Another One Joins the Club...

On behalf of the General Blogging Community, I would like to extend a welcome to the newest blogger of our group. The GBC is always happy to have new members. You should check out the blog. It's still young, but so far it looks good.

In the Beginning...

Fall Break was good. I got lots of sleep, got a good chunk of work done, and did some frivolous-but-fun things. We need more four-day weekends.

There's a very good reason for the lack of decent posts of late: I haven't had anything to post about. Because of that, I've decided to undertake a project on this blog.

Enter the WoW: the Word of the Week. Every week, probably on Monday, I will post a new word and its definition (and its etymology, if I bother to find it). I'll do my best to make the pronunciations reasonable, since I can't get a phonetic alphabet to work in Blogger. The word and a brief definition will appear in the sidebar over there ------> for the entire week, as well. This will give me an excuse to post at least once per week, and maybe we can all learn something from it.

So, to start us off, I present the first WoW:

epicene (EH-pih-seen), adjective:
1) having an ambiguous sexual identity ("quem" is an epicene pronoun)
2) sexless; neuter
3) Belonging to or having the characteristics of both the male and the female

"Equal" Rights

Food for thought:

"Far from simplifying everything, as 'progressive' rhetoric had promised, 'equality' created a chaos of new rules, laws, and anomalous exceptions, as when 'transsexuals' got into the act. It was often apparent that what 'minorities' were after was not equality, but privileged treatment. Or, in a word, power. The blandly abstract language of equality usually conceals specific interests. Civil rights, it's now clear to everyone, means certain black interests; nobody takes it to mean anything else. When whites hear about a new 'civil-rights measure,' they don't imagine it means their rights are going to be protected; on the contrary, they know instantly that it means further violations of their privacy, freedom of association, property rights, access to jobs, and so forth. Sexual orientation likewise means certain homosexual interests; it doesn't cover, say, guys with a thing for blondes, even if this happens to be a source of 'identity' and 'pride' for them; the government doesn't yet cater to the 'blonde-loving community.' The seemingly universal principle nearly always turns out to mean what's good for very specific groups. The seemingly simple principle can wind up bringing havoc to law and clear thought. One superfluous principle, however noble or innocuous it sounds, can eventually undermine an entire way of life." --Joseph Sobran

Four (or more) Can Play at That Game... [UPDATED]

What a hellish week.

It all started on Monday, when I walked into History of the English Language. I had expected trouble when I walked into the computer lab for my test, but what met my eyes nearly made me faint. There before me was an entire host of Saxon barbarians, armed to their filthy teeth with deadly weapons. Behind them was a horde of Norman soldiers, slightly more sanitary but equally well equipped. When they noticed me, the warriors let out an enormous shout that shook the very foundations of the building. Since the room was full of computers, I hurled a monitor at the nearest Saxon, snatched up a keyboard, and backed into the doorway.

The tide was slowed slightly by the bodies that I had felled with the monitor, but I was still in trouble. I swung the keyboard like a madman, desperately trying to hold the slavering barbarians at bay. My arms ached, I was bleeding from numerous gashes, and I could hardly breathe. Just when I thought I couldn't last any longer, the building lurched and several ceiling tiles fell to the floor, crushing my foes beneath them. Breathing a heartfelt prayer of gratitude, I rushed from the scene.

Tuesday passed without incident, but on Wednesday I had another encounter with the Ghosts of English Past. In class that day I was assaulted by an army of dictionary-wielding grammarians (including Jonathan Swift) who tried to bludgeon me to death while shouting about prescriptive grammars and phonetic spellings. I had kept the keyboard from Monday, and it served me well; my assailants had never seen such a device, and I was able to escape while they were distracted with it.

Thursday morning, I wandered over to Western Civ. I was greeted by a massive Troll. He wore a cloth world map like a cloak, and he brandished a yardstick in one hand and a hubcap-sized globe in the other. He roared a challenge as I walked in the door and swung his yardstick like a cudgel. I sought refuge behind a large atlas and fought the Troll with an Assyrian Assault Rifle and a steady stream of Rhine water. Some of my classmates chipped in with Siberian Stinger missiles and Tiber Torpedoes, and only three of our number died before the Troll fell. Five others were wounded, and I myself lost my spleen.

After the Troll, the Speech Sprite that afternoon was positively ridiculous. I babbled at him about Intercultural Communication and sent him packing.

I didn't think it could get any worse; so, of course, it did. On Friday morning, I made my weary way to Glaske for Modern Physics. Upon arriving, I discovered that Dr. Forringer, as a result of a particle-acceleration experiment gone horribly wrong, had summoned a Duality Demon from the Lowest Pits of Hell. The fiend was wreaking havoc with the building: tables and chairs were flying through the halls at relativistic speeds, computers were smashing into each other, and pencils were being converted directly into energy, resulting in massive explosions (fortunately, Glaske has a high-tech shielding system in place for just such emergencies). Everywhere I looked, particles were melting into waves and waves were coalescing into particles.

The demon laughed wickedly, fire and gamma radiation spewing from its fanged mouth. I was terrified, but I knew what I had to do. I drew out my pencil and my calculator and ran to the physics lab, where I found the experimental Flux Capacitor that Dr. Ball left behind. With the components in hand, I began the ritual. The demon saw me and turned his deadly attention my way, but it was too late. With a final resounding shout and one last push of a calculator key, I summoned the Spirit of Schroedinger. His Aura of Uncertainty completely neutralized the Demon's quantum powers, and I drove the Flux Capacitor deep into the Demon's burning chest. With a roar of fury and a flash of Hellfire, the demon was banished to Abyss from whence it had come. I collapsed, exhausted and burned, and blacked out. When I awoke, someone had connected the Flux Capacitor to the Tesla coil, and everything had been repaired.

I have never been so glad to reach a weekend.



~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Kudos to these three guys for bringing the already fine art of bull**** to a whole new level, and to this guy for providing the impetus for their prevarications. I tip my proverbial hat to you, sirs. *bows*

**
On a more serious note, the memorial service for my grandmother is being held today. Please pray for my family, especially my dad and his brother and sister.

Enthusiastic Exaggeration

This has been a busy week for me. I know I'm not the only one who's had lots to do this week, but that didn't make it any less busy for me. With a test or quiz every day of the week (two today) except Tuesday, when I had to turn in a speech outline, I haven't had much time to come up with anything worth posting. But fear not! For I have allowed someone else to do the work of entertaining you for me.

Some of you have probably seen this before, but that's okay. It's an awesome little essay, and it's nice and short, so you should all go read it. Now.

Excerpt:
"I can hurl tennis rackets at small moving objects with deadly accuracy. I once read Paradise Lost, Moby Dick and David Copperfield in one day and still had time to refurbish an entire dining room that evening. I know the exact location of every food item in the supermarket."

Table Talk

Last night (Saturday), several of my friends orchestrated a little something special for dinnertime. I, being the antisocial scrooge that I am, didn't participate in the party. But I didn't intend my lack of participation to be insulting to anyone involved.

Thus, in order that those of you who organized the party don't feel hurt, I'm going to be very frank about why I didn't participate.

First of all, the first I heard about the event was a brief (about 2-minute) announcement on Friday night. What I heard amounted to "We've got a tablecloth and some decorations, so dress up a little. Show up at 5:30."

Now, to my mind, "dress up a little" means "no T-shirts, and pants would be better than shorts." Well, I generally consider my Hawaiian shirts to be a notch or two above T-shirts, and it's a rare occasion that makes me wear pants instead of shorts.

I guess I should have paid more attention. Had I known just how serious the ladies were about their project, I probably would have really dressed up (slacks, tie, coat). That said, when I arrived at Saga and saw a little corner of the Ritz's dining room (it was very impressive) and my friends decked out in full dress duds, I decided my casual attire was not appropriate for that setting. I didn't want to spoil the ambiance of the table, you see. My friends were gracious enough to invite me over anyway, for which I am touched and appreciative.

I applaud the ladies responsible for the effort they put into the project, and I apologize for being a party-pooper. In the future, I'll try to be more cooperative.

"The Graveyard Shift"

[Written earlier this week, during my slightly-more-introspective time.]

What do you want on your tombstone,
And what will your epitaph say?
How will your friends remember you
After you've passed away?

When you’ve finally kicked the big bucket,
Shuffled off of this old mortal coil,
What will people be saying about you
While you're taking up space in the soil?

Will they call you a fine, giving person?
Will they say you could tell a great joke?
Will they reminisce fondly about you,
When you’ve given the ultimate croak?

When you give up your ghost and expire,
When you perm’nently change your address,
When you cash in your chips to buy the farm,
Will they say your life was a success?

When you bite the dust and push up daisies,
When you travel to Kingdom Come,
Will you look back with pride at your lifestyle,
Or realize you were a bum?

How will you like your performance
When you take your last bow on the stage?
If you read your own obituary,
Would you like what you saw on the page?

When you finally meet your Maker
I hope you’ll have taken His gift;
‘Cause it won’t be much fun if you don’t have the Son
During the Graveyard Shift.

Oh, what do you want on your tombstone,
And what will your epitaph say?
And how will your friends remember you
After you've passed away?

"Who Am I?" or "What Do You Want on Your Tombstone?" [SoC]

The "[SoC]" in the title stands for "Stream of Consciousness." When I use it in this way, it means that what follows is more or less the rambling of my mind, with little editing except for clarity and grammatical correctness. It doesn't necessarily represent any cut-and-dried beliefs that I have, but it is something I've thought about at least once, and probably more than once. If you go mad (either angry OR insane) from reading this, don't come crying to me.

My previous post got me thinking about identities. For some reason, online quizzes came to mind. Particularly Wheeler's SC quiz.

(There I go, thinking again. I guess it's inevitable late at night; my brain has to do something to keep from falling asleep. One of these days I'm going to get into trouble for thinking too much. But enough of this rabbit trail.)

These quizzes are fun, and some of them can be informative or though-provoking. But what do they really tell us about each other, and about ourselves? Wheeler's is a perfect example. The results he made up are probably good indicators of how he thinks of each of us, or at least of the niches we each fill in our little group. Of course, I realize that none of us expect online quizzes to tell us all about people. If I got anything out of Cornerstones/FHS (other than an earful of quasi-philosophical banter), it was that nothing as short-and-simple as an online-quiz result can hope to encompass all the complexities that make up a human being.

Perhaps a more important question than what we get from the quizzes is: Why do we keep taking them? Why are we so interested in what other people can tell us about ourselves?

We are defined largely by our actions (the things we do and say), at least as far as other people are concerned. You can't know who I am except by my actions. But is that the "real" me? Are we really defined by our actions, or is there some ethereal inner quality that no one can see unless we reveal it? We hear psychologists talk about "masks" that we wear, and I think that's true; I've seen it at work. But if you wear a mask long enough, does your face take the shape of the mask? If you behave a certain way for too many years, does that affect who you "really" are?

Now, I don't mind being thought of as a punster. I do like wordplay, after all (maybe a bit too much?). But there's more to me than punning. I'd like to think that at my funeral, the speakers will be able to say more than "He told some good jokes during his time."

How much correlation is there between your actions and your "self" or "being" or "personality?" When does the mask cease to be a mask and become your real face?

A "rule of thumb" that is often given about how to live, and one that I think is a good guideline, says this: Think about how you want to be remembered at your funeral. Then live your life in such a way that you will be remembered that way.

So how do I want to be remembered? What do I want on my tombstone?

I don't think I'll post any answers, lest they somehow affect the way you think of me; I'd rather be evaluated by what my actions really are, not by what I want them to be. But it's definitely something I need to think about. In the meantime, I'll probably keep taking the silly 'Net Quizzes. Maybe one of them will turn on a light bulb.

Discuss.

********
This is why I shouldn't stay up this late. I get too introspective.

Hollow Me? [SoC]

My dad's mother died on Wednesday. She had been in pretty good health, but she was 80 years old, so it wasn't completely unexpected. We don't really know how or why she died, but we're pretty sure it was peacefully, while she was sleeping.

It had to happen sooner or later: someone close to me has died. A loved one has "passed on," and I'll never see or speak to her again.

I'm sad about this, but it seems more like an intellectual sadness than an emotional sadness. I'll think, Wow, I'll never see my grandma again, and that makes me sad. But I don't feel as sad as I think I should. I haven't cried about it. I haven't been changed by it; I've hardly been affected by it. I think.

Does this mean that I'm strong, I have a solid faith, and I can deal with negative emotions? Or does it mean I'm cold, uncaring, and distant? I'd love to be able to claim the former, but I don't know how I could have gained such strength: I've never suffered any real tragedy or loss before.

Who am I? What is it that makes me who I am? What kind of person am I? What does it matter? Who cares about my personality?

Why am I still awake?

Big questions. Too big to be answered in one night.

On a completely unrelated note (except as far as it bothers me), I can't access Buzznet from my room computer. So I'll have to go to the labs to register and stuff. Blah.