My parents, they live in the Upper Peninsula of Michigan. (Or on the Upper Peninsula of Michigan.) It is very cold there. It is so cold in the (or on the) Upper Peninsula of Michigan that there is a permanent layer of snow.
Some people will tell you that they have seasons in the (or on the) Upper Peninsula of Michigan. They will say that, for example, this is a photo of the Upper Peninsula in the fall, and then say "See, no snow. Sometimes there's no snow."
Those people lie. Those images are as faked as the images of the moon landing.
Faked.
But, actually, now there are places in the (or on the) Upper Peninsula of Michigan without snow. Because of all this global warming you've been hearing about, seeing about, and Oscar-ing films about. Or, about which you've been hearing, seeing, or film-Oscar-ing. Something.
The permanent snow has, in some places (or on some places), melted.
It has melted and poured away, and left, and traveled through lower Michigan, and settled in Indiana of all places. There is a lake of melted Upper Michigan snow in Indiana (or on Indiana). They call it Little Lake Michigan because the water came from Michigan, but the lake is not as big as the regular Lake Michigan which, as you know, is a Great Lake. And also a great lake! It's a great Great Lake—possibly the greatest.
Indiana's beautiful, clear, blue Little Lake Michigan: it allows for boating, and for fishing, and also for water-skiing. The good people of Indiana (or on Indiana) have passed a resolution thanking the Upper Peninsula of Michigan for their generous gift of a new lake, even though the lake came there of its own free will. It seemed like a nice thing to do. People in Indiana are polite.
There is a problem. This problem is Wisconsin. The Upper Peninsula of Michigan has been attached to Wisconsin for as long as anyone can remember. Wisconsin has always been friendly to the Upper Peninsula of Michigan, even letting them root for their sports teams.
They have a very nice bay in Wisconsin. They have some nice, little lakes in Wisconsin. But they don't have one as nice as Little Lake Michigan.
They have stopped talking to the Upper Peninsula of Michigan. They have declared war on Indiana. The Wisconsinites (or Wisconsonians) are marching through Illinois on their way to Indiana, where blood will be spilled over this lake affront, or this lack of new lake front.
Many people will die in this war. The Upper Peninsula of Michigan will break free, swim out to Canada, get a job in Toronto, and never be heard from again.
War is probably not the answer. I will look for the real answer. Until then, I won't be able to blog.
***
Please help, if you can.
Wednesday, April 25, 2007
Sunday, April 22, 2007
War
I just bought World War I. It's available on DVD now, so I went to the Wal-Mart by my house and I got a copy of the war to end all wars. It's pretty good, so far.
One of the things I like is when I watch World War I with the commentary track on. It features Alfred Graf von Schlieffen. He was, in a behind the scenes sort of way, responsible for World War I. I think it's nice that they called him and asked him to do the DVD commentary track for World War I.
It shows a healthy respect for history. And a healthy respect for people like me: fans of Alfred Graf von Schlieffen and his part in World War I.
I don't own any of the other wars on DVD. Just World War I. I'm just not as into the others as I am this one.
It might be that I enjoy trenches.
I enjoy trenches.
I wonder who will win. I didn't experience World War I when it first came out, so watching it now, I expect to be surprised by the ending.
***
Help is appreciated.
One of the things I like is when I watch World War I with the commentary track on. It features Alfred Graf von Schlieffen. He was, in a behind the scenes sort of way, responsible for World War I. I think it's nice that they called him and asked him to do the DVD commentary track for World War I.
It shows a healthy respect for history. And a healthy respect for people like me: fans of Alfred Graf von Schlieffen and his part in World War I.
I don't own any of the other wars on DVD. Just World War I. I'm just not as into the others as I am this one.
It might be that I enjoy trenches.
I enjoy trenches.
I wonder who will win. I didn't experience World War I when it first came out, so watching it now, I expect to be surprised by the ending.
***
Help is appreciated.
Sunday, April 15, 2007
Tapes
My band was asked to make a tape.
Do you remember those? Some people don't remember tapes. So I thought I'd explain them to you.
This is about evolution.
Music was once a thing that only existed when it was played by people on instruments like bongo drums and electric guitars.
And then music evolved to exist even when there were no instruments around.
LP's are the evolutionary precursor to "tapes". They can be used to dispute Intelligent Design, and, strangely, some of the foundations of natural selection. You see, before the LP was a vinyl cylinder. Music was recorded on it. The needle passed across it.
The LP is round. The needle moves from the outer part of the circle to the inner. As it moves out to in, there is an inevitable lean that warps the sound. It's imperceptible. Or, nearly. It's perceptible to some.
The cylinder's system was direct. Hill and dale, they called it. The lean was much, much slighter.
The round record is an example of a successful and yet inferior species.
If there was an intelligent designer, we'd still be using cylinders. They are superior.
And also natural selection is supposed to select for superior species.
I guess this is an example of mankind picking its favorites, messing with natural selection.
"Tapes" were the evolutionary stage between long playing records—made of a vinyl polymer—and the currently, slowly going extinct compact disc, which is also made of plastic. The "tape" first emerged from the trees in which long playing records lived. They were big round spools.
They evolved: a smaller size and exoskeleton made more sense, so they grew an outer shell through mutation, and the smaller, faster members of the species were selected out by nature. They ran quicker. They were better protected.
They thrived. For a while.
Now everything is ones and zeros, and exists in some sort of form without a body. It's all information.
Just like us. We'll be all information some day. Just like music.
Soon, I will try to explain the 8-track. Must study first. Until then, I won't be able to blog.
Do you remember those? Some people don't remember tapes. So I thought I'd explain them to you.
This is about evolution.
Music was once a thing that only existed when it was played by people on instruments like bongo drums and electric guitars.
And then music evolved to exist even when there were no instruments around.
LP's are the evolutionary precursor to "tapes". They can be used to dispute Intelligent Design, and, strangely, some of the foundations of natural selection. You see, before the LP was a vinyl cylinder. Music was recorded on it. The needle passed across it.
The LP is round. The needle moves from the outer part of the circle to the inner. As it moves out to in, there is an inevitable lean that warps the sound. It's imperceptible. Or, nearly. It's perceptible to some.
The cylinder's system was direct. Hill and dale, they called it. The lean was much, much slighter.
The round record is an example of a successful and yet inferior species.
If there was an intelligent designer, we'd still be using cylinders. They are superior.
And also natural selection is supposed to select for superior species.
I guess this is an example of mankind picking its favorites, messing with natural selection.
"Tapes" were the evolutionary stage between long playing records—made of a vinyl polymer—and the currently, slowly going extinct compact disc, which is also made of plastic. The "tape" first emerged from the trees in which long playing records lived. They were big round spools.
They evolved: a smaller size and exoskeleton made more sense, so they grew an outer shell through mutation, and the smaller, faster members of the species were selected out by nature. They ran quicker. They were better protected.
They thrived. For a while.
Now everything is ones and zeros, and exists in some sort of form without a body. It's all information.
Just like us. We'll be all information some day. Just like music.
Soon, I will try to explain the 8-track. Must study first. Until then, I won't be able to blog.
Wednesday, April 11, 2007
Egg
Didn't post Monday. Told you I couldn't blog.
Told you.
Told you.
But you didn't believe me.
I blame the egg for this. There's an egg. In my fridge. Around the egg, a chariot race is run. An eternal chariot race is run around the egg in my fridge. No one wins the chariot race that runs eternally around the egg in my fridge. And yet they continue to race. They continue, even though no one wins the eternal chariot race that runs around the egg in my fridge.
What happens when the egg cracks open? Will the eternal chariot race then suddenly stop? Is the cracking of the egg in my fridge around which the eternal chariot race is run in fact the end of eternity? And whose eternity? Whose? Not mine, surely.
Surely.
But someones. The racers? Will eternity end for the racers? Will my eternity end, as well? Is the inevitable cracking of the egg in my fridge around which an eternal chariot race is run a metaphor for the end of my very own little eternity?
It is mine.
Egg. Unholy egg. Unholy cracking egg. Unholy split that ends the eternal chariot race. That changes my notion of eternity. That ruins eternity for all to see. See and know that eternity is a less definitive concept than we think it is.
Unholy egg. From an unholy chicken.
I dream about the egg cracking. I dream about what comes out. Out of the cracking egg. In my fridge.
The tiny racers do not notice, will not think about, cannot conceive of the cracking of the egg. They race and race, and the horses never tire, and the whips never lose there sting, and the wheels never fall to pieces with age—extreme age—and the track never seems to be worn into grooves.
The race goes on and the racers see no end to it.
This is because the light in the fridge is rarely on. Because I don't leave the door open long. Because my father would yell at me if I did. He's not paying to cool the whole house with the fridge. And he doesn't care for racing. Or eggs.
Told you.
Told you.
But you didn't believe me.
I blame the egg for this. There's an egg. In my fridge. Around the egg, a chariot race is run. An eternal chariot race is run around the egg in my fridge. No one wins the chariot race that runs eternally around the egg in my fridge. And yet they continue to race. They continue, even though no one wins the eternal chariot race that runs around the egg in my fridge.
What happens when the egg cracks open? Will the eternal chariot race then suddenly stop? Is the cracking of the egg in my fridge around which the eternal chariot race is run in fact the end of eternity? And whose eternity? Whose? Not mine, surely.
Surely.
But someones. The racers? Will eternity end for the racers? Will my eternity end, as well? Is the inevitable cracking of the egg in my fridge around which an eternal chariot race is run a metaphor for the end of my very own little eternity?
It is mine.
Egg. Unholy egg. Unholy cracking egg. Unholy split that ends the eternal chariot race. That changes my notion of eternity. That ruins eternity for all to see. See and know that eternity is a less definitive concept than we think it is.
Unholy egg. From an unholy chicken.
I dream about the egg cracking. I dream about what comes out. Out of the cracking egg. In my fridge.
The tiny racers do not notice, will not think about, cannot conceive of the cracking of the egg. They race and race, and the horses never tire, and the whips never lose there sting, and the wheels never fall to pieces with age—extreme age—and the track never seems to be worn into grooves.
The race goes on and the racers see no end to it.
This is because the light in the fridge is rarely on. Because I don't leave the door open long. Because my father would yell at me if I did. He's not paying to cool the whole house with the fridge. And he doesn't care for racing. Or eggs.
Sunday, April 01, 2007
Ambidextrous
There was a man with two hands. (And I'm telling you, I'm telling you, I'm telling you, it isn't me, though I, too, have two hands.)
Because his left hand employed an extremely competent intelligence agency, and because it used the latest in cutting-edge, shallow-orbit satellite technology, it was always fully briefed on what the right hand was doing. And it snitched, constantly. He was, you might imagine, right handed, and his left was forever making power plays. Leftie had it figured if he grew offended enough with the shenanigans of the right hand, he would one day cut it loose, or at least promote the left to the primary hand position. Left envied the responsibilities.
As he was a tolerant man, he humored the left, but favored the right. The left never got anywhere. Its ambitions, wasted. It couldn't even blog.
Like me.
Because his left hand employed an extremely competent intelligence agency, and because it used the latest in cutting-edge, shallow-orbit satellite technology, it was always fully briefed on what the right hand was doing. And it snitched, constantly. He was, you might imagine, right handed, and his left was forever making power plays. Leftie had it figured if he grew offended enough with the shenanigans of the right hand, he would one day cut it loose, or at least promote the left to the primary hand position. Left envied the responsibilities.
As he was a tolerant man, he humored the left, but favored the right. The left never got anywhere. Its ambitions, wasted. It couldn't even blog.
Like me.
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