It’s good to be the king.
That was what Cerebral Cortex told himself. Cerebral was no ordinary tyrant or absolute monarch. He was the ruling power of his domain. Lord Hippocampus bowed to his every demand. Chancellor Cerebellum cowered under terror. Even the masses of Synaptic Nerves did not dare cross his path.
He controlled his land as tightly as he controlled the royal court. Viceroy Heart never knew which ventricle was under the pay of The Cortex and Baron Epidermis could not keep his pores dilated for the stress that he was under. Not all the aristocracy was against him, however. Baron Liver gleefully put any traitor to work in the toxic environments of the digestive system where they would eventually find themselves in inescapable exile.
But in the far away serfdom of Podiakstan, civil unrest abounded. “We demand better working conditions! We want shorter hours! We want cleaner work environments! We refuse to carry the weight of the Kingdom on our backs while working the dark!” Their leader, Hallux (a.k.a Big Toe), was a mean figure. He was calloused from working endlessly in the pitch black conditions of the mines. His nail was chaffed and a generally offensive odor permeated the immediate space surrounding him. No one messed with Big Toe.
So in secret, Big Toe and his nine associates plotted to overthrow the kingdom. Little Toe (a.k.a Babyface), would innocently curl up and cause the entire kingdom to topple. Middle Toe would cramp itself in the middle of the night. The ankle, meanwhile, would send acute messages to the brain in an effort to overwhelm them with pain.
King Cortex was at breakfast when his world came crashing down. Reports of damage came from all over the kingdom. The upper right limb became immobile. Elite guards of white blood cells were dispatched to repair as much of the damage as possible. Meanwhile, the message from Podiakstan arrived. He writhed in agony. King Cortex was disconcerted. This was the most serious challenge to his authority that he had ever experienced. Should he send down an army of white blood cells to subdue the uprising? Or maybe he could lay siege and prevent supplies from reaching Podiakstan? No. This was too big for him to act alone. He had to call for help. But who could he call?
“911 operator, how may I help you?”
“Pain! Ankle is sprained! I fell and landed on my right arm! I think it’s broken!”
“An ambulance is on it’s way sir. Please hold tight.”
A day later, the arm was in a sling and recovering well. The ankle was put into a cast such that it could not cause any more trouble. As for the mutineers in Podiakstan, they were found guilty of plotting to overthrow the kingdom and every cell in their serfdom was replaced within 20 days by loyalists.
It's good to be the king.
Sunday, November 5, 2006
Sunday, October 29, 2006
A Practical Joke
And the church bells rang with clarion sound. The pigeons flew out of their nests. Men cheered, women applauded, kids screamed. The pastor smiled and the groundskeeper waved. The town clown finally got married.
His shtick-full existence had caused the clown to become rather lonely since very few people bothered to talk to him and really understand what he was about. As time wore on, his antics became stale and his clowning lost it's edge. That was when the citizens of Townsvilleburg decided that it was time to mobilize. The clown had to get married.
It was not easy task mind you. I mean, who in their right mind would want to marry a guy with a pale white face, red nose, a permanent goofy grin and orange hair who wore shoes that were eight sizes too large? It was hard to get to know him too. If you approached him directly, you'd get shot in the eye with a jet of water that sprayed out of his fake flower on his plaid coat.
The citizens put wanted adds in the major newspapers all across the country - from San Francisco to New York, from Chicago to Cape Canaveral - calling out to the citizens of the world "We need a wife for our clown!" Applications poured in from all over the globe including exotic places such as Zimbabwe, Timbuktoo, and Rhode Island.
So they held an audition. They screened nearly three hundred candidates for the role of Town Clown and they wanted to be just as rigorous for the role of First Lady Clown. The prospectives had to dance, sing, act, perform stand-up comedy, acrobatics and cook - all while dribbling a basket ball. They even hired a city clown and she had to make him laugh. Have you ever tried making a clown laugh? It's hard.
After the initial screening, they settled on five potential candidates and called in their town clown. He walked into the auditorium and saw the lineup of women. Five lady clowns stood lined up in the middle of the room. He began to walk in front of them, pacing up and down. The third one squirted him with her fake flower. He shook her hand with an electric buzzer. They gave each other a great big smooch.
The wedding was brief but all of Townsvilleburg was there. As they left for their honeymoon, the town clown said to his new wife, "You know, for a town of their size, they treat us clowns pretty well!"
"I'll say" said his wife. "And wait till the Mayor sees the Jack-in-the-Box under his pillow!"
His shtick-full existence had caused the clown to become rather lonely since very few people bothered to talk to him and really understand what he was about. As time wore on, his antics became stale and his clowning lost it's edge. That was when the citizens of Townsvilleburg decided that it was time to mobilize. The clown had to get married.
It was not easy task mind you. I mean, who in their right mind would want to marry a guy with a pale white face, red nose, a permanent goofy grin and orange hair who wore shoes that were eight sizes too large? It was hard to get to know him too. If you approached him directly, you'd get shot in the eye with a jet of water that sprayed out of his fake flower on his plaid coat.
The citizens put wanted adds in the major newspapers all across the country - from San Francisco to New York, from Chicago to Cape Canaveral - calling out to the citizens of the world "We need a wife for our clown!" Applications poured in from all over the globe including exotic places such as Zimbabwe, Timbuktoo, and Rhode Island.
So they held an audition. They screened nearly three hundred candidates for the role of Town Clown and they wanted to be just as rigorous for the role of First Lady Clown. The prospectives had to dance, sing, act, perform stand-up comedy, acrobatics and cook - all while dribbling a basket ball. They even hired a city clown and she had to make him laugh. Have you ever tried making a clown laugh? It's hard.
After the initial screening, they settled on five potential candidates and called in their town clown. He walked into the auditorium and saw the lineup of women. Five lady clowns stood lined up in the middle of the room. He began to walk in front of them, pacing up and down. The third one squirted him with her fake flower. He shook her hand with an electric buzzer. They gave each other a great big smooch.
The wedding was brief but all of Townsvilleburg was there. As they left for their honeymoon, the town clown said to his new wife, "You know, for a town of their size, they treat us clowns pretty well!"
"I'll say" said his wife. "And wait till the Mayor sees the Jack-in-the-Box under his pillow!"
Saturday, August 26, 2006
Musings
Good evening, and welcome to this week’s celebrity interview. I’m Larry Sommers. This week we are very lucky to have with us a woman of great stature in the world of literature. Her works are rooted in the Greek traditions but has inspired writings in virtually all languages of the world. Her talents are unmatched and along with her eight sisters, they form a dominating force in the artistic development of the western hemisphere. Please welcome, a very special guest, Erato, the muse of poetry.
Erato: Thank you Larry, thank you very much.
Larry: So Erato, you are best known as a daughter of Zeus which makes you a demigod. I know I will get in trouble for asking this of a lady, but how old are you?
Erato: Oh, you don’t have to be embarrassed. I’m nearly 4,000 years old.
Larry: You don’t look a day over 18.
Erato: (Giggles) I know. It’s what happens to us demigods.
Larry: You are the muse of poetry. What is it that you do exactly?
Erato: Well, it’s my job to be inspirational to poets. Anyone who wants to write a poem will find me there. You see, the ancient Greeks – as we call them today –wanted to communicate as beautifully as they could. Prose was not enough. After I was born, I worked with the great poet Aristpapoutsi and inspired him to integrate rhythm into the written word. His work became an instant bestseller. Scribes couldn’t carve stone tablets fast enough. We sold nearly 500 copies. Keep in mind, only 600 people in the known world could read at that time. It is unfortunate that none of his works survive to this day.
Larry: What is the most challenging aspect of your job?
Erato: Really, the most challenging part is illiteracy. For instance, during the height of the Greek era, I had four under-muses and they each had several underunder-muses, each with a full compliment of workers and staff. Responsibilities were divided by languages and regions. Enough poems were being produced to keep all of us very busy. However, during the dark ages, the entire department was let go and I easily covered all of Europe alone. After a few centuries of that, I was even in danger of being downsized and sent to early retirement. Luckily, the renaissance kicked in when it did!
Larry: What do you consider your best work?
Erato: That’s a tough one, as there’s so many great works. There are really two that stands out. The first one is Dante’s Divine Comedy. That took so much effort both of our parts. You see, Dante, by that point, wasn’t really interested in writing anymore. He felt that he was pass his prime and was more inclined to tend to his vineyard. It took years to convince him to write seriously again. When he did, he really put his heart into it and voila, you get Purgatory.
Larry: What’s the second one?
Erato: Sam I Am. It looks so simple yet if one takes the time to examine the underlying structure, one can see the works of a genius.
Larry: Well, that’s all the time we have for now. Thank you for joining us, Erato.
Erato: It was my pleasure.
Larry: And now, an inspiration:
Erato: Thank you Larry, thank you very much.
Larry: So Erato, you are best known as a daughter of Zeus which makes you a demigod. I know I will get in trouble for asking this of a lady, but how old are you?
Erato: Oh, you don’t have to be embarrassed. I’m nearly 4,000 years old.
Larry: You don’t look a day over 18.
Erato: (Giggles) I know. It’s what happens to us demigods.
Larry: You are the muse of poetry. What is it that you do exactly?
Erato: Well, it’s my job to be inspirational to poets. Anyone who wants to write a poem will find me there. You see, the ancient Greeks – as we call them today –wanted to communicate as beautifully as they could. Prose was not enough. After I was born, I worked with the great poet Aristpapoutsi and inspired him to integrate rhythm into the written word. His work became an instant bestseller. Scribes couldn’t carve stone tablets fast enough. We sold nearly 500 copies. Keep in mind, only 600 people in the known world could read at that time. It is unfortunate that none of his works survive to this day.
Larry: What is the most challenging aspect of your job?
Erato: Really, the most challenging part is illiteracy. For instance, during the height of the Greek era, I had four under-muses and they each had several underunder-muses, each with a full compliment of workers and staff. Responsibilities were divided by languages and regions. Enough poems were being produced to keep all of us very busy. However, during the dark ages, the entire department was let go and I easily covered all of Europe alone. After a few centuries of that, I was even in danger of being downsized and sent to early retirement. Luckily, the renaissance kicked in when it did!
Larry: What do you consider your best work?
Erato: That’s a tough one, as there’s so many great works. There are really two that stands out. The first one is Dante’s Divine Comedy. That took so much effort both of our parts. You see, Dante, by that point, wasn’t really interested in writing anymore. He felt that he was pass his prime and was more inclined to tend to his vineyard. It took years to convince him to write seriously again. When he did, he really put his heart into it and voila, you get Purgatory.
Larry: What’s the second one?
Erato: Sam I Am. It looks so simple yet if one takes the time to examine the underlying structure, one can see the works of a genius.
Larry: Well, that’s all the time we have for now. Thank you for joining us, Erato.
Erato: It was my pleasure.
Larry: And now, an inspiration:
My guest for next week -
You won’t find him anywhere
The Unknown Soldier
You won’t find him anywhere
The Unknown Soldier
Sunday, August 20, 2006
An Improvised Story
Once upon a time there was a princess that lived in the Castle-in-the-Clouds. She was a fair maiden and although her cloud was neither the largest nor the highest in the sky, it was by far the whitest. Her skin and hair was pure blonde and the reputation of her beauty extended throughout the skies and beyond.
Every day she would wait by the window for a prince to come and take her away. However, most princes these days were interested in only the princesses that lived in the really big clouds or the really high ones. This distressed her greatly and she would spend many hours looking forlornly out the window.
Until one day, she got so fed up that she officially declared herself a maiden in distress. She sent her couriers out to all the neighboring kingdoms seeking a knight in shining armor to urgently come and rescue her.
Because of that, several knights came gallivanting towards her cloud asking for her hand in marriage. In order to choose between them, she set them in competitions to fight for her hand. It was a great circus and people from all the kingdoms came to catch this one-in-a-lifetime event.
Because of that, the cloud treasury grew by ten-fold from the tax revenues of the spectators. The princess looked at the money she made and realized that there was quite a business to be had!
And ever since then, she was known not only as the princess that lived in the Castle-in-the Clouds but also as the CEO of RoyaltyMatch.com, an exclusive dating website for princes and princesses.
Her husband was simply known as Bob.
Every day she would wait by the window for a prince to come and take her away. However, most princes these days were interested in only the princesses that lived in the really big clouds or the really high ones. This distressed her greatly and she would spend many hours looking forlornly out the window.
Until one day, she got so fed up that she officially declared herself a maiden in distress. She sent her couriers out to all the neighboring kingdoms seeking a knight in shining armor to urgently come and rescue her.
Because of that, several knights came gallivanting towards her cloud asking for her hand in marriage. In order to choose between them, she set them in competitions to fight for her hand. It was a great circus and people from all the kingdoms came to catch this one-in-a-lifetime event.
Because of that, the cloud treasury grew by ten-fold from the tax revenues of the spectators. The princess looked at the money she made and realized that there was quite a business to be had!
And ever since then, she was known not only as the princess that lived in the Castle-in-the Clouds but also as the CEO of RoyaltyMatch.com, an exclusive dating website for princes and princesses.
Her husband was simply known as Bob.
Saturday, August 12, 2006
Competitions to Follow
The World Cup, the Olympics, the Superbowl. These are just three of the great competitive events that are broadcasted worldwide and enjoyed by millions of fans. And yet these are merely three competitions out of the thousands that take place around the world. This entry is here to merely inform the reader of other competitions that are out there.
Every July, the Bulwyer-Lytton literary contest announces the winners. It is given to the person who writes the worst opening sentence to a novel. Bulwyer-Lytton wrote the opening sentence “It was a dark and stormy night…” that has been immortalized by Snoopy in Peanuts comic strips. All of the entries are a fantastic read and you can find the past winners here at their official website (http://www.bulwer-lytton.com/).
The 2006 winner submitted this entry:
Detective Bart Lasiter was in his office studying the light from his one small window falling on his super burrito when the door swung open to reveal a woman whose body said you've had your last burrito for a while, whose face said angels did exist, and whose eyes said she could make you dig your own grave and lick the shovel clean.
Jim Guigli
Carmichael, CA
What about a more physical contest? Have you ever hear of chess-boxing? It is for those people who thinks that chess needs to incorporate full-body contact and that boxing needs to be more intellectual. Mind you, I do have a lot of respect for these athletes. Not everyone can castle a rook while throwing an uppercut. (http://site.wcbo.org/content/e14/index_en.html)
Elephant polo has made quite a splash in recent years. Apparently the Malaysian team knocked out the favorites to win. Teams of three sit on top of African grey elephants carrying 8 foot long polls and try to knock a softball-sized object into a goal. It is the perfect game summer league sport. It would be trivial to bully those pesky baseball players off the field so your team can practice. (http://www.elephantpolo.com/)
The competitive world of Rock-Paper-Scissors is also a season to follow closely. It is a sport where one nervous twitch can cost one the competition. Injuries can devastate the careers of these great athletes. The human body is not made for repetitive motion and RPS competitors, if they throw too many scissors in a row, may find themselves with a bad case of repetitive-stress-injury or even tendonitis. (http://www.worldrps.com/)
So let us come up with our own! There are many great ideas that have not been done yet. Submarine drag racing? Add figure skating as an event for the World’s Strongest Man Competition? Or start the International Hungry-Hungry Hippo congress? Leave a comment with your ideas!
Every July, the Bulwyer-Lytton literary contest announces the winners. It is given to the person who writes the worst opening sentence to a novel. Bulwyer-Lytton wrote the opening sentence “It was a dark and stormy night…” that has been immortalized by Snoopy in Peanuts comic strips. All of the entries are a fantastic read and you can find the past winners here at their official website (http://www.bulwer-lytton.com/).
The 2006 winner submitted this entry:
Detective Bart Lasiter was in his office studying the light from his one small window falling on his super burrito when the door swung open to reveal a woman whose body said you've had your last burrito for a while, whose face said angels did exist, and whose eyes said she could make you dig your own grave and lick the shovel clean.
Jim Guigli
Carmichael, CA
What about a more physical contest? Have you ever hear of chess-boxing? It is for those people who thinks that chess needs to incorporate full-body contact and that boxing needs to be more intellectual. Mind you, I do have a lot of respect for these athletes. Not everyone can castle a rook while throwing an uppercut. (http://site.wcbo.org/content/e14/index_en.html)
Elephant polo has made quite a splash in recent years. Apparently the Malaysian team knocked out the favorites to win. Teams of three sit on top of African grey elephants carrying 8 foot long polls and try to knock a softball-sized object into a goal. It is the perfect game summer league sport. It would be trivial to bully those pesky baseball players off the field so your team can practice. (http://www.elephantpolo.com/)
The competitive world of Rock-Paper-Scissors is also a season to follow closely. It is a sport where one nervous twitch can cost one the competition. Injuries can devastate the careers of these great athletes. The human body is not made for repetitive motion and RPS competitors, if they throw too many scissors in a row, may find themselves with a bad case of repetitive-stress-injury or even tendonitis. (http://www.worldrps.com/)
So let us come up with our own! There are many great ideas that have not been done yet. Submarine drag racing? Add figure skating as an event for the World’s Strongest Man Competition? Or start the International Hungry-Hungry Hippo congress? Leave a comment with your ideas!
Friday, August 4, 2006
The Great Stink
Festivals are always named after their theme. The Cannes film festival and the Rockport Chamber Music Festival are just what they seem to be. Burning Man is about embracing the counter culture that culminates in burning an effigy of a man. But there are some festivals that not only have a descriptive name but also have an apt nickname. The Gilroy Garlic festival, commonly referred to as “The Great Stink” is one that falls into the latter category.
Mind you, there is nothing stinky about garlic if you’re from the area. If one is driving down the highway, one can tell that they entered Gilroy city limits by the odor wafting through the air conditioning unit. Indeed, the smell is inescapable as one window shops in the downtown and surrounding areas. It would be imminently suitable to nickname the entire city as the Great Stink, not just the festival. For garlic lovers, of which I am one, the smell is heavenly.
Over 100,000 people come to the festival every year to partake in garlic steak, garlic chicken stir-fry, garlic stuffed mushrooms or roasted corn-on-the-cob with garlic butter. Some braver folks will taste garlic ice cream or garlic chocolate. Still others will walk away with garlic mayonnaise, pickled garlic and garlic pesto - ready to try them on recipes from their new garlic cookbooks. Dedicated visitors will pick up their souvenirs of the event that is now in its 26th year.
Here, there are no chasings of greased pigs, but there is a mad garlic-dash similar to an Easter egg hunt. There are no apple pie baking competitions but there is a cookoff. There is no three-legged race, but there is a garlic pealing competition. All of it being family friendly, olfactorically stimulating and gastronomically adventurous.
Because of this festival, I can enjoy my garlic flavored cashew nuts, ponder a recipe for garlic jam while wearing my garlic shaped cap. I just hope my neighbors on my flight don’t mind the stink!
Mind you, there is nothing stinky about garlic if you’re from the area. If one is driving down the highway, one can tell that they entered Gilroy city limits by the odor wafting through the air conditioning unit. Indeed, the smell is inescapable as one window shops in the downtown and surrounding areas. It would be imminently suitable to nickname the entire city as the Great Stink, not just the festival. For garlic lovers, of which I am one, the smell is heavenly.
Over 100,000 people come to the festival every year to partake in garlic steak, garlic chicken stir-fry, garlic stuffed mushrooms or roasted corn-on-the-cob with garlic butter. Some braver folks will taste garlic ice cream or garlic chocolate. Still others will walk away with garlic mayonnaise, pickled garlic and garlic pesto - ready to try them on recipes from their new garlic cookbooks. Dedicated visitors will pick up their souvenirs of the event that is now in its 26th year.
Here, there are no chasings of greased pigs, but there is a mad garlic-dash similar to an Easter egg hunt. There are no apple pie baking competitions but there is a cookoff. There is no three-legged race, but there is a garlic pealing competition. All of it being family friendly, olfactorically stimulating and gastronomically adventurous.
Because of this festival, I can enjoy my garlic flavored cashew nuts, ponder a recipe for garlic jam while wearing my garlic shaped cap. I just hope my neighbors on my flight don’t mind the stink!
Monday, June 12, 2006
Hiatus
Dear Readers,
I apologize for my recent hiatus and I am glad to say that I should be back on a somewhat regular posting schedule. My absence was due to unexpected occurrences in my life that were outside of my control. As with everything, there is a perfectly good and logical explanation for my absence so please indulge me in a narrative of my last few weeks.
The story begins with my going jogging. It was well after dark and I did not notice the warning sign for “Construction Ahead” along the Esplanade. As a result, I found myself tripping and falling down a storm drain. I survived only because the recent wet weather filled the drain with water that broke my fall. Unfortunately, however, the torrents of water swept me far out into Boston Harbor.
Once I surfaced, I took stock of my situation and saw the light of a fast approaching ship. Luckily, the water was calm that evening so someone on the ship heard my cries of help. I was thrown a lifesaver and hauled onboard. The boat happened to be filled with Russian prisoners being exiled to Siberia. This was disconcerting as I didn’t have my parka with me. Fortunately, the boat stocked a few extra ones just in case they picked up stragglers and I was assigned one.
Upon our arrival to Siberia, we were assigned to rock-chipping duty. Being the only foreigner in the group, the other prisoners selected me King. This was a nice gesture, as it entitled me to an extra packet of airline peanuts for breakfast. Unfortunately, my nut allergy kicked in and I had to be sent for treatment by dog-sled to the nearest hospital, a hundred miles away.
While recuperating at the hospital, I ran into an undercover KGB agent. I convinced the guy that I was a CIA double-agent and I needed to get to the Kremlin to report to my superiors. He agreed to give me a lift to Moscow. Upon my arrival, I realized I had no money, so I put a cap on the ground and started tap-dancing in the Red Square. In a few hours, I had a stack of Rubles – enough for a hotel room and a train ticket to Warsaw. In Poland, I polkaed a fare to Vienna and in Austria, I waltzed to Paris. But in France, there were so many out of work ballet dancers that I could not make a Euro dancing in the Metro.
That’s when I took up basket weaving. I sold what I weaved and with the profits, purchased more bamboo and other building material. I continued the cycle of weaving, selling and buying until I had more building material than I needed. I went to the ocean shore and weaved the largest basket that I could, lined the bottom with tar, and purchased supplies for a long journey. I then weaved a sail that caught the northern trade winds and cruised to America. I landed at Plymouth Rock and hitchhiked back to Boston where I wrote the account that you’ve just read.
So please understand the reason for my absence. It won’t happen again -- Unless, of course, I find myself in Siberia.
I apologize for my recent hiatus and I am glad to say that I should be back on a somewhat regular posting schedule. My absence was due to unexpected occurrences in my life that were outside of my control. As with everything, there is a perfectly good and logical explanation for my absence so please indulge me in a narrative of my last few weeks.
The story begins with my going jogging. It was well after dark and I did not notice the warning sign for “Construction Ahead” along the Esplanade. As a result, I found myself tripping and falling down a storm drain. I survived only because the recent wet weather filled the drain with water that broke my fall. Unfortunately, however, the torrents of water swept me far out into Boston Harbor.
Once I surfaced, I took stock of my situation and saw the light of a fast approaching ship. Luckily, the water was calm that evening so someone on the ship heard my cries of help. I was thrown a lifesaver and hauled onboard. The boat happened to be filled with Russian prisoners being exiled to Siberia. This was disconcerting as I didn’t have my parka with me. Fortunately, the boat stocked a few extra ones just in case they picked up stragglers and I was assigned one.
Upon our arrival to Siberia, we were assigned to rock-chipping duty. Being the only foreigner in the group, the other prisoners selected me King. This was a nice gesture, as it entitled me to an extra packet of airline peanuts for breakfast. Unfortunately, my nut allergy kicked in and I had to be sent for treatment by dog-sled to the nearest hospital, a hundred miles away.
While recuperating at the hospital, I ran into an undercover KGB agent. I convinced the guy that I was a CIA double-agent and I needed to get to the Kremlin to report to my superiors. He agreed to give me a lift to Moscow. Upon my arrival, I realized I had no money, so I put a cap on the ground and started tap-dancing in the Red Square. In a few hours, I had a stack of Rubles – enough for a hotel room and a train ticket to Warsaw. In Poland, I polkaed a fare to Vienna and in Austria, I waltzed to Paris. But in France, there were so many out of work ballet dancers that I could not make a Euro dancing in the Metro.
That’s when I took up basket weaving. I sold what I weaved and with the profits, purchased more bamboo and other building material. I continued the cycle of weaving, selling and buying until I had more building material than I needed. I went to the ocean shore and weaved the largest basket that I could, lined the bottom with tar, and purchased supplies for a long journey. I then weaved a sail that caught the northern trade winds and cruised to America. I landed at Plymouth Rock and hitchhiked back to Boston where I wrote the account that you’ve just read.
So please understand the reason for my absence. It won’t happen again -- Unless, of course, I find myself in Siberia.
Monday, May 22, 2006
The Proverbial Myth-Busters
Consider the tea kettle. Although it is up to its neck in hot water, it sings.
It is common for people to be reminded of the tea kettle when they are in dire situations. Few people, however, question the validity of the statement. Does the statement imply that a tea kettle sings when it is filled with hot water? If so, can it sing some of the world's greatest arias? Can a human be taught how to sing when up to one's neck in hot water?
Let us consider the first question – how does a kettle sing. For our experiment, we purchased a KitchenAid tea kettle and used a Kenmore gas stove. We measured 2 quarts of water in a graduated cylinder and transferred the fluid into the kettle. Before running the experiment, we donned our safety glasses – remember, kids, we are professionals. Do not try this at home.
The kettle was placed on the stove. The initial temperature was 25.6oC. No sound was detected from the kettle at this point. The heat was turned to “high”. After 2 minutes, we heard a rumbling sound, as if a tractor was revving its engines. We assumed this was equivalent to the warm up exercises of singers. After 4 minutes 42 seconds, the kettle began to exhibit steam. Ten seconds later, a loud whistling was heard – presumably, the kettle was now singing. The temperature of the water was 100oC. We then attempted to decipher what it was singing. The language was unknown and sounded but sounded like a high-pitched equivalent of a blue whale’s mating call.
Next, we tried to teach it to sing. Since we did not know its voice part, we chose four distinct pieces of music, Don Giovanni’s Aria from Mozart’s opera, a tenor part, “I am the Very Model of a Modern Major General”, a bass part, “Habarera” from Carmen, alto, and “Hit me Baby, one More Time”, soprano. The kettle sang all four pieces of music with the exact same sound and the exact same interpretation.
To test the second question, whether anyone can sing when up to one’s neck in hot water, we went to Times Square in New York City. We built a 6’ tall wooden pyre and set a large human-sized cauldron filled with water. Then, with our safety glasses on, we solicited volunteers from the streets to sit in the cauldron while we lit the pyre in order to see if they could sing when the water temperature reached 100oC. Unfortunately, for this part of the experiment, we were unable to procure any volunteers; however, our safety glasses did prevent us from obtaining several black eyes.
We concluded that although the kettle sings in hot water, its language is unknown and it does not seem capable of learning a human language. It is unknown if a human could be taught how to sing by standing in hot water.
Thus:
The myth that kettles sing: CONFIRMED
The myth that kettles can sing great music: BUSTED
The myth that anyone can sing in hot water: INCONCLUSIVE
Tune in next time as we find out whether the pen is truly mightier than the sword, or if actions speak louder than words.
It is common for people to be reminded of the tea kettle when they are in dire situations. Few people, however, question the validity of the statement. Does the statement imply that a tea kettle sings when it is filled with hot water? If so, can it sing some of the world's greatest arias? Can a human be taught how to sing when up to one's neck in hot water?
Let us consider the first question – how does a kettle sing. For our experiment, we purchased a KitchenAid tea kettle and used a Kenmore gas stove. We measured 2 quarts of water in a graduated cylinder and transferred the fluid into the kettle. Before running the experiment, we donned our safety glasses – remember, kids, we are professionals. Do not try this at home.
The kettle was placed on the stove. The initial temperature was 25.6oC. No sound was detected from the kettle at this point. The heat was turned to “high”. After 2 minutes, we heard a rumbling sound, as if a tractor was revving its engines. We assumed this was equivalent to the warm up exercises of singers. After 4 minutes 42 seconds, the kettle began to exhibit steam. Ten seconds later, a loud whistling was heard – presumably, the kettle was now singing. The temperature of the water was 100oC. We then attempted to decipher what it was singing. The language was unknown and sounded but sounded like a high-pitched equivalent of a blue whale’s mating call.
Next, we tried to teach it to sing. Since we did not know its voice part, we chose four distinct pieces of music, Don Giovanni’s Aria from Mozart’s opera, a tenor part, “I am the Very Model of a Modern Major General”, a bass part, “Habarera” from Carmen, alto, and “Hit me Baby, one More Time”, soprano. The kettle sang all four pieces of music with the exact same sound and the exact same interpretation.
To test the second question, whether anyone can sing when up to one’s neck in hot water, we went to Times Square in New York City. We built a 6’ tall wooden pyre and set a large human-sized cauldron filled with water. Then, with our safety glasses on, we solicited volunteers from the streets to sit in the cauldron while we lit the pyre in order to see if they could sing when the water temperature reached 100oC. Unfortunately, for this part of the experiment, we were unable to procure any volunteers; however, our safety glasses did prevent us from obtaining several black eyes.
We concluded that although the kettle sings in hot water, its language is unknown and it does not seem capable of learning a human language. It is unknown if a human could be taught how to sing by standing in hot water.
Thus:
The myth that kettles sing: CONFIRMED
The myth that kettles can sing great music: BUSTED
The myth that anyone can sing in hot water: INCONCLUSIVE
Tune in next time as we find out whether the pen is truly mightier than the sword, or if actions speak louder than words.
Sunday, May 7, 2006
This Man's Life
"What should I do for the rest of my life?" Dave asked Ms. Henry.
She laughed out loud. "David!" she exclaimed. "You're only in kindergarten! You don’t need to worry about it at your age! Here, go and enjoy yourself in the playground. See, there are some of your friends playing kickball. Why don’t you go join them?
And so he played to his heart’s content.
"What should I do for the rest of my life?" Dave asked Prof. Thurber.
"Well," answered Prof. Thurber with a thoughtful pause. "I don't think I'm qualified to answer that. What I can say is for you to use your freshman year to explore the opportunities out there for you. There is the core curriculum that everyone has to take, but use your electives to take a few introductory classes in the different departments and see what you really like. Use this time to explore your options, to learn about what out there really fascinates you."
And so he learned as much as his head could hold.
"What should I do for the rest of my life?" Dave asked his boss.
"You're on a good track for a career. Work hard. Take advantage of the opportunities that are offered to you here. Put in your time and effort and you’ll do well. But don’t get stuck. If it seems like your career isn’t moving, then find something else to do that is moving. Never stagnate.
And so he worked hard and moved up quickly.
"What should I do for the rest of my life?" Dave asked his mother on his wedding day.
"You now have a sacred responsibility to another. Be a faithful husband and when it is time, a faithful and father. You must be there to support them and when you're in need, they will be there to support you. Your wife will be your guide through life and your children will be your legacy."
And so he bore his responsibility nobly.
"What should I do for the rest of my life?" Dave asked the rabbi in between chemotherapy treatment.
The rabbi smiled. "You have lived a rich and full life. You should rest."
And so he did.
She laughed out loud. "David!" she exclaimed. "You're only in kindergarten! You don’t need to worry about it at your age! Here, go and enjoy yourself in the playground. See, there are some of your friends playing kickball. Why don’t you go join them?
And so he played to his heart’s content.
"What should I do for the rest of my life?" Dave asked Prof. Thurber.
"Well," answered Prof. Thurber with a thoughtful pause. "I don't think I'm qualified to answer that. What I can say is for you to use your freshman year to explore the opportunities out there for you. There is the core curriculum that everyone has to take, but use your electives to take a few introductory classes in the different departments and see what you really like. Use this time to explore your options, to learn about what out there really fascinates you."
And so he learned as much as his head could hold.
"What should I do for the rest of my life?" Dave asked his boss.
"You're on a good track for a career. Work hard. Take advantage of the opportunities that are offered to you here. Put in your time and effort and you’ll do well. But don’t get stuck. If it seems like your career isn’t moving, then find something else to do that is moving. Never stagnate.
And so he worked hard and moved up quickly.
"What should I do for the rest of my life?" Dave asked his mother on his wedding day.
"You now have a sacred responsibility to another. Be a faithful husband and when it is time, a faithful and father. You must be there to support them and when you're in need, they will be there to support you. Your wife will be your guide through life and your children will be your legacy."
And so he bore his responsibility nobly.
"What should I do for the rest of my life?" Dave asked the rabbi in between chemotherapy treatment.
The rabbi smiled. "You have lived a rich and full life. You should rest."
And so he did.
Sunday, April 23, 2006
A Major Catastrophe
Have you ever had the sinking feeling in your stomach that you did not belong anymore? There you are, minding your own business when all of a sudden, a wave of panic ripples through your body and you have the internal urge to be anywhere but here. It is the feeling of waking up to reality, right before your mind has time to fully digest the dire situation you are in and your brain simply wants to yell “help”.
That’s what happened to me this morning when I missed my stop while riding the bus to work.
Luckily, with lighting-fast reflexes, I was able to press the “stop requested” strip and hop off the bus one stop later, thus avoiding a major catastrophe. But what would have happened if my reflexes weren’t so quick? What if I never noticed that I passed my stop? What would happen if I simply stayed on the bus?
After ten minutes, I would have reached Lechmere T stop where the bus would have turned around and headed back to Harvard Square via Cambridge Street.
After an hour, there would have been a shift change and a new driver would command the bus up and down Cambridge Street.
After ten hours, the bus would be parked overnight at the central bus facility.
After a day, the morning shift driver would probably be wondering why I’m still on the bus after all this time. But they never say when you have to get off the bus after paying your fare.
After a year, the bus would be at the mechanic for its regularly scheduled maintenance.
After twenty years, the bus would be decommissioned and disposed at a junkyard.
After a hundred years, the bus would be buried under a mountain of mechanical parts and refuse.
After a thousand years, the landfill would be full and covered. Due to the lack of space, the surface of the landfill would be terraformed to be a new residential zone.
After a million years, new species would evolve that will marvel at the archaeological significance of a fossilized bus.
After four billion years, the sun will go supernova, consuming the remainder of the atoms of the bus.
After 100 billion years, the universe will suffer a massive heat loss as all the stars burn out. The world, as we know it, will end.
Good thing I got off the bus when I did. I don’t want to cause the universe to end!
That’s what happened to me this morning when I missed my stop while riding the bus to work.
Luckily, with lighting-fast reflexes, I was able to press the “stop requested” strip and hop off the bus one stop later, thus avoiding a major catastrophe. But what would have happened if my reflexes weren’t so quick? What if I never noticed that I passed my stop? What would happen if I simply stayed on the bus?
After ten minutes, I would have reached Lechmere T stop where the bus would have turned around and headed back to Harvard Square via Cambridge Street.
After an hour, there would have been a shift change and a new driver would command the bus up and down Cambridge Street.
After ten hours, the bus would be parked overnight at the central bus facility.
After a day, the morning shift driver would probably be wondering why I’m still on the bus after all this time. But they never say when you have to get off the bus after paying your fare.
After a year, the bus would be at the mechanic for its regularly scheduled maintenance.
After twenty years, the bus would be decommissioned and disposed at a junkyard.
After a hundred years, the bus would be buried under a mountain of mechanical parts and refuse.
After a thousand years, the landfill would be full and covered. Due to the lack of space, the surface of the landfill would be terraformed to be a new residential zone.
After a million years, new species would evolve that will marvel at the archaeological significance of a fossilized bus.
After four billion years, the sun will go supernova, consuming the remainder of the atoms of the bus.
After 100 billion years, the universe will suffer a massive heat loss as all the stars burn out. The world, as we know it, will end.
Good thing I got off the bus when I did. I don’t want to cause the universe to end!
Tuesday, April 4, 2006
A Strange Happening
The strangest thing happened to me the second week of March. I woke up and found myself at Disney World. Now, that by itself is not particularly strange as every morning thousands of people wake up and find themselves at Disney World. It is even less strange when you consider that I went to bed the night before at Disney World too. In fact, it would have been stranger if I woke up and found myself in Boston or Nashville instead of the Port Orleans Riverside Resort.
The Port Orleans Riverside Resort, not surprisingly, is pretty much like what it sounds. Nearly thirty building all designed with the quaint architecture from the French Quarter lines the banks of a man-made river. All the rooms open to the outside where pristinely maintained gardens and water fountains separate the many pools from the residential buildings. A ferry, departing from the local port, heads to Downtown Disney, a short fifteen minute ride away. And, unsurprisingly, the wait to board the boat is about half an hour.
It was a strange morning for me, though. I got up, brushed my teeth, shaved and performed the other rituals of the morning before heading to the pool. Mind you, that’s not all that strange either as every morning I go through the same hygienic routine in order to make myself presentable. I do have to admit, however, that I don’t head to the pool every morning. But frankly, if I could wake up, open my door, find myself in a blossoming garden with a clear sky and 70 degree weather at 7:00 in the morning during March while heading to an outside swimming pool, I would add it to my morning practice too.
When one’s at Disney World, many ordinary occurrences would be considered extraordinary anywhere else. Everyone goes mouse hunting at Disney World. That is a given. Most people, however, do it at the Disney Store. At the store, after making a purchase, all the cashiers sign off with “and have a magical day” while beaming a cheerful smile oblivious to the twenty screaming kids that are standing behind you in line at the counter. And, unsurprisingly, after buying souvenirs, not only can the purchase be charged to your room, but you can have it delivered there too so you don’t have to be carrying shopping bags while you enjoy your vacation.
So what was so strange about the trip? Looking back on it all, my visit to Disney World was rather typical. Everything that did happen should have happened. There really wasn’t anything out of the ordinary. In fact, I am sure that the armadillo I ran into in the hallway of my hotel thought to himself, “What an ordinary day, and there’s another guy going to the pool for a morning swim.”
The Port Orleans Riverside Resort, not surprisingly, is pretty much like what it sounds. Nearly thirty building all designed with the quaint architecture from the French Quarter lines the banks of a man-made river. All the rooms open to the outside where pristinely maintained gardens and water fountains separate the many pools from the residential buildings. A ferry, departing from the local port, heads to Downtown Disney, a short fifteen minute ride away. And, unsurprisingly, the wait to board the boat is about half an hour.
It was a strange morning for me, though. I got up, brushed my teeth, shaved and performed the other rituals of the morning before heading to the pool. Mind you, that’s not all that strange either as every morning I go through the same hygienic routine in order to make myself presentable. I do have to admit, however, that I don’t head to the pool every morning. But frankly, if I could wake up, open my door, find myself in a blossoming garden with a clear sky and 70 degree weather at 7:00 in the morning during March while heading to an outside swimming pool, I would add it to my morning practice too.
When one’s at Disney World, many ordinary occurrences would be considered extraordinary anywhere else. Everyone goes mouse hunting at Disney World. That is a given. Most people, however, do it at the Disney Store. At the store, after making a purchase, all the cashiers sign off with “and have a magical day” while beaming a cheerful smile oblivious to the twenty screaming kids that are standing behind you in line at the counter. And, unsurprisingly, after buying souvenirs, not only can the purchase be charged to your room, but you can have it delivered there too so you don’t have to be carrying shopping bags while you enjoy your vacation.
So what was so strange about the trip? Looking back on it all, my visit to Disney World was rather typical. Everything that did happen should have happened. There really wasn’t anything out of the ordinary. In fact, I am sure that the armadillo I ran into in the hallway of my hotel thought to himself, “What an ordinary day, and there’s another guy going to the pool for a morning swim.”
Tuesday, March 28, 2006
Letter to a Time Traveler
Dear Slartibartfast3,
It has been many years since we’ve met but my memory of your visit lives on. I hope that you’ve arrived in your own time safe and sound. I remember, before you left, you mentioned that it would be a long and hard journey, full of great perils and many unknowns far beyond your control. If you did not make it back, then this letter is nothing more than words from a fool. But if you are reading this, then I am sure you are well.
I hope that you still remember who I was and that you recall the great times we had together during our youth. I still remember our travels through Europe, Asia and America. I remember the times spent at the great opera houses, the historic palaces and the ancient temples. I introduced you to my friends and we spent the holidays eating, drinking and being merry. They were great days of joy and laughter that I hold dear to my heart.
Please remember that when I first met you, you were disoriented, unorganized, and a miserable wreck. You did not know the time of day, nor day of the year. It was I who nursed you back to health. I let you sleep in my own bed and wear my own clothes. I gave you access to my bank account and credit cards when you were broke. I even helped you land a job and become integrated in the society that was “today” so that you could afford supplies for your journey forward in time. In short, it was I who got you to where you are now.
Now I am writing to ask for a favor in return. You are the only person who’s capable of telling my future and I want to know about it. Where will I live? What will I be doing? Who will I marry? How can I be happy? How do I become rich? Will life be fulfilling? Will I find peace? I gave you your life back. Are the answers to these questions too much to ask for?
Since I don’t know when you will receive this letter, nor if and when you will act upon it, consider this to be a constant reminder from a creditor that payment is eminently due. I do not know when you will pay in full, but I have full faith that you will. Time is a tricky mechanism, so please ignore this letter if you’ve already answered them. If not, I look forward to a speedy response.
I hope your journey was a good one. I hope you passed your trials and tribulations with little to show for them. And I hope, for my own sake, that you arrived safe and sound.
Truly Yours,
Slartibartfast3
April 2006
It has been many years since we’ve met but my memory of your visit lives on. I hope that you’ve arrived in your own time safe and sound. I remember, before you left, you mentioned that it would be a long and hard journey, full of great perils and many unknowns far beyond your control. If you did not make it back, then this letter is nothing more than words from a fool. But if you are reading this, then I am sure you are well.
I hope that you still remember who I was and that you recall the great times we had together during our youth. I still remember our travels through Europe, Asia and America. I remember the times spent at the great opera houses, the historic palaces and the ancient temples. I introduced you to my friends and we spent the holidays eating, drinking and being merry. They were great days of joy and laughter that I hold dear to my heart.
Please remember that when I first met you, you were disoriented, unorganized, and a miserable wreck. You did not know the time of day, nor day of the year. It was I who nursed you back to health. I let you sleep in my own bed and wear my own clothes. I gave you access to my bank account and credit cards when you were broke. I even helped you land a job and become integrated in the society that was “today” so that you could afford supplies for your journey forward in time. In short, it was I who got you to where you are now.
Now I am writing to ask for a favor in return. You are the only person who’s capable of telling my future and I want to know about it. Where will I live? What will I be doing? Who will I marry? How can I be happy? How do I become rich? Will life be fulfilling? Will I find peace? I gave you your life back. Are the answers to these questions too much to ask for?
Since I don’t know when you will receive this letter, nor if and when you will act upon it, consider this to be a constant reminder from a creditor that payment is eminently due. I do not know when you will pay in full, but I have full faith that you will. Time is a tricky mechanism, so please ignore this letter if you’ve already answered them. If not, I look forward to a speedy response.
I hope your journey was a good one. I hope you passed your trials and tribulations with little to show for them. And I hope, for my own sake, that you arrived safe and sound.
Truly Yours,
Slartibartfast3
April 2006
Wednesday, March 22, 2006
How to Chase Windmills
1) Locate a windmill. An old wooden one with four blades is ideal. A three bladed windmill used for generating electricity can be used if a wooden windmill is unavailable. Windmills with metalic turbines are also acceptable but they rust rather easily.
2) Find a horse. Although it is possible to chase windmills without utilizing a horse, it is commonly accepted that "giving chase" in the proper fashion will involve an equine. A steed is prefereable as it will give you the most amount of manuverability to dodge the windmill. If one is not readily available, any four-legged animal that will accept a saddle will suffice.
3) Obtain a lance. If one is not readily available, find a tree, chop it down and carve out a solid piece of wood. If you have a strong horse, your lance should be 12 to 15 feet long. If you have a weak horse, 6 to 10 feet will be enough. If you are on foot, you may want to use a broomstick or mop handle.
4) Imagine that the windmills are really giants ravaging the countryside. This is the hardest step and involves the most amount of concentration. Close your eyes and think hard. Furrow your eyebrows if necessary. Do not open your eyes until you see fearsome giants.
5) Charge. This is a straightforward step.
6) Get your lance caught in the spoke of the windmill. Depending on your strength, you can hold onto the lance and be dragged up into the air as the windmill turns or you may let go of your grip and fall face first into the ground. The choice is yours.
7) Wait for the medical team to arrive. Mumble something about giants turning into windmills so that they could escape your wrath. Be very insistent that the gods are having a joke at your expense.
8) Be deemed mentally unfit and be dragged off to the psychiatric ward. Be put into a straightjacket in solitary confinement. Most places will perform this only at last resort. Charging at windmills is an uncommon ailment and warrants drastic measures.
9) Imagine a windmill. This should not be too hard since you succeeded at step 4.
10) Imagine a horse.
11) Repeat.
2) Find a horse. Although it is possible to chase windmills without utilizing a horse, it is commonly accepted that "giving chase" in the proper fashion will involve an equine. A steed is prefereable as it will give you the most amount of manuverability to dodge the windmill. If one is not readily available, any four-legged animal that will accept a saddle will suffice.
3) Obtain a lance. If one is not readily available, find a tree, chop it down and carve out a solid piece of wood. If you have a strong horse, your lance should be 12 to 15 feet long. If you have a weak horse, 6 to 10 feet will be enough. If you are on foot, you may want to use a broomstick or mop handle.
4) Imagine that the windmills are really giants ravaging the countryside. This is the hardest step and involves the most amount of concentration. Close your eyes and think hard. Furrow your eyebrows if necessary. Do not open your eyes until you see fearsome giants.
5) Charge. This is a straightforward step.
6) Get your lance caught in the spoke of the windmill. Depending on your strength, you can hold onto the lance and be dragged up into the air as the windmill turns or you may let go of your grip and fall face first into the ground. The choice is yours.
7) Wait for the medical team to arrive. Mumble something about giants turning into windmills so that they could escape your wrath. Be very insistent that the gods are having a joke at your expense.
8) Be deemed mentally unfit and be dragged off to the psychiatric ward. Be put into a straightjacket in solitary confinement. Most places will perform this only at last resort. Charging at windmills is an uncommon ailment and warrants drastic measures.
9) Imagine a windmill. This should not be too hard since you succeeded at step 4.
10) Imagine a horse.
11) Repeat.
Wednesday, March 15, 2006
How the Platypus got its Duckbill
Platypus busily worked on repairing his thatched roof. This evening’s forecast called for rain and Platypus needed to prepare for it. But he could not work too late. You see, tonight was also the night of Bear’s Annual Honey Party.
Bear’s Annual Honey Party ranked as the largest party in the forest. It was far bigger than Rabbit’s V8 Party with 45 varieties of carrot juice. It was much better attended than Stork’s Anchovies Party where only Pelican came and all the fish boycotted their invitations. The Honey Party was where any animals who was some animal came to be seen. Eagle changed her migration patterns in order to attend. Lion scheduled a speech for re-election. Even Rocky and Bullwinkle put off saving the world for a day in order to make an appearance.
So Platypus had to go. But there was a problem. He hated honey. Now, in most other cases, it would not make a difference. People never attended Vulture’s Roadkill Party for the food or Koala’s Bark Party for the eucalyptus cough drops. But everyone in the forest loved honey. Everyone but Platypus.
Last year, Platypus tried not eating the honey but everyone made fun of him. Two years ago, he tried to be allergic to honey. It worked for a short time until Doctor Frog came by and said that there was no such thing as a honey allergy. This year, he had a fool-proof plan. Old Duck, who happens to live next door to Platypus, had a pair of false bills. Since Old Duck was injured, he could not make the party but agreed to lend his false bills to Platypus. Platypus would pretend to eat the honey but instead store it in the bill so that he could dump it into the river when he got home. It was a fool-proof plan. Nothing could go wrong.
Platypus finished patching his roof with not a moment to spare so he donned his costume and left. Later that night, Platypus returned fully satisfied with himself. His plan worked like a charm. No one guessed that he was actually storing all the honey he ate in his false bills. In fact, he got so confident with himself, he ate more than anyone else at the party. Everyone commented on how much he loved honey this year after hating it for all previous years. Platypus went straight to bed, tired but happy, with the intention of cleaning out the bill first thing in the morning.
But as fate would have it, it not only rained that night, it snowed. The sudden drop in temperature froze the honey inside the bills and Platypus awoke to the bill firmly stuck in place. Platypus tried desperately to remove the bill to no avail. Doctor Frog came by to see what he could do but all he did was shake his head. The honey had frozen into Platypus’s fur and the attachment was permanent.
For all the years that Platypus lived, he never attended the honey party ever again.
And that is how the platypus got its duckbill.
Bear’s Annual Honey Party ranked as the largest party in the forest. It was far bigger than Rabbit’s V8 Party with 45 varieties of carrot juice. It was much better attended than Stork’s Anchovies Party where only Pelican came and all the fish boycotted their invitations. The Honey Party was where any animals who was some animal came to be seen. Eagle changed her migration patterns in order to attend. Lion scheduled a speech for re-election. Even Rocky and Bullwinkle put off saving the world for a day in order to make an appearance.
So Platypus had to go. But there was a problem. He hated honey. Now, in most other cases, it would not make a difference. People never attended Vulture’s Roadkill Party for the food or Koala’s Bark Party for the eucalyptus cough drops. But everyone in the forest loved honey. Everyone but Platypus.
Last year, Platypus tried not eating the honey but everyone made fun of him. Two years ago, he tried to be allergic to honey. It worked for a short time until Doctor Frog came by and said that there was no such thing as a honey allergy. This year, he had a fool-proof plan. Old Duck, who happens to live next door to Platypus, had a pair of false bills. Since Old Duck was injured, he could not make the party but agreed to lend his false bills to Platypus. Platypus would pretend to eat the honey but instead store it in the bill so that he could dump it into the river when he got home. It was a fool-proof plan. Nothing could go wrong.
Platypus finished patching his roof with not a moment to spare so he donned his costume and left. Later that night, Platypus returned fully satisfied with himself. His plan worked like a charm. No one guessed that he was actually storing all the honey he ate in his false bills. In fact, he got so confident with himself, he ate more than anyone else at the party. Everyone commented on how much he loved honey this year after hating it for all previous years. Platypus went straight to bed, tired but happy, with the intention of cleaning out the bill first thing in the morning.
But as fate would have it, it not only rained that night, it snowed. The sudden drop in temperature froze the honey inside the bills and Platypus awoke to the bill firmly stuck in place. Platypus tried desperately to remove the bill to no avail. Doctor Frog came by to see what he could do but all he did was shake his head. The honey had frozen into Platypus’s fur and the attachment was permanent.
For all the years that Platypus lived, he never attended the honey party ever again.
And that is how the platypus got its duckbill.
Tuesday, March 7, 2006
The Truly Great
Great cities are a rare find. History has but a handful and in the modern world, achieving Great status is just as difficult as maintaining it. Great cities must be artistic centers. Paris has the famous Opera House and the Louvre. They must be the center of trade and commerce. The Tokyo, Hong Kong and London stock exchanges control the world’s economy. Being a capitol city helps but does not guarantee Great status. Very few people would make a trip solely to visit Brasilia or Canberra instead of Rio de Janeiro or Sydney. Hosting an international event helps raise its global profile. Who paid attention to Seoul before they hosed the Olympic Games? Now it has an honor that few cities obtain.
Among all of the Great cities in the world, there is but one and only one that is Truly Great: New York. It has all the prerequisites, being the home to Picasso, Copland and John Steinbeck while performers flock to debut at Carnegie Hall or the MET. Its port is the nexus of commerce east of the Mississippi. It has hosted world fairs and is the permanent home of the UN while the New York Stock Exchange dwarfs the importance of all the other exchanges combined.
But there was one event that happened on a brisk February afternoon in Union Square that catapulted New York far above its peers to earn it the rank of Truly Great. It was a day when a crowd of people gathered nervously, some still in their pajamas. All came with armed with one weapon in common: a pillow. Yes, it was the day of the Great Pillowfight.
For an hour, pillows got tossed, swung, stabbed, parried, flung, jabbed, hurled, dodged, thrown and blocked. Every once and awhile a pillow would burst, sending a cloud of feathers up into the air that slowly dispersed through the neighborhood. From a distance they looked like flakes of snow, until they landed on a nice black fleece and you realized that the only way to remove it was with a lint roller.
One brave lady sat on the shoulders of a comrade that gave her an immense advantage in height. But that advantage was quickly subdued when she became the center of attention and all of those around began to attach her mercilessly. All she could do was but fend off the attack by fluffy objects. Her victory was short and in the end, her thoughts of conquest dashed, she joined the masses in their free-for-all.
During this entire time, four NYC policemen stood by and watched. They looked rather perturbed, as if they did not quite know how to handle the situation. I’m sure they were very well trained with their firearms, knives and nightsticks, but pillows are not included in standard policeman issue so they were unfortunately outclassed.
You may be saying to yourself at this point, “How silly! That never happened! You must be running out of ideas and have started inventing stories to write about!”
I will tell you this. Sometimes reality is the best imagination we will ever have.
Among all of the Great cities in the world, there is but one and only one that is Truly Great: New York. It has all the prerequisites, being the home to Picasso, Copland and John Steinbeck while performers flock to debut at Carnegie Hall or the MET. Its port is the nexus of commerce east of the Mississippi. It has hosted world fairs and is the permanent home of the UN while the New York Stock Exchange dwarfs the importance of all the other exchanges combined.
But there was one event that happened on a brisk February afternoon in Union Square that catapulted New York far above its peers to earn it the rank of Truly Great. It was a day when a crowd of people gathered nervously, some still in their pajamas. All came with armed with one weapon in common: a pillow. Yes, it was the day of the Great Pillowfight.
For an hour, pillows got tossed, swung, stabbed, parried, flung, jabbed, hurled, dodged, thrown and blocked. Every once and awhile a pillow would burst, sending a cloud of feathers up into the air that slowly dispersed through the neighborhood. From a distance they looked like flakes of snow, until they landed on a nice black fleece and you realized that the only way to remove it was with a lint roller.
One brave lady sat on the shoulders of a comrade that gave her an immense advantage in height. But that advantage was quickly subdued when she became the center of attention and all of those around began to attach her mercilessly. All she could do was but fend off the attack by fluffy objects. Her victory was short and in the end, her thoughts of conquest dashed, she joined the masses in their free-for-all.
During this entire time, four NYC policemen stood by and watched. They looked rather perturbed, as if they did not quite know how to handle the situation. I’m sure they were very well trained with their firearms, knives and nightsticks, but pillows are not included in standard policeman issue so they were unfortunately outclassed.
You may be saying to yourself at this point, “How silly! That never happened! You must be running out of ideas and have started inventing stories to write about!”
I will tell you this. Sometimes reality is the best imagination we will ever have.
Monday, February 20, 2006
The Importance of Reading
“We Serve Only Patented IH-22 Lactic Acid Bacteria Kimchi.”
These were the words that greeted me on my placemat as I sat down for lunch at a korean restaurant in New York City. They surprised me - I did not expect to delve too deeply into digestive sciences before my meal, but this is New York and anything can happen. After navigating the menu and choosing my meal, I began to study the writings in front of me.
“By using soybean protein instead of salted fish for fermentation, Dok-do Kimchi contains plenty of bean oligo peptide, amino acid, calcium from vegetables, iron, and vitamins.”
So much can be learned about a culture by reading their placemats. In Chinatown, customers are greeted with colorful placemats with the twelve animals of the zodiac and can read descriptions of each trait. You can tell that the Chinese greatly value animals and their mystical abilities. If one wants to have a long life, they will eat a monkey. If one wants to be handsome, they can eat a snake. Wise people are in short supply because the last time a dragon was slayed was in 274AD by St. George.
“Dok-do Kimchi contains a large quantity of lactic acid bacteria IH-22 which stays active when ingested. This aids in creating a self protective film against acid in the stomach.”
The larger-than-life color photos of Big Macs on McDonald placemats never made me want to eat more Big Macs. Rather, they made me disappointed that the one I just purchased was only a quarter of the picture size. If they really wanted to court my business, the real-deal has to be at least the same size as the ones in the advertisements.
“The patented lactic acid bacteria IH-22 and the dietary fiber in Dok-do Kimchi help remove toxic wastes from your digestive tract by drawing them out of your body.”
Placemats at diners along America’s superhighways are filled with local advertisements. Here, drivers can relax and truly appreciate the commercialization of America without having to worry about passing a billboard before memorizing the telephone number. As an added bonus, the placemat can even be folded up and taken away as a constant reminder that yes, you too can save 15% or more on auto insurance by calling Geico.
IH-22 lactic acid has been proven to eliminate and suppress harmful bacteria that cause food poisoning (from a clinical test at Seoul Women’s University, Korea).”
But the truly sublime ones are pure Bond White and textured with curly edges. Their slate is empty, they sit there seemingly silent and tame and yet they taunt “write on me” to someone armed with a crayon. Their story is yet to be told, their life has yet to be lived.
“In a clinical test performed at Chung-Nam National University of Korea, Dok-do Kimchi proved effective on more than 80 percent of patients who suffered from chronic constipation.”
The Koreans are unique in their love of their beloved single-celled organisms. How many cultures would display prominently the features and benefits of the bacteria harbored by their most famous dish? The French do not talk about the yeast cells in their wines and no one discusses the mold in blue cheese.
“Children love Dok-do Kimchi for its non offensive smell. Dok-do Kimchi provides beneficial bacteria to everyone including the elderly.”
An hour later, I left the restaurant with the full knowledge that I ate some pleasant-smelling spicy fermented cabbage which provided me with billions of beneficial bacteria that busily removed carcinogenic waste from my intestinal tract while preventing constipation.
“Great tasting Kimchi without the smell!”
And that is why I’m glad I can read.
These were the words that greeted me on my placemat as I sat down for lunch at a korean restaurant in New York City. They surprised me - I did not expect to delve too deeply into digestive sciences before my meal, but this is New York and anything can happen. After navigating the menu and choosing my meal, I began to study the writings in front of me.
“By using soybean protein instead of salted fish for fermentation, Dok-do Kimchi contains plenty of bean oligo peptide, amino acid, calcium from vegetables, iron, and vitamins.”
So much can be learned about a culture by reading their placemats. In Chinatown, customers are greeted with colorful placemats with the twelve animals of the zodiac and can read descriptions of each trait. You can tell that the Chinese greatly value animals and their mystical abilities. If one wants to have a long life, they will eat a monkey. If one wants to be handsome, they can eat a snake. Wise people are in short supply because the last time a dragon was slayed was in 274AD by St. George.
“Dok-do Kimchi contains a large quantity of lactic acid bacteria IH-22 which stays active when ingested. This aids in creating a self protective film against acid in the stomach.”
The larger-than-life color photos of Big Macs on McDonald placemats never made me want to eat more Big Macs. Rather, they made me disappointed that the one I just purchased was only a quarter of the picture size. If they really wanted to court my business, the real-deal has to be at least the same size as the ones in the advertisements.
“The patented lactic acid bacteria IH-22 and the dietary fiber in Dok-do Kimchi help remove toxic wastes from your digestive tract by drawing them out of your body.”
Placemats at diners along America’s superhighways are filled with local advertisements. Here, drivers can relax and truly appreciate the commercialization of America without having to worry about passing a billboard before memorizing the telephone number. As an added bonus, the placemat can even be folded up and taken away as a constant reminder that yes, you too can save 15% or more on auto insurance by calling Geico.
IH-22 lactic acid has been proven to eliminate and suppress harmful bacteria that cause food poisoning (from a clinical test at Seoul Women’s University, Korea).”
But the truly sublime ones are pure Bond White and textured with curly edges. Their slate is empty, they sit there seemingly silent and tame and yet they taunt “write on me” to someone armed with a crayon. Their story is yet to be told, their life has yet to be lived.
“In a clinical test performed at Chung-Nam National University of Korea, Dok-do Kimchi proved effective on more than 80 percent of patients who suffered from chronic constipation.”
The Koreans are unique in their love of their beloved single-celled organisms. How many cultures would display prominently the features and benefits of the bacteria harbored by their most famous dish? The French do not talk about the yeast cells in their wines and no one discusses the mold in blue cheese.
“Children love Dok-do Kimchi for its non offensive smell. Dok-do Kimchi provides beneficial bacteria to everyone including the elderly.”
An hour later, I left the restaurant with the full knowledge that I ate some pleasant-smelling spicy fermented cabbage which provided me with billions of beneficial bacteria that busily removed carcinogenic waste from my intestinal tract while preventing constipation.
“Great tasting Kimchi without the smell!”
And that is why I’m glad I can read.
Wednesday, February 8, 2006
Answers
Why?
Why not?
Why not ask?
Why ask?
Why ask why?
Why ask anything?
Why pursue anything?
Why pursue answers?
What is not known?
What is known?
What can be known?
Do we know what we don't know?
What is the value of learning what we don't know?
What do we do with the knowledge?
Why not pass it onto someone else?
Who would we pass it to?
Who does not know yet?
Where would we go to find them?
What do they know?
What do they not know?
How does one teach them what they don't know?
How does one teach them to ask for it?
How does one teach them to ask why not?
How does one teach them to ask why?
How does one teach them to ask?
How does one teach them why?
Why not?
Why not ask?
Why ask?
Why ask why?
Why ask anything?
Why pursue anything?
Why pursue answers?
What is not known?
What is known?
What can be known?
Do we know what we don't know?
What is the value of learning what we don't know?
What do we do with the knowledge?
Why not pass it onto someone else?
Who would we pass it to?
Who does not know yet?
Where would we go to find them?
What do they know?
What do they not know?
How does one teach them what they don't know?
How does one teach them to ask for it?
How does one teach them to ask why not?
How does one teach them to ask why?
How does one teach them to ask?
How does one teach them why?
Thursday, February 2, 2006
Change
That's funny, thought John. I can't seem to feel my right hand. It was an odd sensation but not particularly alarming one. It was early in the morning and he had no need for his right hand yet. After awhile, he tried again, this time testing each finger individually, but they still did not respond to his mental commands. He shifted his attention over to his left hands. Index finger? No response. Ring finger? Same result. Next, he tried to bend his arms but they were both locked into position. He moved his attention to his neck muscles but they refused to budge. He then moved his concentration to his lower body. He thought hard about his knees but they refused to flex. What about the toes? No such luck. John sighed. It was going to be one of those mornings. At least I’m warm.
This had been going on for several long months now and John was sick of it. Initially, he thought nothing of it, being rather glad that he had no more responsibility but now he was becoming irritated. He hated being in a vegetative state. To occupy himself, he mentally flexed each muscle every day although they could not respond with physical motion. His morning exercise over, John sighed again and resigned himself to his fate. Usually after his morning exercise, he entertained himself by counting to a million. He averaged about two thousand numbers per day. Yesterday he stopped at two hundred ninety seven thousand eight hundred twenty two. He hoped to break three hundred thousand today.
All of a sudden, there was a tremendous jerk and his world began to shake violently. What’s going on? He thought with alarm. His neck began to squirm, his arms clawed at empty space his legs began to spasm uncontrollably. Stop it! He commanded with all of his energy. Stop it now! His heart pounded faster and faster as his body writhed while being tossed around. All of a sudden, a rush of cold air tingled every nerve in his body. He felt fear like he never felt before and he gave a guttural cry that strained his tender voice box and stretched the capacity of his newly developed lungs.
"Congratulations!" said the nurse to his mother. "It’s a boy!"
Thursday, January 19, 2006
Nothing to Read
"Nothing," as defined by Webster's 7th online dictionary, means "no thing." How simple it is. Most definitions are not as lucky - compound words rarely reflect the meanings of their constituents. “Cargo” does not mean an automobile ride and “mankind” does not mean that people are generous. But this particular definition is rather elegant.
Nothing.
No thing.
Its own existence is a paradox. The concept of “nothing” does not lack conception. On the contrary, the concept of nothing is full of meaning that it cannot be simply described as “no thing”. If it was truly “no thing”, then it should not even have a definition. It is a void in space, a missing link or a deficiency of substance. A day spent doing nothing is still a day spent. Nothing can be more expensive than the Mona Lisa or cheaper than dirt. (Of course, since there is a sand shortage in Saudi Arabia, dirt may actually be worth more.)
It is the answer to the great quandaries of existence. What was before the big bang? Nothing. What is the space between electrons? Nothing. What did you do on your date last night? Oh, nothing. Since nothing travels faster than light, it could potentially be used to propel humans to the stars.
We could not survive without nothing. Nothing gets us through the day like having nothing to worry about. Buying nothing costs little and does not create clutter in your home. Spending nothing will never cause inflation. Stealing nothing will never land you in jail, no matter how hard you try. If nothing didn't exist, we would not have nine seasons of Seinfeld.
It can land us into trouble. If we did away with nothing, we would be just as badly off as we are now. If we ignore nothing, then we become deluged with work.
But it also can save us from awkward endings. After all, nothing is said, when there is nothing left to say.
Nothing.
No thing.
Its own existence is a paradox. The concept of “nothing” does not lack conception. On the contrary, the concept of nothing is full of meaning that it cannot be simply described as “no thing”. If it was truly “no thing”, then it should not even have a definition. It is a void in space, a missing link or a deficiency of substance. A day spent doing nothing is still a day spent. Nothing can be more expensive than the Mona Lisa or cheaper than dirt. (Of course, since there is a sand shortage in Saudi Arabia, dirt may actually be worth more.)
It is the answer to the great quandaries of existence. What was before the big bang? Nothing. What is the space between electrons? Nothing. What did you do on your date last night? Oh, nothing. Since nothing travels faster than light, it could potentially be used to propel humans to the stars.
We could not survive without nothing. Nothing gets us through the day like having nothing to worry about. Buying nothing costs little and does not create clutter in your home. Spending nothing will never cause inflation. Stealing nothing will never land you in jail, no matter how hard you try. If nothing didn't exist, we would not have nine seasons of Seinfeld.
It can land us into trouble. If we did away with nothing, we would be just as badly off as we are now. If we ignore nothing, then we become deluged with work.
But it also can save us from awkward endings. After all, nothing is said, when there is nothing left to say.
Wednesday, January 11, 2006
Your Average Joe
I'm 5'10". Some may consider me tall while others will consider me short. America is consumed by averages of all sorts. On average, Boston receives 3.1 inches of rain in June, KFC serves 3,000 customers per week and people spend $271 on electricity per year. But in reality, it is very difficult to be dead-on-average. To be truly average is an unattainable goal.
For instance, the average american family has 3.14 persons and they would own 1.9 cars, according to the US Census Bureau. I don't know of a single household with 0.14 persons occupying it. Maybe they only come out at night? Likewise, I've never seen 0.9 of a car being driven around on the streets. Perhaps they're missing a wheel so they can't move?
Sometimes, it seems luxurious to be average. On average, a person will fall asleep in seven minutes and sleep for 8.6 hours per day. On average, americans spend 5.18 hours in leisure activities per day.
Sometimes, it's good to be above average. Most people have more than the average number of fingers on their hands. The average lifespan is 76 years.
Sometimes it's better to be below - the average speeding ticket costs $150.
But it is rare to be dead-on-average. The average height in America happens to be 5'10". I happen to be very proud of my mediocrity. I stand by it with pride.
For instance, the average american family has 3.14 persons and they would own 1.9 cars, according to the US Census Bureau. I don't know of a single household with 0.14 persons occupying it. Maybe they only come out at night? Likewise, I've never seen 0.9 of a car being driven around on the streets. Perhaps they're missing a wheel so they can't move?
Sometimes, it seems luxurious to be average. On average, a person will fall asleep in seven minutes and sleep for 8.6 hours per day. On average, americans spend 5.18 hours in leisure activities per day.
Sometimes, it's good to be above average. Most people have more than the average number of fingers on their hands. The average lifespan is 76 years.
Sometimes it's better to be below - the average speeding ticket costs $150.
But it is rare to be dead-on-average. The average height in America happens to be 5'10". I happen to be very proud of my mediocrity. I stand by it with pride.
Tuesday, January 3, 2006
Two Dimensions
Have you ever wondered what it would be like to live in a 2 dimensional universe?
Trees would stand like telephone poles and a forest would be perfectly lined like a white picket fence. Seasons would disappear - the sun would travel along the same path every day. Hurricanes and tornados would not exist. Rivers would not wind like a snake, neither would snakes. All roads would lead to Rome.
Refrigerator doors would not open to the right or left. Planes would not have wings. There would be no such thing as theater-in-the-round. If you were caught in traffic during the morning commute, there would be no lane to change to. TV would be a blinking line. There would be no road for the chicken to cross.
You would never throw a gutter ball. The hockey goalie would block everything. Tug-of-War would be the main Olympics attraction. There would be only one lane at the swimming pool. Cartwheels would be easy for anyone. Baseball would only have two bases.
Only one person could fish in the ocean at a time. There would be no left or right side of politics. No one would be able to cut in line. You would not be able to roll out of bed. Zen gardens would lose its meaning. You would never come to a fork in a road. Anyone could walk the tightrope. The fat man and the thin man would look exactly the same.
It would not matter which side the knife goes on. You would not be able to put your elbows on the table. Pies would look like spaghetti. All bread would be sliced. Doughnuts would not have holes.
And the people would be so one dimensional.
Trees would stand like telephone poles and a forest would be perfectly lined like a white picket fence. Seasons would disappear - the sun would travel along the same path every day. Hurricanes and tornados would not exist. Rivers would not wind like a snake, neither would snakes. All roads would lead to Rome.
Refrigerator doors would not open to the right or left. Planes would not have wings. There would be no such thing as theater-in-the-round. If you were caught in traffic during the morning commute, there would be no lane to change to. TV would be a blinking line. There would be no road for the chicken to cross.
You would never throw a gutter ball. The hockey goalie would block everything. Tug-of-War would be the main Olympics attraction. There would be only one lane at the swimming pool. Cartwheels would be easy for anyone. Baseball would only have two bases.
Only one person could fish in the ocean at a time. There would be no left or right side of politics. No one would be able to cut in line. You would not be able to roll out of bed. Zen gardens would lose its meaning. You would never come to a fork in a road. Anyone could walk the tightrope. The fat man and the thin man would look exactly the same.
It would not matter which side the knife goes on. You would not be able to put your elbows on the table. Pies would look like spaghetti. All bread would be sliced. Doughnuts would not have holes.
And the people would be so one dimensional.
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