Frogwhompers And Buffaloes

So… Greta is having fun with the Buffalo game. Which, frankly, is a cool game, but which I got to a bit late. My entry was “The New Vinton County Frogwhompers Marching, Singing, Strumming And Plucking Buffalo, Incorporated” (If you read Greta’s rules, you’ll understand).

The Frogwhompers (for short) were a “New-Grass” band–bluegrass, but with modern influences, from the Beatles to the Grateful Dead to The Monkees… I saw them in concert, and bought (and had autographed!) their album.

So… First off, the Frogwhompers– “Sweet Ohio”, by Jim McGaw (one of the Frogwhompers, so one of their original songs):

This was within a year of when I saw them, so these are the Frogwhompers I remember. Original songs, but also traditional and covers. I don’t know whether “Dark Hollow” counts as traditional or as cover, but the Grateful Dead did a version, and so did the Frogwhompers:

The Frogwhompers were fantastic… which musicians did you see locally, who could have (we won’t go into “should have”) made it big? I have another band I’ll save for the comments; I want to know yours.

Get Over It!

There are people doing something, which they seemingly enjoy,
But a different thing than I would like to do
I could celebrate our differences… or note how they annoy,
Demonstrating I’m superior to you

You’re a runner, with a logo on your car or on your shirt?
What a narcissistic way of showing off!
You’re a writer, with a column where you’re always slinging dirt?
Must be cushy, when you’re getting paid to scoff!

You’re a Catholic with a crucifix, a Baptist with a fish,
A new-ager proudly wearing “co-exist”
Superciliously asking for the local, vegan dish
Yes, I know the types—I’ve made a little list.

You’re a pompous ass “new atheist”, of which you’re very proud,
And you never waste a chance to bring it up
You proclaim it with your coffee (doesn’t have to be out loud)
With that scarlet “A” emblazoned on your cup

You support your local college, or your city, or your state,
You have t-shirts from the places you have been
It’s displaying your enjoyment that’s precisely what I hate
Cos I know you only do it to be seen

You’re just flogging your accomplishments—“ooh, look at what I’ve done!”
In a blatant move to make us all feel worse!
Yes, it’s simply inconceivable you do it just for fun…
It’s just showing off! (… he finished up… in verse.)

Ok, here’s the thing. I know that what I do is pretentious. But I either really enjoy doing it, or I am obsessively stuck unable to do otherwise (it varies by day). Fortunately, very few people (it has happened) tell me “yeah, ok, we get it, you can rhyme things, get over it.”

But Chad Stafko, in the Wall Street Journal, apparently just wrote a piece telling runners to just get over it.

There is one kind of bumper sticker I see almost daily here in my small Midwestern town: a small oval printed with “26.2” or “13.1.” In case you’re lucky enough not to know what these numbers represent, let me explain: They indicate that the driver or someone in the car has run a marathon (26.2 miles) or a half-marathon (13.1 miles).

There is only one reason running aficionados display the stickers. They want the rest of us to know about their long-distance feats. So let me be the first to offer my hearty congratulations. I’d even offer to give them a pat on the back—once they’re done doing it themselves.

What’s with this infatuation with running and the near-mandatory ritual of preening about it?

Honestly? I was thinking, at about that point, that the column was going to be a brilliant metaphor–how the completely innocuous act of running, and our wearing of running-specific gear, was how we *should* be treating the display of, say, religious or political affiliations. Nobody gets bent out of shape because someone else is wearing a shirt from a local 5K race, after all. Except, Stafko does get bent out of shape over such shirts, opining that they are only worn to make the wearer feel superior to all the non-runners (and, importantly, to make the non-runners feel inferior). Apparently (and I would love to be wrong), the Stafko piece is literally about running, runners’ apparel, and showing off. Pretty much all of the commenters take it that way–including one commenter with a pitch-perfect reply:

There is one kind display I see almost daily on the internet: a small white, rectangle printed with up to 500 words. In case you’re lucky enough not to know what these words represent, let me explain: They indicate that the poster or who posted it can write.

There is only one reason writers become published with a byline. They want the rest of us to know about their publications. So let me be the first to offer my hearty congratulations. I’d even offer to give them a pat on the back—once they’re done doing it themselves.

What’s with this infatuation with writing an opinion article and the near-mandatory ritual of preening about it?

(it continues, translating the entire piece perfectly.)

Runner’s World offers their own translation of Stafko’s piece, from Bizarre Angry Rant into English, which is fun. Predictably, the commenters there are once again too literal, and see the snarky translation as every bit as small-minded as the original piece. Oh, well.

I wish it had been a story on how we should treat the various divisions in our societies as trivially as we treat the t-shirts we wear… but then I remember the t-shirt ads I used to get during the political season, and I shudder for humanity’s future.

But if you want a T-shirt that really and truly allows you to feel superior to everybody who is not wearing one, I do have some suggestions.

At The Soup Kitchen…

We’re here to feed the hungry,
And the homeless, and the poor;
We want to help the helpless—
That’s what charity is for;
We’re giving aid to folks whose lives
Have gone from bad to worse…
And with every meal we package,
We’ll include a bible verse.

Our priority is helping
So we give you what you need
There are times, we know, a dinner
Is a welcome thing indeed!
So we’ve made a thick and hearty soup
To ladle into bowls…
We’re here to feed your bodies
Oh, and maybe, save your souls

Though we know that you’re in trouble
Still, we’d never try to cheat—
Yes, you’d listen to a sermon
For a decent bite to eat
But our charity is focused
On your hunger, not your heart…
If we serve the Holy Bible,
Then we do it a la carte.

Since we’re focusing on feeding,
You can tell we’re doing good
We won’t force some false conversion
Even though we know we could—
Not religious in the slightest,
Helping families in need…
But for atheists to help us? Why,
That’s nothing short of greed!

They would handicap our mission;
Why, it’s patently absurd!
It’s impossible to feed the poor
And not promote God’s word!
They would compromise our message:
“Only God is Love”—and so…
When they volunteered to help us
We were forced to tell them “No!”

Yeah, you’ve probably heard all about this, from Hemant, or JT, or Ed… so I’m not the first. But the people I want to link are the good folks at The Blaze. I mean, in this story, the people on the side of right are so clearly the atheists–how is your average Blaze reader to respond?

It’s a beautiful study in cognitive dissonance. Christians like us can’t be the baddies, so there are two options left, and they are ridden for all they are worth. These are not true Christians, you know, because reasons. Or… they were right to do this, because I wouldn’t want to eat food that an atheist touched, anyway (I did not make that one up). The atheists were only doing it for the publicity, anyway, and for the chance to spread their evil message… unlike the Christians, who were doing it for … all the right reasons, of course.

Hey, ’tis the season.

I Feel Like A Million

At some point last night, around 3 AM-ish local time, some visitor here ticked over the odometer, and The Digital Cuttlefish experienced its one millionth view.

I rather like the fact that it happened at that hour, because traffic was light, and I can look through the stats and have some idea (but not an exact idea) of the visitor… and the cool thing is, that person could have come from anywhere! Well, not *anywhere*, but at that time, I had visitors from the US, Canada, Mexico, Australia, New Zealand, India, the UK, and The Netherlands. I forget, sometimes, that as small as this blog is, I have many more people reading it than I do students in my combined classes, on any given day (except rare days with atypically low readership).

You might remember, a little less than a month ago, Pharyngula hit 50 million views. Since that time (that is, in under a month), PZ has already had more visitors than I have had in all my time here at FtB. FtB, as a whole, has had over 130 million views, so my million views represents less than one percent of the traffic here. I am a very small cuttlefish in a moderately-sized pond.

But some days, like today, you people make me feel like a million.

Thanks.

Helping, And Not Helping

As bad as the news is from the Philippines, I hear the real situation is actually worse–that news agencies cannot confirm the worst of the stories because the normal communication channels that would allow confirmation are gone.

I hear that what is needed is not shoes, not canned goods, not blankets… but money. Which is convenient, as it is by far the easiest thing to give (if you are giving for the sake of giving; if you are giving to get rid of that old pair of jeans, you are not helping).

And I hear (seriously) that they have plenty of bibles already. Which reminded me of this old verse (that’s right, I am giving you the hand-me-down verses) from the earthquake in Haiti. (BTW, the audio bibles people actually read the verse and offered an interesting look at some of the constraints of giving, which makes it all the more important that you give money, and with no strings attached, to the groups that are able to get things done. FWIW, the Foundation Beyond Belief did their own checking and has decided to funnel money to the Citizens Disaster Response Center, if you want the name of a group that is able to get things done.)

Oh, yeah, the verse…

They were starving; they were homeless; they were dying; they were dead.
There were bodies to be buried; there were children to be fed.
There were broken heaps of rubble where the houses used to stand
There was utter devastation; there was chaos in the land.
There were frantic cries for rescue; there were howls of fear and pain
There were heroes risking life and limb, with much to lose or gain.
There were millions in donations—drinking water, food to cook—
And the most important gift of all… The Christian Holy Book.

While it cannot stave off hunger, and it cannot slake your thirst,
It’s the most important item, when your life is at its worst;
No, it cannot heal a broken bone; it cannot make you whole,
But a Bible, in your time of need, could save your mortal soul!
It’s the timeless sacred message from the Bearded Guy Upstairs,
And it speaks of His omnipotence, and tells you that He cares.
When your world is torn asunder, as your very country bleeds,
Who could doubt, the Holy Bible is the thing that Haiti needs?

It’s the latest, greatest model; it’s a solar powered job!
It can shout the Holy Scripture out, in Creole, to the mob
That has gathered there, expectant, in the hopes of some supplies—
When instead they hear the Word Of God, imagine their surprise!
We are sending them six hundred, and that takes a lot of space,
So we bumped some crates of water, and put Bibles in their place;
Planes will bring the Holy Bibles in, like manna from above…
Cos it’s Bibles, and not medicine, that shows True Christian Love.

Christmas For Sarah, And A Cookie For You

Jolly old Saint Nicholas
Lean your ear this way
Sarah has a book to sell
Coming out today!

Christmas eve is coming soon
Under grave attack!
Baby Jesus, do not cry—
Sarah’s got Your back!

Sarah takes on atheists;
Shows them who is boss
Good-bye “Happy Holidays”
Hello, public cross!

Sarah will remind us all
What Christmastime is for:
Peace, and Love, and Brotherhood…
And manufactured war!

Santa is the enemy
Jesus is the lord
Sarah’s book is fifteen bucks—
Easy to afford

Christmas is commercialized
Everywhere you look—
Sarah is the antidote…
Better buy the book!

[Read more…]

“The Sex Toys In The Attic”

There’s a suitcase in the bedroom
Tucked away behind some shoes
And I need it taken care of
If I fight the fight… and lose

If this rattle in my bronchi
Turns out more than merely noise
Is there someone I can count on
Who can disappear my toys?

There are several shapes and sizes
And there’s many different hues
Some use cords, and some use batteries—
(There’s one that’s blown a fuse)

There are some still wrapped in plastic—
They looked better on the shelf—
There are some that need a partner
And there’s some for just myself

If I find that I am dying
(Because everybody does)
I don’t want my kids inheriting
A box of… things that buzz

So I need a trusted confidant
To do some cleaning first
So my mostly mourning relatives
Won’t get to see the worst…

Then again… you know… forget it—
They’ll discover what they will—
They can find out I was human,
That I hadn’t gone downhill

If the worst they can discover
If I die beneath the knife
Is a suitcase full of sex toys…
Hell, I lived an awesome life.

According to Twitter, this verse took half an hour; I read this wonderful opinion piece in the NY Times, tweeted something about it, and thought “there’s a verse there somewhere.”.

But disposing of sex paraphernalia — actually all those embarrassing items you have stashed around the house — is something every boomer should be concerned about. The days are dwindling down to a precious few and some of you have a nasty cough. Do you want the people clearing out your house, particularly your children, to find those feathery, metallic, rubbery, polymer blend items you ordered one drunken night a few months after you’d been forced to take early retirement? Do you want them to know their big, tough construction worker dad liked to dress up in heels and a boa and sing “La La La” from “No Strings,” one of Richard Rodgers’s weaker efforts?

You may be thinking, “What do I care what my friends or children find in the house? I will be beyond embarrassment, I will be dead.” But you are wrong. Doctors now know that the human sense of embarrassment can last up to two weeks after the heart stops beating. Consider this statement from a boomer named Stanley: “I was lying on the operating table, then I had a feeling of leaving my body and looking down at myself and all I could think was, ‘Is my gut really that big?’ ” Look it up on the web.

The funny thing is… the thing that people would find out about me, eventually, is that I wrote doggerel on the internet, and nobody knew.

Sounds pretty boring, actually. Maybe I should hide a box of sex toys.

*****

Hey–you’ve read this far, now something serious. There may be 10,000 or more dead because of Typhoon Haiyan. There is an immense need of help, and the Foundation Beyond Belief is one way you can help. Details are here–if we can’t count on the people who know God won’t help, who can we count on?

Ink

So I (think I) finished all the various little “jump through this hoop!” tasks involved in publishing. I see now why publishers exist–that’s a lot of crap to wade through. But since no publisher came begging…

I just ordered the very first copy of “Ink”, to see if it is worth offering to the rest of you. (I’m also working on an E-edition, but strangely, right now the cover art is what’s getting in the way. I expect progress soon… within this lifetime.)

In 5-15 days, I’ll get that copy, and if all is well with it (hell, if all is even remotely close to well), it will be made available to both of you all of you.

It’s really strange–I swing back and forth from being incredibly proud of these verses, to being utterly ashamed of them; from delight that I wrote this or that turn of phrase, to guilt that I would dare expect anyone to pay for this tripe. I wonder if such feelings are shared by people who have publishing companies behind them.

But having just spent a couple of hours reading my own verses aloud (and enjoying it immensely), I am currently eager to see what the actual physical book looks like. And, assuming that I can figure out the problem, the E-book version should be out about the time I get (and, I hope, approve of) the dead tree version. (right now, the e-version is clipping about a fifth of my sigil off of the cover–I have no idea why.)

Funny. At one point, I thought I’d have a book out last year at this time. Silly me. But it really looks like there will be one this year. In just a week or so.

I hope.

Leftovers

If I chance to bake a cheesecake
Half the neighborhood appears
All concerned it looks like too much food for one
Every neighbor wants a nibble—
There’s no lack of volunteers—
And I go from too much cheesecake down to none

But this week I did some cooking—
And it really turned out well—
But it doesn’t meet the neighborhood’s demands
Cos I didn’t bake a cheesecake
And the neighborhood can tell
So I’m left with too much haggis on my hands

Now for breakfast, lunch, and dinner
I’ve got haggis on my plate—
I’ve got more than I can handle, you can see
But my cheesecake-eating neighbors
Are indifferent to my fate…
And nobody’s eating my leftover haggis but me

I wrote this while eating a plate of haggis and eggs for breakfast. It was delicious, but yeah, the problem with haggis (this was my first homemade haggis–not the “presentation haggis” in a stomach, but just a regular recipe) is that there really is no way to make a small batch. You boil up the liver, heart, and lungs, and it’s not like you can say to a sheep “could you maybe have a smaller liver?”. So I made a regular recipe, and it yielded enough for a large family of hungry Scots, and there were just me and Cuttleson home at the time. He won’t touch it, so I’ve had haggis quite a bit over the past few days.

The dogs, though, are eager volunteers; I think next cheesecake, I’ll let the dogs lick the plates, right in front of the neighbors.