough and chocolate. Real butter, not shortening or margarine or that soy crap. Tiny crumbs breaking apart on the tip of the tongue. Savory melting morsels of the finest cocoa. Tiny flakes scraped from the armpits of the Keebler elves. Love and goodness in every bite. Baked in a facility that processes nuts.
[ninth in a series]
noun and verb twins
Nouns and verbs are fun.
The fly would bat last because it couldn't hold on; the bat would fly toward the pitcher.
Do you salt your pepper, or pepper your salt?
He bricked the shot. Furious, he shot a brick.
Paste your name on this contract, and I'll name this paste after you.
If you proceed to cut out the middleman, you'll be sure to get a bigger cut of the proceeds.
[eighth in a series]
The fly would bat last because it couldn't hold on; the bat would fly toward the pitcher.
Do you salt your pepper, or pepper your salt?
He bricked the shot. Furious, he shot a brick.
Paste your name on this contract, and I'll name this paste after you.
If you proceed to cut out the middleman, you'll be sure to get a bigger cut of the proceeds.
[eighth in a series]
improv yourself
Capital High School's third annual first-ever improv comedy show was a smashing success. Last night ten CHS students (okay, one was an Olympia HS defector) wowed an audience of 70+ with their newly-discovered improv talents. I was lucky enough to host.
It took a month of training and practice--half of them had no previous improv experience--and a few last-minute adjustments, but in the end we ran through about fourteen different games with mostly hilarious results.
One teacher in attendance suggested that we put on a show twice a month, and build up a "cult following." That's just what we need.
It took a month of training and practice--half of them had no previous improv experience--and a few last-minute adjustments, but in the end we ran through about fourteen different games with mostly hilarious results.
One teacher in attendance suggested that we put on a show twice a month, and build up a "cult following." That's just what we need.
May 24, 2005
white people love Ichiro
It's true. After all, I'm white, and I love Ichiro with all my heart. I have an Ichiro shrine hidden inside a book closet in my classroom where I secretively burn unscented incense during breaks.
In fact, everybody loves Ichiro. Ichiromania is the one thing people of all creeds, colors, ethnicities, dispositions, and nationalities can agree upon, our best hope for world peace.
Follow his example. Stretch often. Swing at everything. Foul off the pitches you don't like. Stretch some more. Smile like you're worth 12.5 million per annum.
I-chi-ro.
[seventh in a series]
In fact, everybody loves Ichiro. Ichiromania is the one thing people of all creeds, colors, ethnicities, dispositions, and nationalities can agree upon, our best hope for world peace.
Follow his example. Stretch often. Swing at everything. Foul off the pitches you don't like. Stretch some more. Smile like you're worth 12.5 million per annum.
I-chi-ro.
[seventh in a series]
a list of jesus's 12 disciples
1. Pat
2. Kirk
3. Mel
4. Charlton
5. Deborah
6. Chuck
7. Deion
8. Alice
9. Kim
10. Reggie
11. Bruce
12. David
[sixth in a series]
2. Kirk
3. Mel
4. Charlton
5. Deborah
6. Chuck
7. Deion
8. Alice
9. Kim
10. Reggie
11. Bruce
12. David
[sixth in a series]
the snakes join
a fable
Long, long ago, when blogging was something people didn't mention in polite company, there lived a curmudgeon with two pet snakes. Cobras, actually; spitting cobras with deadly aim. The curmudgeon would perch them on his cottage porch, where they kept visitors at a distance by practicing their target-acquiring skills on local rodents....
One blustery autumn afternoon a peddler approached the cottage, pushing a cart piled with shoes, hats, purses, belts, shirts, wallets, purses, all leather--all snakeskin. The peddler had wasted most of his cart-pushing energy keeping his wares from wafting away on the wind, so he pulled his cart inside the gate to catch his breath.
The curmudgeon, quietly blogging in his living room, glanced up from his laptop to espy the peddler. "This ought to be good," he said to no one in particular, and commenced liveblogging the incident.
Fear ussss said the cobras' devilish tongues as they mustered up their most toxic toxins. Their hisses went unheeded by the peddler, who could hear only his gasping.
One shot a stream of poison toward the peddler's feet as a warning. The peddler looked up, startled, and saw the flared hoods and bared fangs. "What are you on about, you fine slitherers, you?" The wind seemed to calm as his breaths quieted.
His steady voice surprised the cobras, who somewhat abashedly responded.
We're protectionisssst ssssnakessss, said the first. We keep our masssster ssssafe, added the second.
"Does he pay you well?"
We've never conssssidered that, said the first, and the second nodded in agreement. His porch is comfortable, and he keepssss ussss in rodentssss.
The peddler, emboldened, took a purse from the cart. Filled with coins, it clinked as he brought it to the cobras. "I'll pay you five gold pieces per week, each, if you'll keep my cart safe from thieves." The snakes glanced at each other, and nodded again.
The curmudgeon could no longer contain his curiosity. He leapt up from his laptop and burst out onto the porch. "I say," he shouted, "Are you trying to steal my very fine snakes?"
Quick as a blogger to an opinion the cobras spattered his eyes with their deadly neurotoxins. The curmudgeon collapsed, writhing and screaming in agony. Quicker still, the peddler whipped out a scalpel and beheaded the cobras. He then deftly sliced their shiny skins into fine strips and sewed them together into a very fine belt, which he sold for six gold pieces at the next stop.
[fifth in a series]
Long, long ago, when blogging was something people didn't mention in polite company, there lived a curmudgeon with two pet snakes. Cobras, actually; spitting cobras with deadly aim. The curmudgeon would perch them on his cottage porch, where they kept visitors at a distance by practicing their target-acquiring skills on local rodents....
One blustery autumn afternoon a peddler approached the cottage, pushing a cart piled with shoes, hats, purses, belts, shirts, wallets, purses, all leather--all snakeskin. The peddler had wasted most of his cart-pushing energy keeping his wares from wafting away on the wind, so he pulled his cart inside the gate to catch his breath.
The curmudgeon, quietly blogging in his living room, glanced up from his laptop to espy the peddler. "This ought to be good," he said to no one in particular, and commenced liveblogging the incident.
Fear ussss said the cobras' devilish tongues as they mustered up their most toxic toxins. Their hisses went unheeded by the peddler, who could hear only his gasping.
One shot a stream of poison toward the peddler's feet as a warning. The peddler looked up, startled, and saw the flared hoods and bared fangs. "What are you on about, you fine slitherers, you?" The wind seemed to calm as his breaths quieted.
His steady voice surprised the cobras, who somewhat abashedly responded.
We're protectionisssst ssssnakessss, said the first. We keep our masssster ssssafe, added the second.
"Does he pay you well?"
We've never conssssidered that, said the first, and the second nodded in agreement. His porch is comfortable, and he keepssss ussss in rodentssss.
The peddler, emboldened, took a purse from the cart. Filled with coins, it clinked as he brought it to the cobras. "I'll pay you five gold pieces per week, each, if you'll keep my cart safe from thieves." The snakes glanced at each other, and nodded again.
The curmudgeon could no longer contain his curiosity. He leapt up from his laptop and burst out onto the porch. "I say," he shouted, "Are you trying to steal my very fine snakes?"
Quick as a blogger to an opinion the cobras spattered his eyes with their deadly neurotoxins. The curmudgeon collapsed, writhing and screaming in agony. Quicker still, the peddler whipped out a scalpel and beheaded the cobras. He then deftly sliced their shiny skins into fine strips and sewed them together into a very fine belt, which he sold for six gold pieces at the next stop.
[fifth in a series]
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