UFC 129

I'm gonna say Georges St. Pierre by TKO in the first half of the third round.

Standing or on the ground, GSP will dictate the terms.  That's right -- even on the ground, I give it to St. Pierre.  He's no stranger to BJJ -- if BJ Penn couldn't submit him, I doubt Jake Shields will.  And we've certainly seen him take even talented grapplers down -- at will, with an expertise that's almost casual in appearance.

But it's likely that Shields will be forced to strike with him, making it that much more inevitable that St. Pierre will successfully defend for the sixth time.

Allez, Georges!

As for Randy Couture vs. Lyoto Machida -- I am a die hard fan of The Natural.  That said, I think Machida will take him. 

We adore Nate Diaz here at Marlinspike Hall.  We respect Rory MacDonald, sure... but we love the Diaz boys.  That's right, keep an eye out for The Manor Tag Team.

Enjoy the fights!

Results.  Otherwise known as The Morning After, at least around here, as we cannot afford both car insurance and pay per view.  Actually we can't afford car insurance, but this isn't about that.  Besides, insurance is not necessary in Tête de Hergé (très décédé, d'ailleurs) because accidents don't occur here, but most of us cross the border with fair frequency, and Lord, accidents surely do occur, and with considerable frequency, out there.  Your average Tête de Hergéen will swap her car out for a cutting edge racing bicycle conveniently stored at The Customs Shed -- for which every Patriot In Good Standing has the Master Key.  I opted for a Hot Chocolate Kettler Fly BF, back in the day...

What?

Oh.  Right.

Well, okay.  So GSP looked like this after winning the fight by decision (50-45, 48-47, 48-47).  The most common adjectives being bandied about in description of the effort against Jake Shields are "boring" and "safe."  I have seen a few headlines saying that the left eye injury, sustained in the second round, is "significant," and immediately after the fight St. Pierre said he could only see blurs out of it -- so healing vibes are sent his way.  I was relieved to hear that Dana White said he had "no major criticism" of GSP's performance.  Oh, thank God.  Whew!  Pinhead.

Machida knocked Randy out... and that was purportedly Couture's last fight.  Of course, we've heard that before... In all seriousness, what a great guy, great fighter, and excellent rep for MMA.  And yes, it's time for him to retire, though no one can imagine him gone.

Rory MacDonald beat Nate Diaz to a pulp.  He did a great job whereas Nate seemed slow, predictable, uninspired.  He tried a little Stockton hometown trash talk, to no avail. Well, it may have availed him a couple of supplexes in round three...  MacDonald was controlled and strong -- it's worth noting that he trains now with the GSP crowd in Montréal (recently voted the place where I most want to live the remaining days of my life, but that's another post, I s'pose).

Buddy the Kitten v. CRPS/RSD

Get ready to yawn!

I had terrible trouble sleeping due to an increase in pain, mostly in my right leg.  When I got up, the first difference of note was a little more swelling than usual.  After toodling around for a few hours, the damp spot on my pants started waving at me, too.

This did in my resolve to not look at the leg -- something I do in the name of Perfecting Denial.  If I cannot see it, it does not exist.

Ah well, so the other day when Buddy the Kitten snared my leg with his precious sharp little claw?  He set the development of a small ulcer in motion.  It's seeping what I guess is called lymphatic fluid.

I tend to mimic the opinions and sayings of my cool, Hawaiian-shirted, sandalled-in-December neurologist.  He hates two terms often used by patients when speaking of CRPS/RSD:   spread and flare.  I believe his feeling comes from their use in highly unscientific and medically inaccurate ways.

Yeah, well.  When he experiences pain, drastic temperature change, and major discoloration MOVE from one part of his body to another -- like from the right leg to the left -- then he can pontificate against "spread."

But I agree with him about "flare." I "met" a woman online who claims to have been in a "flare" for some ridiculous period of time -- five years, I think.  All it means to me is an increase in severity of some symptom or other.  Quite frankly, if I focus on the word, I get so distracted by all the pain that I couldn't tell you if things were really worse or just seem that way.

I find it a confusing concept and when I invoke "flare-up" privileges, I feel mostly embarrassment.  But I still do play the Flare Card a couple of times a year but never longer, I don't think, than two or three days.  Seriously, if you are calling something a "flare" that has been going on for weeks, guess what?  It's not a flare...  It's a change.

When I use it, I really am saying:  My pain and discomfort, as well as my ability to deal with them, are beginning to feel out of my control.  I am going to give in to them for a little while.  During this period, please don't hassle me.  I will get back to doing-the-best-I-can as soon as possible.  If you feel I am abusing my Flare Privileges, please just say so.  I will take your opinion under advisement.  Thankyouverymuch.

I wouldn't normally invoke "flare" on the basis of change in one limb but today, I'm gonna.  Part of it all is that because I need to keep this bloated ugly leg elevated to keep down the swelling, that leaves me prone to overthink my overall pain, and therefore to make myself feel worse. 

Lucky me, I've got this insane kitten (and rotating Dobbies and Marmies) who has volunteered to keep me company.  And an Alex Cross murder mystery.  And diet root beer.  (I know better than to bitch about this to Fred... life with me is one long, interminable flare of a different sort, I figure.  And besides, yesterday I managed to destroy a microwave and a coffee maker, which ought to keep him busy as he sets out to replace these household necessities this afternoon.  Bless his bones.)

Again... in addition to trying to gross you out, I also provide these endearing little videos of funky feet and hellacious hands so that people who wonder what CRPS / RSD looks like can know.  Please be aware that symptoms do vary a little from person to person, and that what something looks like doesn't necessarily translate clearly into severity of pain, etc.  If you have symptoms of CRPS, don't put off seeing a doctor who knows what it is -- early treatment is the way to a cure.

Wednesday's Catcam -- Full of Woe

Sammy and Dobby

UKBB a.k.a. Little Boy

Okay, so... in my continuing efforts to avoid serious thought, I present an update of The Feline Remnant of Marlinspike Hall.

It's a traumatized Remnant.  We lost the Heart, the Center, of the Group last July when we euthanized Sam-I-Am, whose kidneys failed and who was suddenly stricken with an apparently voracious cancer.  He was such a sweet, intelligent, loving, and hilarious cat.  I miss him everyday.  He was the only Manor resident to be able to read me like a book.

Sniff.

The next unexpected feline death took Uncle Kitty Big Balls from us, just about a month ago. 

A word about how the atmosphere has shifted requires a word about genetics.  UKBB and his sister Marmy Fluffy Butt were two gorgeous homeless cats that Fred began to feed about 3 years ago.  The best guess of our vet is that they were 6-8 months old and abandoned.
When we met them, Marmy was awfully, fearfully, hugely pregnant.  She is really a very tiny girl, a fact well-hidden by her voluminous coat.  Anyway, at the time, we only had Sammy, and I was okay taking one cat in... We decided on Marmy, despite her nearly feral nature and her clear preference for being left the hell alone, because she looked absolutely miserable and other lives depended upon hers being saved.  I tried hard to come to the decision of adopting them both -- but the thought of TWO wild cats and a litter of kittens -- plus Sammy -- overwhelmed me.  Plus, I always tend to believe that others out there are going to do the right thing.  "Surely someone will take him in."  Later, I bolstered my arguments with the notion that he could hardly be disease-free after that much time on the street, and did not want to expose the other animals.  Yeah, I played the public health angle.

She terrorized Sam-I-Am and strategically took over any area that he would have to cross in order to get to his food and his litter box.  Marmy is a real piece of work, quite unaware of how difficult she is to love. 

It turned out that she also lacks any maternal instinct whatsoever.

Fred basically served as her midwife, and had he not been around, Dobby, possibly the most compassionate smarty-panted cat in the universe, would not have survived his own birth.  Dobby was the runt of Marmy's litter of five kittens, and she decided she was done with the delivery process about half way through -- the bubble over her head clearly communicated "Wake me when they are all here -- I need a nap."

It was quite the sight,  Marmy nursing those kittens.  They irritated her to no end... They would, for example, just latch on for a nursing session when she would snarl, get up, and stalk off... dropping valiant kittens every few steps.  The tried to hang on;  She was intent on shaking them off.  I lived in terror of running over a blind, mewling, tiny rug rat with my wheelchair as she scattered them willynilly.  We took over, pretty much, hand-feeding them, keeping them clean, trying not to badmouth Marmy in front of her innocent babies.  Little pitchers have big ears and all that, you know.

Marmy's Litter

You'd think that producing such a great, healthy litter might transform her into a less beastly beast, but no, if anything, she got worse.  And now, poor Sammy was terrorized by the five kittens in addition to Her Fluffy ButtNess.  Sammy was a timid, gentle soul.

Dobby was clearly different, and not just in a runt kind of way.  He was clueless, fearless.  He loved Sammy from the get-go, and seemed to have decided Sammy was more his mother than that Long-Haired Menace we kept returning him to...

Fred promised me before we took Marmy in that he would place all the kittens by 9 weeks.  As the fourth month of their lives passed, I began to take a jaundiced view of Fred and his promises.  Finally, I suffered a nervous breakdown after the bazillionth discovery of kitten piss in my closet and the covers of whatever books I was reading serving as their chewy pacifiers.  "They must go," I cried, as Fred slipped the straightjacket over my head...

He can get me to do most anything, Fred can.  Part of that has to do with loving him and wanting to make him as happy as can be and part of that has to do with me being the most gullible person alive.
Without cracking a smile, he asked, "So which one are we going to keep?"

Although worried about his health and possible developmental problems, we chose Dobby.  Actually, that was also why we chose him, as during our interviews of folks who wanted a kitten, we never found a situation where we felt he'd get the extra nurturing he seemed to need.  (He was just... different.  For instance, instead of searching out Marmy's teats, he preferred to climb her.  It was his favorite activity -- crawling and climbing in the opposite direction of whatever food was being served.  He was *tiny*.  And, we though, although gregarious as heck, maybe a little stupid.  I mean, Sammy, trapped inside his fear of little, clambering things, would knock him into the next week, and Dobby'd come bouncing right back to him, obviously thrilled at having been noticed...)

So we ended up with antisocial, always pissed-off Marmy Fluffy Butt, the intimidated Sam-I-Am, and the always up for a thrill Dobby. 

Fred actually had to carry Sammy to his litter box because Marmy would attack him viciously if he dared to cross the imaginary plane of her territory.  We had to feed him in our bedroom, too.  This went on for at least several months.  It ended the day he pooped and peed in the bedroom and I suffered my second straight feline-induced psychotic break.  Restrained in the Happy Chair, I howled that Marmy's Reign of Terror had to end... and that no one was going to toilet inappropriately from that day forth.

During all this time, Fred kept an eye out for Marmy's brother, still homeless.  He continued to feed him and would sometimes sit out by the moat late at night, talking with him.  They clearly loved each other and I began to feel like the Big Bad Meanie.

The following year, the next April, I was doing my usual spring fling, hanging out in ICU on a respirator, following one of the seven surgeries on my shoulders -- I was beginning to not do so well post op, pulling stunts like coding and refusing to breathe.  I was getting better but still couldn't manage off of the vent, and was very tired.  Fred arrived to visit one evening and was clearly agitated.  I was able to communicate by writing, so I set out to find out what was wrong.  "There is something I have to tell you," he began, grimly.   Honest to God, it crossed my mind that maybe he wanted to turn off the respirator and cut off my nutrition... He must finally have had enough of me...
But the actual "conversation" that ensued boiled down to this:  Uncle Kitty Big Balls had turned up at the Manor in horrible shape, all skin and bones, covered in abscesses and unable to walk on one of his hind legs... and Fred wanted my permission to take him in, permanently.  His timing was impeccable and his performance, flawless.  I was so relieved that he didn't want to "humanely euthanize" ME, that I nodded vigorously and wrote a great big "Okay!" on my writing pad.

(He claimed later that he couldn't read the scrawled "please don't unplug the breathing machine...")

UKBB and I sort of went through a few rounds of rehab together.  He had his surgeries -- I had mine.  He ended up having part of a foot amputated and required complicated dressing changes for his multiple fight wounds.  And yes, he had HUGE kitty balls... but not for long.  Just long enough to earn the Uncle Kitty Big Balls sobriquet.  Mostly, we called him "Little Boy."

Just as his sister Marmy was obstinately feral, Little Boy hungered for affection and almost could not get enough of Fred.  He became Fred's shadow and remained his raspy-voiced confidante to the end.  Me, he liked enough, but seemed to know that I was the one that had cursed him with an extra year as a suffering stray.  He showed me affection when I doled out salmon, chicken, kibble, or catnip. Ours was a utilitarian relationship.  He liked to watch me with Sammy, and learned the ins-and-outs of life in Marlinspike Hall by copying Dobby, his precocious nephew.

I discovered the Magic Spray we add to their food to take the stink out of their litter box leavings thanks to UKBB, as he produced stinky poops that defied description.  Having been undernourished for so long, he dedicated his life -- beyond The Fredster -- to food.  His coat grew back in, thick and luxurious, and he developed a muscular but quite round belly.  He looked not unlike some burly underworld figure who might keep a stogy clamped between his teeth.

So now we had Marmy and her brother, as well as her kitten, Dobby -- and Sam-I-Am, who sometimes looked at us reprovingly, clearly not one of The Family:

Marmy, Dobby, UKBB:  Related?!

It was easy to love the three boys, each with an engaging personality, each craving affection.  Marmy remained an enigma.  Every few days, I had to trap her so as to be able to comb out her matted hair.  You would think I was trying to murder her.  The thought crossed my mind as she hissed and scratched her way through that bonding exercise.  As hard as I tried to introduce her to Grooming 101, she still produced several python-like hairballs a week -- more fun for me, as apparently I am the only human within a 10-mile radius who ever noticed them.

Sammy and Dobby were so tight, it was amazing!  Dobby brought out the kitten in my old guy, and he was often sighted flying through ballrooms and libraries, grinning and skidding around corners, Dobby hot on his heels.  It was a happy time for the two of them and who knew that Feline Hide-'N-Seek had so many rules?  Still, Sammy saved his best for me, and got me through many a long afternoon or night.  He was a large-boned cat but stepped so delicately around my feet and legs that he never hurt me... except when he absolutely had to -- you know, like when it is 5:05 AM and breakfast has not been served.

Dobby turned out to be an angel and we take complete credit for every one of his amazing attributes.  A frequent refrain around here is any variation of Dobby is so wonderful because he's never known anyone but us, never known anything but love...  (I know, I know -- Saccharine Gag!)  He is a mediator and protector, and has a huge heart full of concern for the welfare of others, species be damned.  He can figure his way through, out, or into any physical obstacle.  He opens doors, he turns light switches on and off. He fetches and "sits" on command.  He comes when he's called and if you don't understand what he wants, he will tap the item and then you, in turn.

When Sammy lost his appetite at the end and I was ridiculously frenetic about getting nourishment into his dying body, there were a few occasions when Dobby carefully walked him to the kitchen in the middle of the night, and reminded him how to eat and drink.  It broke my heart.  Sammy would do his best for Dobby.  Yes, I am weeping.  I miss him and loved him that much.  Most days, I would gladly swap human companionship for a chance to be with Sam again.  Let's put it this way, Friends -- I probably kissed that cat more times than I've planted one on my Darling Fred.

After Sammy's death, Dobby went into a depression that he hasn't quite gotten out of yet.  He still strolls the grounds late at night, calling his friend.  He still sometimes has a thought of him and runs to me with questions in his eyes.

UKBB, Little Boy, suddenly went into ketoacidosis.  We had noticed that he was drinking a lot, and decided that we were going to make an appointment with the vet.  He became deathly ill the very weekend we made that decision.  It struck him quickly and we did the best we could for him, got him the best of care, but too late.  We have that guilt and can't get rid of it.  Fred is heartbroken.

A phrase that is antithetical to my nature keeps occurring to me, though, regarding UKBB, and Fred does seem to understand it.  Because of Fred, Uncle Kitty Big Balls had his thirty minutes of wonderful.  Because of him, he knew warmth and care, healing and fun, love and friendship.

You may accuse me of anthropomorphism all the live-long day, I don't care.  To quote Paul Simon, and why wouldn't I?  -- I know what I know.

The day after UKBB died at the emergency vet ICU, I had my first ketamine treatment.  I know now that I wasn't anywhere near as "high" as it seemed then, but I was definitely disinhibited by the experience.  We found ourselves admitting that the hole left by Little Boy's death was too much, and that we each had already entertained the notion of adopting a kitten.  This flies in the face of what's "right" to do, of course.  So we did it -- that being how we came to have Buddy the Kitten.

It's not fair to give an animal (or a child) a "job" to do in exchange for their admission to the fellowship of family... but we have done that, I confess.

Buddy is responsible for comedic relief, for offering his soft kitten fur to absorb our tears, and for cheering the desolate Dobby and the sad Marmy Fluffy Butt.

A word about Marmy.

You'd not know she is the same cat that was so wild and totally insane for... what?  Almost 3 years. She was changed by Sammy's death.  That very same evening, she came straight to me, climbed into my lap, and... stayed.  She chirps instead of meowing, and her inflected bird calls were a strange comfort.  She clearly had years worth of things to say.

For the longest time, she literally attached herself to me, to the point where I almost longed to be catless.  Whatever happened in her self-centered little soul that day has lasted... Well, until we brought Buddy the Kitten home.

We figure he brought back her nightmare of giving birth and being constantly accosted by needy sucking mouths that demanded she put herself last. "I ain't doing this again," read the cartoon bubble over her head.

Below are four (4) cat videos.  Surprise!  You being as smart as you are, they are self-explanatory -- except for the long one, the third one. 

Yes, it makes me laugh out loud!  I went into my tiny "office" in search of a book, and was followed by none other than the aforementioned kitten.  As I turned to leave, I noted several things:

-- Buddy the Kitten was cowering in the corner under a stool, between two bookcases;  and
-- Marmy was sprawled on the rug in the small hallway outside my office, clearly pleased with herself for having trapped the hapless baby while appearing to be all innocence and light to the Dumb Human.

This little scene is repeated over and over all day.  She (innocently) blocks his path, and gets extremely pleased with herself for doing so.  He slinks into a corner, shaking with fear (for she has introduced him to her claws). 

And then, TA DA!  Dobby will arrive and help defuse the tension, often either running Marmy off in a game of chase, or simply escorting the frightened kitten out of the area (and back to me).  It is a HOOT.  He's like a United Nations' Peacekeeper, but more effective.

The other vids are just... stuff.  The day the kitten dedicated to learning how to leap.  Dobby's continual patronage.  Marmy strolling by, exuding oppression.  The usual stuff.

I know cat vids are boring and cat stories more so... but that's about all I can do today.  I have a doctor's appointment to talk about more pain-killing measures and frankly, I keep breaking down and don't really want to go.  The Pity Party will end, I promise.  I'm thinking... tomorrow?

When you forgive someone for bumping into you, do you say anything?

I'm still on my humor kick, and yes, I am aware, thankyouverymuch, that this requires a very possessive pronoun.  That is, my humor is not your humor.

But, Friend, you must not have been here very long, for you've forgotten both the driving question and the pertinent answer behind elle est belle la seine la seine elle est belle --

Whose blog is it, anyway, Darlin'?

Back in July 2009, I amused myself one day by checking out the latest open questions over at Yahoo! Answers.  Logically, that post was titled "The Disambiguation of Pain (produced the Pisan Cantos): A working theory."

I went back to Yahoo! Answers this afternoon to see what was weighing on people's hearts and minds.
Here are some of the current wonders and worries, in the same order that I found them, juxtaposition sometimes being all the charm:


When you forgive someone for bumping into you, do you say anything?
Sometimes, I say something and sometimes I don't. I just let them go like it never happened.


How did structures from histories past end up underground to be found by excavations?

Do they simply sink under their own weight?
Will the same process happen to modern architectural engineering?

What is red crosses phone number?

Im 10 years old and I need to do this project plese help for the sake of death


My 11 week old baby was bottle feeding every 3 hours and having about 5 oz each feed?

and had started sleeping 8 hours. but a few days ago he stopped drinking as much and is now having about 2 to 3 oz every 3 hours . and is still sleeping 8 hours ar night . he's not ill as is happy . do u thinking he has just had a growth spell?

What boy's name goes with these siblings names?

The siblings names are Evelyn Sophia, Amelia Celeste, and Oliver Miles. :) Thank you!

Tips for juggling a soccer/football (feet)?

First of all, I'm completely new to this sport, so if you have any ideas for other exercises I should be practicing, I'd love to hear them. At the moment I'm only working on dribbling and juggling, and once I'm sufficient in those things, I'm going to move on to shooting etc. I don't know if this is a good way to go about learning soccer. By the way I'm 18 and I can't find any clubs or anything near me that would accept my age and skill level. Anyway, in relation to juggling a ball...
I'm having trouble kicking the ball straight up. I've been told to keep my toes pointed, but then it goes flying forward. I've also been advised to tilt my toes slightly upward, but then the ball goes hurling towards my face, and the position of my leg just feels awkward and wrong. I know that practice makes perfect, but if I'm doing it the wrong way, I don't think I'll get better no matter how much practice I have.

Can my parents see what sites I've been to on my Itouch?
They are very tech savvy because my dad is an electrical engineer.... He is suspicious too... (at least I think) Is there anyway for them to see what sites I've been to?
I delete my history, but what about router logging are cookies or crap like that? What can I do to prevent it? Also, my dad has checked and seen savegames on the server or router or watever to see how late ive been up, is that the same thing? or not? My router is an action-tec if it makes a difference... Also I'm on an itouch 3G Like can he see this question? Because I get curious sometimes....

Which type of engineering would suit me the best?
Computer Hardware Engineer

Nuclear Engineer
Biomedical Engineer
AeroSpace Engineer
or
Environmental Engineering
I love Science and I'm okay at math but I'd be willing to try really hard to get to where I need to be.
Which has the highest pay?
Which is the most in demand?
I live in Virginia and plan to stay on the east coast for my whole life.
Which type of engineer has the highest starting salary?
Which type of engineer comes out of college the quickest?
Which has the best job market?


why does drinking alcohol stimulate sexual feelings in most people? (is this true?)?
how wine differs from beer in this aspect? and how quality of wine or beer adds to this?




What are the negative effects of calea zactechichi?
Im really into lucid dreaming and hear that ca lea z is really good for dreaming. (its a special herb from Australia or africa) Ive been all over the internet looking for any bad side effects to ingesting this plant but have only found rare allergic reactions and rarely occurring muscle swelling. But with a plant that seems borderline hallucinogenic there has got to be more. are there any LONG TERM NEGATIVE SIDE EFFECTS i should know about.




In trying to decrease my carb intake, what are good replacements for potatoes, my biggest weakness?
I'd like something or things I can munch on throughout the day. Please don't say peanuts, sunflower seeds or almonds, I'm trying to decrease my intake of those as well.


Google toolbar is missing?
Ok. so i log onto my computer today, and notice my Google Toolbar is GONE. but. the little ' X ' is still there, ( like where the toolbar would be. ) I've tried removing, re-installing. everything, that google help has to offer. and nothing works. can someone please help me, on how to get it back?



How can you tell if a dog has a blockage?


A question about commonly spoken French (native speaker)?

Is the ne actually nesessary to negate a sentence?
For example, Alizée has a song "J'ai pas vingt ans" which seems to mean "I'm not 20 years old"
Shouldn't it be "Je n'ai pas vingt ans"?

PLEASE HELP!! I NEED TO GOT TO IT URGENT!!!?

You're currently signed in as (e-mail address). Click here to sign out, and then sign in to your Outlook Web App account.
it keeps saying that when i try sign into my hotmail e-mail???? please help!?!?

What is a host family?



How long did it take for you to pass your driving test?

How many hours did you do to pass your driving test?


Why is my 16g septum ring so short?

I just got my septum pierced 6 days ago and I was wondering why is it so short. Is there any other septum rings that are longer?

What is the exact name of those hair barrettes....?

hi. What is the exact name of those hair barrettes that have a stick going in through one end and coming out through the other end? Kinda looks like a chopstick?

xkcd: "Circuit Diagram" (Plus Joe Bethancourt's "Faerie's Aire and Death Waltz")

xkcd is a webcomic drawn by Randall Munroe, complete with Forums and IRC Network, Foonetic.

xkcd:  Circuit Diagram

I thought this was hilarious until I read how stupid you had to be if you found it funny.  One commenter in this oh-how-"meh" thread said that it was just the EE version of this, The Faerie's Aire and Death Waltz... which I also find hilarious!  And brilliant.  It's from one of Joe Bethancourt's websites.

Guess I am easy.  I can live with that, especially since laughter truly is the best medicine.

From the Cutting Room Floor

When I grow up I want to be an old woman
When I grow up I want to be an old woman
Oh, an o-o-o-o-old, an old, old woman

Then I think I'm gonna find myself an old man
Then I think I'm gonna marry myself that old man
An old, an old, an old, an old, a really old man

We're gonna have a hundred and twenty babies
A hundred and five, ten, fifteen, twenty babies
Uh huh, that's what I said a hundred and twenty babies

We'll raise 'em on tiger's milk and green bananas
Mangoes and coconuts and watermelon
We're gonna give 'em that watermelon when they starts yellin'

Here's what they'll yell...

In the summer we'll sit in a field and watch the sun melt
In the winter we'll sit by a fire and watch the moon freeze
Me my old man and a hundred and twenty babies
Me my old man and a hundred and twenty babies
I said, me my old man and a hundred and twenty babies
Oh, when I grow up I want to be an old woman
When I grow up I want to be an oooooold...


--Michelle Shocked, When I Grow Up

Michelle Shocked is among those artists I like to listen to during ketamine treatments.  It's kind of an odd mix, I suppose, though maybe not:  Sam Cooke on gospel (he was there when they crucified my lord, y'know) The Stones prancing around on my cerebellum, Jacques Brel to satisfy that inevitable nostalgia for accordion-driven café music, Keith Jarrett's Koln concert, anything from After the Gold Rush Neil
Young --
(Hey, hey Cripple Creek ferry



Butting through the overhanging trees


Make way for the Cripple Creek ferry

The waters going down it's a mighty tight squeeze...)

-- early Bonnie Raitt, like before I understood how old she was, Jennifer Warnes, the bits of Laurie Anderson that crack me up, Marvin Gaye -- all the Marvin Gaye in the world, wanting to undo what was done -- but no more Motown because I shake the gurney in some kooky ketamine spastic dance craze, apparently -- though I bet I could tolerate some Temptations -- I don't so much want to dance to their music as pretend to be them, slick with moves... some Jackson Browne but always Your Bright Baby Blues --

(I'm sitting down by the highway
Down by that highway side

Everybody's going somewhere

Riding just as fast as they can ride

I guess they've got a lot to do

Before they can rest assured

Their lives are justified

Pray to God for me baby

He can let me slide

'Cause I've been up and down this highway

Far as my eyes can see

No matter how fast I run

I can never seem to get away from me

No matter where I am

I can't help feeling I'm just a day away

From where I want to be

Now I'm running home baby

Like a river to the sea

Baby if you can see me

Out across this wilderness

There's just one thing

I was hoping you might guess

Baby you can free me

All in the power of your sweet tenderness

I can see it in your eyes

You've got those bright baby blues

You don't see what you've got to gain

But you don't like to lose

You watch yourself from the sidelines

Like your life is a game you don't mind playing

To keep yourself amused

I don't mean to be cruel baby

But you're looking confused

Baby if you can hear me

Turn down your radio

There's just one thing

I want you to know

When you've been near me

I've felt the love stirring in my soul

It's so hard to come by

That feeling of peace

This friend of mine said

"Close your eyes, and try a few of these"

I thought I flying like a bird

So far above my sorrow

But when I looked down

I was standing on my knees

Now I need someone to help me

Someone to help me please

Baby if you need me

Like I know I need you

There's just one thing

I'll ask you to do

Take my hand and lead me

To the hole in your garden wall

And pull me through... )

Sometimes there's some Dylan, sometimes there's not, often he's replaced by Nina Simone -- it is necessary to assess my mood, to make those all-important last minute decisions, sitting in the fume-filled parking garage, getting my last swigs of diet root beer, feeling oh-so-glad I quit smoking all those years ago.  I'm not concluding anything from it, but I get the same feeling at this hospital for catastrophic brain and spinal cord injuries as I did the times I dragged a long ago roommate to AA meetings.  We started going the evening of the day she crashed her orange Vega through the garden wall and smack-dab into my bedroom.  Anyway, I am referring to the coffee and cigarettes.  The smell of them is everywhere, and because they're molecularly linked somehow, not even the coffee smell smells good.  I mean, like, you'd never slip up and use the word "aroma" for it.

My second ketamine treatment, I had not yet made a playlist for the occasion, and managed to land on Jethro Tull's Aqualung.  We're talking major depression.  I mean, there I am, losing myself, falling into the K-hole, serenaded by...

Sitting on a park bench

eyeing little girls with bad intent.

Snot running down his nose

greasy fingers smearing shabby clothes.

Drying in the cold sun

Watching as the frilly panties run.

Feeling like a dead duck

spitting out pieces of his broken luck.

My mp3 player selections for the ketamine experience are hardly remarkable... but they are mine, you know?  A little something of me to have, in case I get lost and can't find my way back -- to Fred, down at the end of the bed, to Nurse Monique, so sweet and learning not to promise me anything, to my brothers, to my friends, to Dobby and the Rest of the Remnant.

We had our first early morning session this week, on Thursday.  You will note that it is now Saturday and that the only blog piece I've published in the interim was something already pieced together.  And I am not sure I should be writing this post, even. 

I've been in a world of pain.  Past caring, really.

Ah, but Friends, I ask you:  Might the fact that I somehow managed to delete all of my music during the ride to the hospital -- Might that devastating loss be at the heart of how awful that treatment turned out to be? Might being stuck with just the radio have set me up for days of suffering, for nights of... well, for plain old long-assed nights?

I did give the experience a try -- honestly.  I lay there and tried to focus on something besides listening.  But I cannot focus on seeing and looking because I cannot... focus.  My vision BENDS with these higher doses -- bends as in I-can-see-around-corners-but-not-right-down-the-middle-of-the-visual-field.  Also, there is the issue of foreshortening.  When I tried to zero in on Fred's legs, which I knew to be stretched out from his nasty plastic chair and propped on my wheelchair seat, they were as badly elongated tooth picks. 

And I know you'll understand that I could only see around the corner (the far left corner, of course) when I trained my eyes straight ahead.  It was, in fact, Nurse Monique who occupied that just-around-the-far-left-corner spot.  Sometimes she popped up at bedside, asking me probing questions like "What's wrong?" and sometimes she was striding -- she has an officious walk -- toward the supply room behind the nurses' station.  I never saw her actually enter the supply room because the supply room extends past the line ending the square of permissible vision.  You know it is there, kind of a humongous maw of emptiness, its door a blind rectangle to my visible square.

It would be ideal to just sleep.  I can't, though, not even with the pre-infusion 10 mg of valium.  I can't because of pain.  Funny, huh?! 

The dose was a hefty 155 mg and we noticed that they gave me considerably longer than the others to try and regain some equilibrium after it had run in.  Normally, everyone gets about 20 minutes, then it's on with the shoes and outer clothing, flush the portacath with saline and heparin, transfer to the wheelchair and weave one's shaky way out.  My shaky way out.  Part of the wait was also due to the doctor failing to show up to sign my discharge paperwork... Even so, I couldn't have left any sooner than I did, and even then, wanted to spew, weep, and be unconscious, all at the same time.

It only got worse as time went on.  We stopped at Home Depot, since we were right there near Tête de Hergé's Lone Alp -- and lone Home Depot store.  Fred ran in "just for a minute" and I pretended to read Dorothy Allison's Cavedweller.  It was hot, people were streaming by, the sun hurt my eyes.  I had to pee and got to, an hour later, when we pulled into The Manor service road and zipped right up to the Emergency Secret Loo nestled in the Orchard Wall.  (There was no toilet paper!  Arg!)

I've tried taking my pain meds. 
I've tried not taking my pain meds.
I've tried opiates, no opiates, biofeedback, crying.
I've slept.
I've made myself get up and work.
I baked a batch of awesome scones, not too sweet.
I promised and failed to deliver on a soup.
I put a kitten under my chin.
I paid bills.
I shooed the kitten away, and felt the urge to hit him.
I ate.
I abstained from eating.
I overate.
I ran fevers, had sweats.
I cut my hair.
I stopped saying "I" -- as a verbal and moral exercise.

The only thing that helped, and then only for twenty minutes or so, was darkness. And silence.  As if my entire body had a migraine.

Some years back, I remember feeling this way -- physical horror wrapped up in depression and regret.  I tossed the remains of my dissertation, and erased the evidence from my hard drives.  I burned photographs. I ran the air conditioner at obscene temperatures, applying ice air to my burning dystrophic body.

The ketamine isn't working.  It's failed.  I came out of this one worse than I went in.  Fred says it's too early to say, that I did get some benefit from the fourth infusion but it showed up way late -- as in the day before receiving the fifth one.  I cannot say if he is right.  (That means that I think he is wrong.)

I'll do the next one as the last one and then keep my appointment with this doctor... who promised me a miracle.  No, I am not angry.  It's what I wanted to hear and longed to believe.

There is one song that will never make the Ketamine Playlist -- I'd never disrespect it so.  But it might be the one and only piece of the Post-Ketamine SongFest -- the only song worth remembering after bathing the brain in toxin, Dylan's I'll Keep It With Mine. This is not the cover I'd choose but it's certainly more than okay:



And so it was in this sorry state that I got up this morning, and then got up again two hours later. I had the urge to DELETE, beginning with videos... before I gave in to it, I made myself do a "Magic Movie" treatment of about 15 meaningless cat clips. This is what the FlipShare do-hickey program came up with, this is what has been preserved.

Buddy has been going through a "leaping" phase. He will suddenly leap in the air, sometimes from a dead standstill, sometimes adding a quarter turn or a twist, always exuding Extreme Joy. Marmy has begun to accept him and now he gives her this really scary, mean hiss-s-s-s when she frightens him, and she never fails to frighten him, just by showing up. He has mounted Dobby several times, and Dobby fairly sighs -- Sammy used to do the same thing. Poor Dobby. Poor Buddy. Sexual confusion is never fun.

I am *this* close to deleting the blog.  It is a tough call.

 

The Castafiore Takes On Doktor Phil. Again.

• 9 cups dandelion flowers (6 cups dandelion petals and 3 cups dandelion flower heads, trimmed)
• 1 11-oz can Welch's 100% White Grape Juice frozen concentrate
• 1 lb 10 ozs granulated sugar
• 2 lemons (juice only)
• 2 oranges (juice only)
• 1 tsp yeast nutrient
• ½ tsp pectic enzyme
• ¼ tsp tannin
• 6¼ pts water
• White Burgundy wine yeast

In primary, combine all ingredients except dandelions and yeast. Stir well to completely dissolve sugar. Stir in dandelions, cover primary and set aside 10-12 hours. Add activated yeast and recover primary. Stir twice daily until violent fermentation subsides. Pick and prepare flower petals and heads. For dandelion flower heads, wash and trim off stems only. Put dandelion petals and heads in nylon straining bag with 1 dozen sterilized glass marbles for weight. Tie bag and submerge in liquid in primary. Gently squeeze and dunk bag several times a day for 5 days. Drain bag, squeezing lightly only, and transfer liquid to secondary. Fit airlock and rack after 2 weeks, topping up and refitting airlock afterward. After wine falls clear, wait 2 weeks and rack after adding 1 crushed Campden tablet to clean secondary. Thereafter, rack every 2 months for 6 months, adding another crushed Campden tablet during middle racking and stabilizing at last racking. Wait another month and rack into bottles. This wine is for the long term and for winning competitions, so cellar it for 2 years before tasting.

-- From Jack Keller's Dandelion Wines:  Special Recipe Collection 

Even knowing what a squirrelly creature she can be, I confess to having been beguiled by La Bonne et Belle Bianca Castafiore... again. *

Home at The Manor unusually early of an evening, she decided to check out the latest from her arch enemy, Dr. Make-Believe-I'm-A-Psychologist Phil.   It's not clear to us what motivates this compulsion that overcomes her, though it may be some kind of seasonal affective disorder...  or -- duuuuhhhhhh -- I reckon compulsions don't have rational motivations, anyway, huh? 

Yeah, okay, you caught me.  I was trying to show off how I probably know as much as Doktor Phil in terms of... well, terms 'n all.  You try coming up with believable crap to explain Bianca's behavior and see if you don't pick up a few felicitous funky phrases.

Or it might be the wine.  As motivation, I mean.  Or as disinhibitor, allowing for the release of wave upon wave of bright green Anti-McGraw Bile.

She got it into her pretty lacquered head to do some early taste-testing of last year's dandelion wine.  Jack Keller says that "dandelion wine is fermented sunshine."

That'd be Jack Keller, the winemaker, craggy-faced guy, recently bit by a rattlesnake.  Not the songwriter, who penned hits for everyone from the Everly Brothers to The Monkees.  Certainly not the poker player or the Marvel Comics artist.

[Don't you think we should all have our own disambiguation page at Wikipedia?  It sounds like something I *need* -- and *want*.  I need disambiguation.  I want disambiguation.  Hell, I DESERVE disambiguation.]

Right!  So after indulging in a little alcoholic sunbathing, The Castafiore scoped out the latest cutting edge opinions being proffered by that Ersatz Doctor, Phil McGraw. Her overall findings?  Dr. Phil remains an Offensive Media Whore and Con Man with a Blindingly Bald Pate -- and dandelion wine doesn't have to be a body-less sweet mess.  Jack Keller can fill you in on what he calls "body-builders" and on the use of sugar.  If you decide to go straight up with the dandelion wine and not fortify it with raisins or grape concentrate ("you could use dates, figs, apricots, or rhubarb instead") -- Jack advises that you serve it with an exciting salad or some baked trout. 

He specifies trout.  I need another 100 words on why that is so, but Jack is a tease, and doesn't say.  Then again, he doesn't divulge what kind of trout, either, does he?  Ha!  Gotcha, Jack!  (My vote was originally for rainbow... then I read that 95% of what makes it to the table is farm-raised and I just don't cotton to fish from the farm.  Yes, thank you, I *do* know that it's childish to expect my rainbow trout to have leaped and fought through clear, cold, unpolluted white waters to get to my plate.) 

Would everyone just get the heck off of my back, please?  I am trying to tell a story here.  Jeez.


Okay, so I had a lapse in judgement and told La Bonne et Belle Bianca she could use my laptop to scope out Old Shiny Pate's blog, The Turning Point.

See, I really didn't think she had it in her, especially with the dandelion wine on board, to even make it up to the Computer Turret.  You'll find me up here pretty darned often, maybe even 3-4 hours a day, and it's rare for the Turret to ever be unoccupied -- but it's downright unheard of for The Castafiore to make the effort.

[A brief explanation would seem to be in order. You're probably wondering how hard it can be to get to our state-of-the-art computer center. In a post titled l'astronave, way back in April of 2010, I tackled the task of explaining the matter thusly:

The only way in or out, up or down, the pesky turret is via a thick rope ladder, dyed caution yellow, that extends down (but mostly sideways) out to the Manor Stables -- a remarkable outbuilding that is an alarming replica, as we pointed out in our last post, of the Knoppenburg Manor Stables. The proper term today is "agricultural building." You won't catch me calling it a barn if there are any prying ears about. Of course, the last outsider who dropped by was The Technician Overlord of Our Telecommunications Bundle, which he so wisely decided was best centered in the Hobby Room at the top of the Turret Tower. We had concocted a cover story about the rope bridge ("It's more a bridge than a ladder," Fred just said), which consists of the baldfaced lie that we are a new off season venue for those Cirque du Soleil performers who are fresh out of rehab. So the hefty diameter of that hemp monster, see, is easily explained away as necessary gear for these poor, troubled acrobats.


I'm usually not subject to such heights of embarrassment (heights, and, lately, riches) but I just don't want anyone to think that I have to zig zag my way from one Manor Wing to another, make it to the Grand Ballroom, out the entrance, patterned after Brunelleschi's bronze baptistery doors, over the drawbridge (Provided it is down! Men!), across the moat, down the lane, over the hedge, into the damned agricultural outbuilding, up the custom wheelchair ramp into the hayloft, and then, lickety-split, go hand-over-fist on the rope bridge for a good half mile... all just to get my email.

 

So just imagine the superhuman effort necessary to a drunken overweight opera diva... ]

Once she got to the Computer Turret, she wasn't about to leave without also leaving traces of her visit.  Luckily, she found McGraw's blog post on the "stoicism of the Japanese" sufficiently provocative.  This is a chunk of his prose from that post:

April 4th, 2011 by Dr. Phil
The Stoicism of the Japanese

...[D]o you know what astonishes me? It’s watching the people of Japan face their catastrophe with a kind of stoicism and, strangely, a grace. We haven’t seen any looting in Japan for desperately-needed supplies, like bottled water. We haven’t seen fistfights break out among the people waiting in line for hours to get gasoline or groceries. For years, I’ve heard about the legendary politeness of Japanese people in everyday life, but I just thought it was a cliché. How are they able to maintain such calm in the face of overwhelming disaster?

I’m hardly someone who thinks Japan’s way of life is in any way better than ours. But at the same time, I will say, there is something to be said for the ordinary Japanese citizen’s respect for order, good manners and hospitality. The other day, I was stunned to watch one elderly woman, standing in the cold outside her wrecked home, offer ABC anchor Diane Sawyer some water because she looked thirsty.

And what about the selflessness epitomized by those workers at the Fukushima Daiichi nuclear plant, risking dangerous doses of radiation without complaint as they struggle to prevent a complete meltdown that would endanger their fellow citizens?

I’m no expert in culture, and I’m not going to pretend to say I understand why the vast majority of Japanese people are enduring these impossible hardships with impeccable dignity, but we could all learn a few lessons from their example. I also hope we’ll all say a little prayer for that country. Yes, Japan is one of our great industrialized powers, and it will someday recover. But it has a long way to go. Hundreds of thousands of Japanese who live in the northern part of the country will have to endure months of homelessness and hunger.

If you want to help, you can go to the American Red Cross website and make a contribution for the victims of the earthquake and the tsunami, as well as for those families fleeing the nuclear radiation. My prayers are with Japan.

What did Our Girl have to say to such a pious post?  Gird your loins and read on.  Maybe grab a flagon or two of ale, a few carafes of dandelion wine so as to wash it all down without too much pain.  Only Marlinspike Hall would have a resident writing in apparent opposition to praise of a suffering nation... 

Can an unannounced visit from a perturbed Captain Haddock be far behind?

Bianca Castafiore says:

April 13, 2011 at 4:16 pm

It is, of course, rude of me to be bothered by what is an expression of admiration by Dr. Phil and his fans, but heck-by-golly, I don’t care. No, in all seriousness, I just feel like a few things about stereotyping need to be said — explicitly.

When we express our admiration of the “Stoic” Asian (don’t we really mean “opaque,” don’t we really mean that old chesnut — “inscrutable”?), don’t we automatically relegate the people of Japan to an easily dealt with two-dimensionality? It is less admiration for them than relief for our lazy Western minds not to have to think too hard or work up a good head of natural empathy. How could we, when they are so different from us?

Often, our assessment of the Japanese people is most firmly based on our absolute ignorance of what is happening in front of our eyes, and our cluelessness of the language going in one 耳 and out the other. I would wager that most Americans heading for a conference in Tokyo would learn to say “thank you” but not bother with “bathroom” or “help.” (And we wonder why we have so many foreign toilet emergencies…)

So what does the realization do for you, as you notice with notably Christian approval that you’ve seen no looting among these well-behaved pagans, but rather a “legendary” politeness, including an old woman offering a non-suffering Western media figure some water? Does all that “impeccable dignity” merit more aid? Or just more prayer? Or are you thinking that maybe they require *less* prayer than one would anticipate, since they stay in line so well already? Aha! I think I am catching on.

I realize that this mostly inoffensive blog post (there are scads out there way more dominated by cultural stereotype, with much less natural sympathy) simply perpetuates our established stateside understanding — that of “the model minority.” We go with what we [think we] know.

In terms of this sad tragedy, aren’t we mostly protecting ourselves from pain and denying the Japanese their real needs and their true sufferings by doting on all that we do not see, as if — because we do not see it — it is not there?

One thought that recurs and almost makes me cry out in a different kind of pain is this: How much of the “stoicism,” how much of the delicate restraint that we “admire” in the Japanese of this post-quake period is a learned response — something, in fact, that we put in their cultural curriculum after dropping atomic bombs on the men, women, and children of Hiroshima and Nagasaki? Is it stoicism and good manners — positive stereotyping, at least, eh? Or are these faces just too well versed in the suffering born of huge, massive, unimaginable (to *us*), COLLECTIVE destruction?

If there is an element of dangerous emotional repression going on… then I hope there is also much going on to which our know-all american culture is just not privy. [But I saw it on t.v.! But I saw it when I visited Tokyo with my Christian choir in 1968! But everyone knows that blahblahblah!] I hope there are all kinds of polite, stoic people blowing up, irrationally, and maybe stamping their tiny little feet; I hope there are cadres of wise, obsessively neat old men secretly wishing that some foreign media Talking Head will slip on a mandarin orange peel while on the air; I hope there is an epidemic of well-behaved, hyperrespectful (and therefore mathematically talented) Japanese teenagers snatching the last bit of rice before their fat and lazy Korean cousins have a chance…

Sometimes etiquette and behavior are superficial, sometimes they are deeply reflective, and yes, I am sure we are witnessing aspects of the very best of human nature in the news reports coming out of Japan in the aftermath of earthquake and tsunami, and as we watch the tragedy of an ongoing nuclear catastrophe.

Let’s just be sure that we are as compassionate when an occasional person cracks under the repeated strain of aftershocks and new tsunami warnings, when the murky uncertainties of a radioactive future reveal tics of anxiety, frustration, and anger — even in the most stoic of Japanese.

*****   *****   *****   *****   *****   *****   *****   *****   *****

*OMG: Bianca does Dr. Phil  [The first confrontation -- pub. 9/22/2009]

We try, Fred and I really do. But we can't watch her all the time, and really? Why does the onus fall on us? Am I truly expected to monitor the computer use of a mumblymumbly year old grown woman, and in a place as huge as Marlinspike Hall, deep, deep in the Tête de Hergé?

It happened at 3:38 in the morning. Yes, I was up but hardly felt like looking over the shoulder of a drunken Castafiore, as she picked and pecked her way across the keyboard.

She's taken to frequenting local pubs after her evening performances at the Opera House, belting out encore performances of L'air des bijoux.

The only way I could tolerate a late night, early morning onslaught of je-ris-de-me-voir-si-belle-dans-ce-miroir-oir-oir-oir? Whiskey. Stoli. The dregs of a house red.

So, out of appreciation for my liver function, I stay safely ensconced in our designated area of The Manor.

La Bonne et Belle Bianca Castafiore decided to surf the net before passing out in her suite of rooms -- rooms that she and some of her ne'er-do-well operatic thugs refurbished last summer, in the style of François Ier. Now *that* was perhaps an episode that Fred and I might have prevented -- but she's wily, very wily, that Castafiore.

Apparently, she is a fan of this Dr. Phil person, a tall, chunky, bald man of indeterminate age -- or 59. As documented in the Dickipedia, Phil McGraw is a "doctortainer of the highest order." Still, Bianca is perhaps not the sort of fan base that The Dr. Phil Brand was designed to attract, and in that lies much of her charm and amazing ability to sour the stomachs of her interlocuteurs.[click HERE to read the rest]

kittencam: buddy discovers UP

okay, so this is probably "buddy's review of the recently discovered concept of UP." earlier in the evening, he'd gone round and round in a tight circle, looking up at the light fixture, plaintively vocalizing -- until he got hit with a major case of dizziness.  i missed it, of course.  since then, he seems to be periodically reminded of UP and keeps a dedicated eye on it.

my standard just got poorer...

The whole notion of investing in the stock market is antithetical to most of my sociopolitical beliefs. When I realized that I had no more earning potential and that my "salary" from private disability insurance relegated me to a fixed income... and that at the age of 65, I would have nothing coming in... you can bet that I got over my beliefs pretty quickly.

Because my teaching career was mostly spent at universities using a pension system, not participating in the Social Security program, and because getting to my own money thus sequestered required, at each job, that I teach there long enough to be "vested," well -- my own pension income is entirely inaccessible to me.

I always wanted to be a Cautionary Tale when I grew up.

There have been many unhappy, tension-ridden days for this investor. I have a household dependent on me and the sagacity of my sinking real money into the often immoral doings of corporations.

And I am one of those brilliant investors that watches the Dow dive and just goes cold. I don't snatch free my holdings, oh no. That would make too much sense.

Instead, I think, if you can call it that, "Well, I have come back strong before... I will just have to do it again."

Sometimes I will toss into my thought some embarrassing bit of verbiage, like "bite the bullet," or the whimsical "you can't time the market" -- something every loser says, but no one believes except the Stuffed Shirt Who Already Has His.

But I don't have a ready reaction to a warning being issued by the S&P on sovereign U.S. debt. Has this ever happened before? I am tempted to try and find the person most representative of the S&P and beat him or her with a wet noodle, decrying this warning as the act of a traitor, of an unpatriotic USAmerican.

America, love her or leave her, and most especially, don't issue a warning on her sovereign debt.

God is enjoying screwing with me and my unrepentant betrayal of all that I know is right. Including Friday's uncalled for abuse of GOOG, I'm down roughly 17% over the course of two days.

There can be no true socialism so long as a stock market exists -- it is the very symbol of capitalism and private property.

For my next trick, I will post on the Social Security System as Ponzi Scheme... because you probably wouldn't want to read a long rant about the Hot Hell waiting for those who believe in "socially-responsible investing." 

Not only are these the days that try men's souls, but Terry Eagleton is even at it again with his recent Why Marx Was Right.  Unfortunately, this blog is maxed out on its Logical Fallacies quota.

***  ***  ***  ***  ***  ***  ***  ***  ***  ***  ***  ***  ***  ***  ***

Wall Street stocks plunge after US debt warning


NEW YORK (AFP) – US stocks plunged Monday after ratings agency Standard & Poor's issued its first warning on US sovereign debt, citing Washington's looming debt and fiscal deficits.


The Dow Jones Industrial Average dived 233.33 points (1.89 percent) to 12,108.50 at 1410 GMT, while the tech-heavy Nasdaq Composite skidded 57.16 points (2.07 percent) to 2,707.49.


The broad-market S&P 500-stock index shed 23.04 points (1.75 percent) at 1,296.64.


Shortly before the market open, Standard & Poor's revised for the first time its outlook on US sovereign debt to "negative" from "stable," but said the United States had until 2013 to come up with a credible plan for addressing its financial problems.


"Because the US has, relative to its 'AAA' peers, what we consider to be very large budget deficits and rising government indebtedness and the path to addressing these is not clear to us, we have revised our outlook on the long-term rating to negative from stable," S&P said in a statement.


The bond market fell sharply just after the S&P news.


The yield on the 10-year Treasury jumped to 3.44 percent from 3.41 percent late Friday and prices fell 0.7 percent.


On the 30-year bond, the yield leaped to 4.52 percent from 4.47 percent Friday and prices fell 1.6 percent. Bond prices and yields move in opposite directions.


The United States issued a swift and critical reaction, saying the ratings agency underestimated the US government's ability to tackle the problem... [CONT.]

Sunday's KittenCam

So I thought I'd do a very little mopping.  Buddy thought he'd help.

Clearly, the following things are true in BuddyLand:

1.  Nothing bad can happen on Buddy's Blanket.  Buddy, himself, has positioned (and repositioned, ad infinitum) said Blanket with an eye toward strategic advantage.  It lies next to the refrigerator, a tremendous source of wonder for him, and, paradoxically, warmth.  The little square of cloth is always carefully situated between the trash can, from which goodies may fall, and the Food and Water Bowls, the center of Buddy's Universe.
2.  Only an attack on the Food and Water Bowls is sufficient cause to go to war.
3.  While #2 is true, it is also true that he who fights and runs away, may live to fight another day.  These conflicting truths make the decision to go to war much too much of a decision for a very small animal and leaves only #1 as uncompromisingly reliable -- Nothing bad can happen on Buddy's Blanket.

Fred Responds//The Rest of our IntraManorial Conversation

So last night I fired off an email to Sweet Fred, allowing as to how I had a serious case of the blues and that he was not to take my reticence personally.  We email each other fairly frequently, despite also having numerous opportunities to exchange greetings live-and-in-person throughout the day and night.

Living in a place like Marlinspike Hall can make keeping up with one another a challenge.  There are so many details to which, as caretakers, we must attend, that the minutia of our relationship tend to fall by the wayside, often landing smack-dab in the middle of our algae-choked moat.

Never one to mistake seriousness for levity, but definitely the sort to confound a joke for something really sober, Fred decided to cover his [innocent] bases with a blanket apology:

From: fancy_fredster
Sent: Sunday, April 17, 2011 2:47 AM
To: prof-de-rien
Subject: Re: saturday evening


My Dear Prof


My dear, Prof! I'm sorry you're not feeling well. It's 2.30AM and I just checked my email for the first time since this afternoon. I had no idea you were or weren't any of those things. I hope you feel better by the time you read this.


I'm sometimes unable to tell when something is meant to be humorous rather than serious. Snarky and rude though I may be, I wasn't aware that I'd crossed over to the dark side today. If I did I apologize. It was unintentional.


I'm going to read your blog post now.


Ta Ta (the greeting, not the breast)
Fred

I concluded our flurry of communication this morning as I sipped on some coffee and considered the day before me.  Next to getting a long, handwritten letter from the President of the United States, an email from Fred is a nifty way to kick things off. 

It occured to me, though, that I needed to let him off his imaginary hook. 

Very truly yours, Hollis Greene.
[I love the Hollis Green character from Big Love -- and I am never going to have a fitting occasion to say that -- primarily, of course, because I am not Hollis Greene, but secondarily because it doesn't seem as remarkable a bunch of five words when seen in print.]

Darling SweetButt


Your timely response brought a gentle grimace to my scaly visage. A propos of naught but the opportunity to use “à propos”: It’s 8:33 AM.


Perhaps calling you snarky and rude was a bit over the top, especially given that the accusatory adjectives were, as you surmised, tossed about entirely in jest.


Part of me (We’ll call her Brunhilda **) wants to say: “Here’s a quarter. Go buy a sense of humor!”
Another part of me (Rebecca Anne) rushes to reassure you that you now have A Spare in the Apology Account.


The Either/Or blog post seems stupid today. It seemed insightful and clever yesterday. Too bad I just couldn’t say: Man o man, these assholes keep doing the shittiest things... Look how they want to stick it to the environment. All those babies that they’re gonna force to be borned won’t have a planet to live on!


I hope you have a marvelous Sunday with the Militant Feminist Existential Lesbians.(cleverly disguised as “diverse” by comingled male heterosexuals and transgendered Little People).

courtesy of The Cimmerian

Titties to you, too.
Love, The Prof


** “A large, disgusting, dangerous white girl (preferably German) who loves sex and likes to manhandle unsuspecting white males.” – courtesy of The Urban Dictionary

"Love is patient, love is kind. It does not envy, it does not boast, it is not proud."
(1 Cor. 13:4)