...and so the hammer fell

An addendum to this afternoon's post:

Thanks to the diligence, hard work and cunning of the lovely Miss H, the recruiter with whom we had lines in the water (Aclipse) has been revealed to be an affiliate of Chung Dahm Recruiting, which, according to informed sources, is one of the most unscrupulous, underhanded, dishonest and dangerous recruiters out there. Honestly, there's a list of violations, infractions, lies and criminal activities a mile long on Chung Dahm's rap sheet. Thank you, Miss H, for trusting your gut and checking the facts when I dropped the ball. Glad we're well out of there.

So, weeks of effort wasted. We are quite literally back to Square One. The only recruiter with whom we now have contact is ESL Park, the same company I went through last time. I'm expecting an update from them in early December, and then we'll see about what's available in K-Land and what isn't.

And of course, stay tuned for more info on that upcoming expedition to Vegas.

Postman, signing off.

recommended reading

There's some serious catching-up in order.

Therefore, I won't tell you about what I'm reading right now. I'm taking a break and just doing some stuff for business and pleasure. I'm busting through a couple of sci-fi anthologies (The Science Fiction Hall of Fame, Volumes I and IIB), which I hope will help me write better sci-fi, and also are a damn lot of fun. I might even tell you about some of the stories I've read, if you behave yourselves.

In addition to that, I'm slowly plowing through Dr. Robert Bakker's paradigm shifter The Dinosaur Heresies, in which the scruffy, courageous maverick first put forth his controversial theory that dinosaurs were not pea-brained, slow-moving, swamp-dwelling sluggards, but were dynamic, lively, active, agile, bird-like and intelligent. This bombshell challenged hundreds of years of universally accepted scientific thought on the terrible lizards. Bakker's discoveries, though initially criticized, withstood all tests and vitriol. Today, when we think "dinosaurs," we imagine the terrifyingly smart and agile Velociraptors from the film Jurassic Park. We have Bakker to thank for that (even though the paleontological consultant to Spielberg's film was Jack Horner, Bakker's bitter enemy, who believed that T-Rex was a scavenger [?!?!?!?]).

I haven't enlightened you about what I've already read, though, and that's why we're here. I have to review a couple of works I completed after finishing Moby-Dick a few months back.

I didn't waste any time sitting on my laurels after conquering Melville's leviathan. I was over at Miss H's place when I spotted Elie Wiesel's seminal work Night on her bookshelf. I asked to borrow it, and before the day was out, I had finished and returned it. It's a little book, but filled with the scope of human tragedy, suffering, cruelty and horror.

I could speak of how Elie and hundreds of other Romanian Jews were removed from their villages by brutal Hungarian policemen, cudgeled into lines, and marched away from their only home...

The last glimpse Elie had of his mother and sister as they were led into the gates of Auschwitz...

The loss of Elie's faith as he witnessed the hanging of a twelve-year-old boy...

How even the rabbis were reduced to blank, staring, godless husks by the horrors of starvation, torture, and brutality...

The long, cold, desperate flight from one camp to another as Allied armies drew near, and how the Jewish prisoners were forced to run through the snow and the darkness, and any who straggled or fell were shot...

...but that would probably spoil the book for you, so I won't.

Wiesel is on the second row up from the floor, seventh from left.

I'll just say this: more than any other work I've ever reviewed—fiction or nonfiction, printed or televised—Night brought home the horrors of the Holocaust most grimly and truthfully. It's a literal punch to the gut. For once it's no surprise that a particular work won the Nobel Peace Prize.

And now on to more cheerful territory...
Have you ever wondered if maybe the scientists were wrong, and the interior of the world wasn't just a mass of molten rock, but was hollow and cool and airy and possibly filled with prehistoric beasts?

Well, even if you haven't, Edgar Rice Burroughs sure did. And he wrote At the Earth's Core just to show the world what he thought.

There are definite fringe benefits to being friends with a scientist. Make a sponge of your mind and you'll soak up a lot of mental detritus. As an added perk, your scientist chum may even let you give his gizmo the first test ride.

Such is the case with David Innes, the wealthy heir to a mining empire who, attempting to make a good show of his father's business enterprise, invests in the invention of his scientist friend, Abner Perry. The invention is the "iron mole" a sort of segmented steel worm with a huge drill on the front, which Perry insists will increase efficiency one million percent. As the principle investor, Innes is given the privilege of riding shotgun in the device while Abner takes it on the maiden voyage.

Everything goes downhill from there, so to speak.

The giant iron mole burrows into the ground like a...like a...well, like giant iron mole. Alarmed, Professor Perry tries to turn the beast aside and regain the surface; but no such luck. Both men strain at the helm until they're blue in the face, but the mole cannot be turned; it's heading straight down at a tremendous rate. Perry and Innes give themselves up for lost, resigning themselves to falling into the Earth's molten mantle and perishing in the blaze.

...but they don't.

Five hundred miles down the mole suddenly bursts out of the ground again. A fresh, cool breeze streams through the cracks. The Professor has collapsed from heat and exhaustion, but Innes is able to crack open the hatch and look outside.

He sees trees. Hills. A beach. An ocean. And a horizon which curves up instead of down. He can see mountains and oceans in the distance, turned on their ends, as though he was seeing from above.

Gradually, the men figure it out. They're standing on the inside of a huge sphere.

They are inside the Earth.

The Earth, it turns out, is hollow. And what's more, it's inhabited.

Welcome to Pellucidar, the savage land at the Earth's core.

All the better to massage you with, my sweet!

Perry and Innes are soon drawn into a millennia-long conflict between the primitive humans who reside in Pellucidar and the vicious Mahars, telepathic reptilian monsters who keep humans as draft animals...and livestock. Along the way they encounter sabertooth cats, dinosaurs, sea monsters, and all manner of nasties, dwelling in a land of eternal sunlight.

At the Earth's Core was first published serially in 1914, and released in book form in 1922. Since then, it has attained a small cult following, but remains largely obscure, probably due to more well-known stories like Verne's Journey to the Centre of the Earth.

Nonetheless, it's an astounding tale. The concept is intriguing, if totally bogus. (Hey, that's why they call it science fiction, right?) First off, there's no way there'd be eternal sunlightg at the center of the planet, weird electrical phenomena notwithstanding. Second, gravity's pull would be considerably less at the center of the Earth, but it would still pull you toward the center. You could not "walk about" on the inside curve of a chamber inside the globe unless the planet was spinning a lot faster, like a centrifuge. Third, the air would be so dense 500 miles down that it'd be tantamount to breathing water. Human lungs would collapse.

But I didn't come here to pick the science apart. I came to tell you how awesome the story was. And it was awesome. Burroughs sure knows how to write a gripping fight scene (and there's a boatload of fight scenes). The plot rapidly becomes more complex and convoluted as human traitors, mindless monsters, and a ravishing love interest make their appearance. There are desperate scrapes, close shaves, narrow escapes, rousing victories, moments of unbridled joy and plenty of stark, quivering terror. And at the end, there is a very human feeling.

Everything that makes good, rousing science fiction, in my opinion.

You might have a little trouble getting into it, as Burroughs does have what critics called a "stilted, florid style"...but it's nowhere near as bad as Jules Verne. You'll do fine.

And finally, as an interesting sidenote...

In At the Earth's Core, the Mahars (those evil reptilian beings) employ the thuggish gorilla-esque Sagoths to do their dirty work for them, rounding up slaves and enforcing the rules. At the Earth's Core had an enormous influence on another of my favorite authors, H.P. Lovecraft. In Lovecraft's book At the Mountains of Madness, he introduced the shoggoths, huge, slimy, amorphous blobs, also the servants of a master race. These were inspired in name and function by the Sagoths of Burroughs's story. Shoggoths have proven as influential to other writers as the Sagoths were for Lovecraft: the beastly things have appeared in countless works of fiction, sci-fi and horror over the decades. One of these works, notably, was Robert Bloch's Notebook Found in a Deserted House, which is widely accepted to be one of the cardinal inspirations for the 1999 film The Blair Witch Project.

That concludes this edition of "Six Degrees of (Literary) Separation."

Is he bursting out of the hillside in a mindless rage? Or did he lose his toboggan?

Until next time...

the problem with technology - a philippic

I hope you've liquored yourself up properly before clicking your way over here. This here post is yet another vitriolic op-ed. If the word 'philippic' in the title wasn't enough to scare you off, heed this final warning, go back to your pay-per-view and microwave some lasagna.

I like to think of myself as a principled man. I'll grant you that some of my principles probably aren't all that productive, or even healthy. I go out of my way to step on those extra-crunchy leaves, I write people parking citations whenever they miss the bloody white lines, and I try never to pay for my own drinks.

Diseased as my principles are, however, I stick by them. To betray them is to betray the very essence of my being.

Well, the very essence of my being is feeling a bit betrayed right now.

I read somewhere once that the philosopher Plato despised the invention of paper, alphabets, and written language. If he'd had his way, nobody would ever so much as scribble "bagels and cream cheese" on a Post-It note and tack it to the fridge.

Why?

Writing degrades the memory, he said. If people could just write stuff down, nobody would ever have to remember anything, would they? They'd just let their bloody memories go to pot.

Plato practiced what he preached. He never touched paper. The man routinely memorized verbal treatises on rhetoric (thousands of words long). He remembered the trial of his mentor Socrates verbatim, and in so doing single-handedly set the principle of stenography back by a millennium.

(If Plato were alive today, I wonder what he'd think of things like datebooks, and gingko biloba, and all those memory puzzles on the supermarket racks. Apoplexy anyone?)

I'm kind of the same way. Technology bugs me. By nature of its omniscience and accessibility, technology, as a medium, degrades the quality and uniqueness of the works it so greedily subsumes and regurgitates.

Case in point...

MUSIC

People don't enjoy music anymore; they saturate themselves with it.

My grandfather had a tradition. One night every week he'd shut himself in his den, put a record on, and listen to it, beginning to end, without interruption. My cousins and I could hear him in there, whistling along with Mark Knopfler and Chet Atkins. I could almost picture him sitting in his armchair, replete with sweater, penny loafers and black socks, tapping a toe in time to the beat, his eyes closed in concentration like a marquis at the opera.

Nowadays, sitting on the subway, I find it difficult to find anyone under 30 who doesn't have a pair of earphones stuck to their head.

People listen to music everywhere: at work, at the gym, at home, in their cars, on airplanes, even when they go out on an introspective walk in the country.

I'd love to know how you're supposed to commune with nature when Rage Against the Machine is raping your eardrums.

(I don't exempt myself from these habits; read on and you will see how I, likewise, have become a member of the digital generation. Hell, you're reading this very post on the screen of a computer or a smartphone, right?)

I'm not saying people shouldn't enjoy music. I'm not even saying that there's a wrong way to do it. It just irks me that, thanks to technology, music has shifted from being an occasional, introspective, evocative, enlightening treat...and has become business as usual. Nothing special. Small potatoes. Et cetera, et cetera. 

People used to look forward to live concerts for months, hoarding tickets like fragments of the Covenant. What with live-streaming video and camera phones and fiber-optics and Wi-Fi, they can push a button and tune into to U2 (Live at the Rose Bowl) from anywhere on the planet.

Whereas folks used to have a collection of ten or so prized vinyl LP records (you may want to Google the terms "record," "LP," and "vinyl"), nowadays they'll have something like ten gigabytes of music. That's hundreds and sometimes thousands of songs, any one of them accessible in an instant. You don't need to put a needle into a groove anymore; just hit a button and spin the wheel.

You could almost argue that people have too much music. People (me included) find themselves slewing wildly through their music collections, skipping song after song until they find one they haven't heard 30,000 times over. Sometimes there's too much even to fit on a single device, and said music magnate must either retain multiple MP3 players or simply rotate their library out every six months or so. (I'm talking to you, Miss H.)

Think of the way it used to be, people. If you wanted music, you had to wait for a band of strolling players to waltz through your village—or make the music yourself. It's everywhere now, all at once, in your face and as loud as possible.

I'm not exempt. I (occasionally) have my ear-buds on when I go out on walks, and my headphones are almost always glued to my cranium when I'm working on my computer. (I'm a little obsessed with LMFAO's "Party Rock Anthem," okay? Sue me.) But I can still appreciate the specialty of a particular group, artist, song, or album. I still buy most of my music on CDs, so, when the mood takes me, I can pop one into my stereo set, crank it up, and enjoy an entire evening listening to only one band. Crazy, huh?

When you mass-market anything and make it available at the push of a button, it loses its specialness, its rarity, its unique nature. It's not a treat anymore. It's more like...coffee. Or gasoline. Or Pop-Tarts. Just another consumable resource to help get you through your day.

Technology cheapens art. That's the crux of my argument.

LITERATURE

My biggest beef with the techno-revolution. It's screwing with my beloved books.

(Yes, this is a pathetic argument, meaning that it stems from an appeal to human emotion, rather than a logical argument appealing to rationality and common sense. Bite me.)

The Kindle^® is the bane of my existence. I know it's the wave of the future. I know e-book readers will replace printed works in a deplorably short time. I'll even acknowledge that they're a helluva lot more convenient for carrying around your reading material. But I don't like 'em. They can't replace a lovely, dog-eared, care-worn paperback with yellowing pages, coffee stains on the title page, a broken back from all those times you propped it up on its spine instead of using a bookmark, and which smells so deliciously of the wooden cases, gritty carpet, dusty counters, and sagging shelves of every used bookstore you've ever ventured into.

Sure, the Kindle^® and its ilk may do wonders for literacy. Most e-books are only about $2-$3, I hear. And my Kindle^®-owning friends tell me that they can get most of the classics for free. That's all right by me. If a device brings the best literature in the world before the eyes of the proletariat, I'm all for it. Free books for the people, I say. But I dislike the idea of the e-book reader. The primal feeling and sensual joy of reading is no more. You can't smell the binding, feel the rough edges of the paper, read the author's signature on the inside cover. You can't hold the work in your hands and wonder how many other people before you have done the same thing. You can't ostentatiously flash the cover at passersby when you want the world to know that you're an intelligent and well-read human being for reading The Brothers Karamazov. Nor can you hold a Kindle^® up in front of your face when you're sitting on the train next to somebody you really don't want to talk to. And worst of all, at the end of the day, you can't walk into your private library, sit down in a comfortable chair, and cast your eye over the familiar spines of your favorite books crowding the mahogany shelves.

Oh yeah, and books don't need batteries.

That is all.
 
AVIATION

Technology is pervasive stuff, ain't it?

I feel the need to say a little something about airplanes. Aviation has customarily been on the forefront of the techno-tsunami. That's both good and bad, as it turns out.

I had the opportunity to fly a Cirrus SR20 recently.

What's a Cirrus SR20, you ask?

Cirrus Aircraft is a Duluth-based company which prides itself on its line of advanced, user-friendly, safety-focused aircraft. Right now that line consists of two airplanes, with a third in the works: the SR20, the SR22, and the SF50. The SR20 is the basic model; the SR22 is the same airframe with a better engine; and the SF50 "Vision" is a sleek-looking VLJ, or Very Light Jet, projected to hit the market in 2012.

The circumstances which allowed me to pilot a $750,000 airplane are not important. Suffice it to say, however, that though I found the SR20 pleasantly simple to fly, I did not approve of it. The thing is soaked, sopping, steeped in technology.

You remember how I said that Cirrus prides itself on designing safe, user-friendly aircraft?

Yeah, well, they do that by analyzing accident reports, determining what most commonly causes malfunctions, and then designing aircraft that even a knee-biting dumbass could fly.

To give you an example, Cirrus's experts decided that, no matter how safe or intelligent a pilot could be, he might still forget to put the landing gear down sometimes. So they made the SR20's landing gear fixed instead of retractable.

I don't like that. I don't like it when a company assumes I'm going to do something stupid. I don't like it when they try to think for me. I don't like it when they decide that I can't be trusted with retractable landing gear and give me fixed gear just to be on the safe side.

Tish and blather. Fiddlesticks, I say.

Cirrus airplanes have a boatload of built-in fail-safes and recovery devices which are ostensibly intended to help a pilot prevent and/or recover from a dangerous situation. The most notable of these is the SR20's built-in parachute. That's right. The airplane has its own parachute. It's controlled by a red handle on the ceiling of the cockpit, over the pilot's seat. Yank that handle and a solid-fuel rocket blasts out of the airplane's roof, just behind the rear window. Straps unfurl all along the airplane's sides, the canopy deploys, and the airplane floats gently to earth at 15 mph. The aforementioned landing gear is designed to collapse in just such a way as to cushion the impact and protect the fuselage (and its passengers) from damage.

That's not all. The Cirrus SR20 has a blue "LEVEL" button in the cockpit which, when pushed, automatically returns the plane to straight-and-level flight. Let's say you're flying in IFR conditions (when you can't see outside the airplane, and are using your instruments to fly), and you get spatially disoriented. Or let's say you were flying on a clear day and you had to dodge a bird. The plane starts to go out of whack. Push that blue button and the plane quiets down, straightens up, and levels out. Bang, there you are, flying along just as if nothing ever happened.

The SR20 has built-in sensors which know when the plane is about to stall. (Remember, a stall happens when the air is hitting the wing at too severe an angle to generate lift. The plane basically stops flying and begins to fall out of the sky. In the hands of an inexperienced pilot, a bad stall can lead to a spin, rapid descent, and a big smoky hole in the ground.) These sensors simultaneously alert the pilot of a stall and tell the plane to fix it. The plane levels itself back out and recovers from the stall automatically.

The Cirrus company was also the first aircraft manufacturer to put something called a "hypoxia awareness system" into their airplanes. This is a sensor that monitors the pilot's control of the airplane above 12,500 feet. Above that altitude, without supplemental oxygen, the human body won't be able to take in enough O₂ to sustain consciousness. I've experienced this effect myself. There's lightheadedness, headache, decreased awareness, euphoria...and the blackout comes pretty soon after. So, if a Cirrus pilot flies up that high, and his oxygen system malfunctions, and he faints, and he doesn't touch the airplane controls for two minutes...then a computerized voice will ask him very loudly "Are you awake? Are you aware?"

Receiving no answer (or control inputs) the computer is then programmed to automatically take the airplane down below 12,500 feet, all the time asking "Are you awake? Are you aware?" until it gets a response.

Seems cool, right?

No. It isn't.

Look back through those last few paragraphs and you'll notice something. I used the word "automatically" way too much.

My question is this: if you're such a raging dullard that you're up above 12,500 feet with no oxygen, or flinging the airplane all over the sky trying to dodge birds, or letting yourself get stalled out, then what business do you have flying an airplane in the first place?

Okay, sure, this technology saves lives. I read somewhere that the Cirrus parachute system has saved 121 people from almost certain death. The hypoxia awareness thing sounds like it could come in handy. But look, you should be able to do all this for yourself. This technology makes it too easy for you. A pilot could get spoiled, and his skills dulled, flying in a Cirrus. And when the real emergency comes along, when the electrical system fails and he loses all that technological whizbang, how is he going to know how to handle the situation?

Cirrus is barking up the wrong tree. If anything they should be trying to find out how to make people safer, not airplanes. Last I heard, the NTSB had concluded that eighty percent of all airplane crashes, accidents, and mishaps are caused by human error. There's no way to design human stupidity out of an airframe. Cirrus won't be able to accomplish that no matter how hard they try. But they're still trying. And what they're coming up with might ultimately cause more problems than it solves.

Do you see where I'm coming from? Technology is convenient, yes, but there are things far more preferable than convenience. Skill. Talent. Romance. Sensuousness. Appreciation. Peculiarity. All the qualities which make music a treat, books a joy, and airplanes a challenge are being ingested and diluted by the unstoppable march of technological progress. I find this deplorable.

Technology has its uses. Moreover, it is a paean to the scope of innovation and the indomitable human spirit.

But does it have to take my precious books away from me?

Couldn't some of us, withal, remain happy in the Stone Age?

And now, just to prove how inescapable the thing truly is, and how immersed I myself am in it, despite all appearances to the Neo-Luddite contrary, I leave you with a song. A song synthesized with electronic instruments, mixed with digital recording equipment, distributed via laser and fiber-optic cable and data port, brought to you by a video download from a website on the Internet, appearing to you on your computer or smartphone with its LCD screens and high-fidelity sound reproduction, and packaged for you by an online personal blogging tool.

...through which the author has chosen to disseminate his anti-technology rants.

Go figure.

Even the singers are wearing those damn ear-buds...

Jeffrey goes to Leicester Square

This is another thing I like about having a blog—I get to insert insidious rants about things I dislike, and sententious vaunts about bits of esoterica I enjoy. (The only reason I didn't call this blog "the Insidious Ranter" was because that seemed excessively negative.)

One of those bits of esoterica is Jethro Tull. Most of you probably know who (or rather, what) J-Tull is. It's a band, an English prog rock group out of Blackpool, formed by Ian Anderson.

This Ian Anderson, dummy:


Categorizing Tull is like trying to tell what color a chameleon originally was, or describe the size of a bread box. These guys wore a lot of hats during their career, which has now spanned 40 years (and counting). They started out in blues and jazz, moving into folk, acoustical rock and heavy rock, dabbling in progressive rock and concept albums, classical or Renaissance rock, breaking into synthesizers and electronics, even throwing in a little Asian influence later on. Though J-Tull's heavy stuff (like their 1971 album Aqualung) gets the most radio play, the band's best remembered for their medieval compositions. If you've ever wondered what would've happened if six or seven Elizabethan minstrels had fallen through a time warp and onto the rock 'n' roll scene in the 1960s and '70s, Jethro Tull's the best band for the job. Flutes, hand drums, mandolins and fiddles trade places with heavy electric guitar riffs and bashing drum kits. Ian Anderson, indeed, was a consummate flautist, and a great many Tull songs feature one of Ian's incredibly nimble flute solos. It was a sound—a symphony of aural sensation—never witnessed before or since.

One of the most underrated albums by this underrated band is 1969's Stand Up. (That tune I played at the end of this post is off that very same record.) Still firmly entrenched in Tull's blues and folk period, Stand Up has the feel of a country picnic or a barn-raising—with a good dash of the medieval pastoral. The minstrels are coming and a hootenanny is going down. There is romance, reminiscence, even a ribald ballad or two. "Fat Man" is a tongue-in-cheek philippic against obesity. Nourished by tambourines, hand drums, mandolins, and Anderson's lively, omniscient flute, we are given the idea that a court jester or fool may be playing this tune in the king's hall before honored guests. Try listening to the record in the dark with a glass of mulled wine or a mug of ale in your hand, maybe with a strategic candle burning here and there, and see if the effect isn't lost on you.

Classical influences are easy to detect on Stand Up: one track, "Bouree," is actually a jazzy adaptation of J.S. Bach's Bourrée in E Minor. The track's jazz compositions, like the cavalier, commiserating "Nothing is Easy," give way to the loveliest of love songs, like the acoustic- and piano-based "Look Into the Sun." It's a quiet, ethereal tune, so simple in arrangement but so evocative in actuality—one can see, in one's mind, two lovers meeting in the soft light of evening. "We Used to Know" is a shoulder-shrugging glimpse down one man's Memory Lane. Sustained by descending acoustic chords in 4/4 time, it's an emotional and thoughtful tune, somber but soothing. And then, of course, there's "Jeffrey Goes to Leicester Square," such a genre-bending cavalcade of flutes, bongos, triangles, bass, and guitar, assembled so jauntily and so lusciously, with such rhythm and grace and ease of listening, that I'm not going to tell you about it here. Suffice it to say that I heard the opening bars and knew I had to buy the whole album.

Such is Tull's versatility. Anderson's songwriting abilities are staggering. He could turn his mind to side-splitting ballads in one moment, heartrending love songs the next, jazzy grooves in another. His hard rock compositions, like "Aqualung," "Locomotive Breath," and "Minstrel in the Gallery" (which starts out medieval and then retraces its steps with electric guitars and heavy bass) are rhythmic and harmonious. They're more than enough to induce a bit of reflexive head-banging or foot-stomping, and are certainly able to compete with anything laid down by Tull's contemporaries. And yet, for all his musical brilliance, Ian did not neglect his lyrics. He writes with a witty, often satirical air, but not vitriolic nor antagonistic. A keen observer, he often sent up other band's works. His 45-minute magnum opus, a concept album made up of one single long song, Thick as a Brick, was intended to be a spoof of J-Tull's contemporary prog-rock groups. And yet, thanks to mellifluous lyrics and Tull's one-of-a-kind sound, as infectious as it was unique, it became a brilliant success in its own right.

That's what made Ian Anderson so great, though. He put his heart and mind into his music. He was soulful, but intelligent. He wasn't some angst-filled teenager or an insufferable, disenfranchised punk rocker. He was a musician, plain and simple: a satirical, fun-loving bard with a penchant for the rhapsodic. His vision put him far ahead of his time. Perhaps too far: Tull's critical success ebbed and flowed like an ocean tide. Sometimes Anderson was hailed; others, lambasted. The fan base, though substantial, was never comparable to commercial groups such as KISS. Even Ian's band-mates often couldn't identify with his ideas; J-Tull's membership has changed so often and so completely that the band has something like 30 former members. Only Ian Anderson and lead guitarist Martin Barre still remain from the 1969 lineup.

None of this really matters. Jethro Tull's winning combination of poetic lyrics, symphonic musical arrangements, anachronistic instrumentation, melodic music and flamboyant performance has endeared them to generations of fans, and earned them a place in the heart of any music lover who still prizes talent over mass appeal. Not least among those fans and music-lovers is yours truly. This is easily my favorite band. Anderson's obvious wit and intelligence, his boldness to go where no critic thought he should, and the sheer beauty of his music has cemented his primacy in my mind. I mean, come on, how could you not like this guy?


This concludes my review. And now for a few important announcements: I have now managed to obtain a copy of Kurt Vonnegut's Slaughterhouse-Five from the library, so I shall start in upon it once I finish The Epic of Gilgamesh. This means, then, that you shall be hearing another book review soon, and that the folk with whom I've agreed to read Slaughterhouse-Five (you know who you are) should begin reading it as well. I'm trying mightily to stick to this three-posts-per-week regimen that I've set for myself, but the universe is conspiring against me, the old rascal. I've just been nominated for an award by the most gracious gentleman, talented writer, helicopter pilot, and serviceman, Jon Paul. (Thanks a million, pal.) I will host my acceptance ceremony tomorrow morning. Stay tuned for ten manly facts about yours truly, too, as per the regulations of the award.

There are some things which I have not told you about which I probably should tell you about when I get the time. Like my Mom's new dog, Dash, a purebred German Shepherd. Or the fact that I'm painting the eaves. Or that a garbage truck got stuck up the block the other day and I went to help dig it out. Or the weather: it's been in the 70s and sunny for the last three days. We've actually got the windows open today. In February.

Well, shucks...looks like I just told you. Postie out.

fireside chat

I was reading something on Jon Paul's blog Where Sky Meets Ground about how this one blogger has surpassed 100 followers after blogging for just two months. Why? Because her content is amazing, he says. I've run across several blogs which other folks label "amazing," and I'm still not sure exactly what the common factor might be. As near as I can figure out, though, these "amazing" blogs are popular because they speak the truth. They resonate. They tell stories everyone can relate to. They showcase the human condition in some evocative way. They're simply written, intimately personal, refreshingly honest, and often eerily familiar. Jon Paul has declared his intention to begin publishing stories about the lessons he's learned during his eighteen-plus years in the military, specifically in regards to writing. That should resonate with any male between the ages of 13 and 99; plus a vast cross-section of the population who are interested in writing, or need help with some of the particularly trying aspects of it. Now, I'm not saying that I blog just to garner followers. No worthwhile blogger does. That's not the point. Having a zillion followers is good in some ways; feedback, community-building, and (for writers) literary criticism. But it's an added bonus, not the ends of the means. That being said, I wouldn't object to appealing to a wider audience. Right now, I suppose, this blog is pretty esoteric: booze, literature, aviation, travel. If you're an earthbound, jingoistic, illiterate teetotaller, the Sententious Vaunter will hold no interest for you. What am I missing? Those stories. Those relatable, resonant, intriguing vignettes. Those intimate, whimsical glimpses into people's lives that I (and many others) love to read. Dumb dogs. Vanishing passports. People who forget their gender after a few drinks. After all, people don't live on book reviews alone. Unfortunately for me, I don't get drunk often enough to tell war stories about myself and Wild Turkey. I'm not living in a foreign country, unless you consider my room the home ground and the rest of Mom and Dad's house alien territory. Nothing much ever happens in this town besides murders, rapes, gang fights, drug deals, and sexual predation. Most of the stuff I do with my friends is pretty typical: we watch movies, go to dinner parties, drink beer, go off-roading, etc. (Actually, THAT might be worth blogging about...something really interesting happened. We were driving back down Pilot Rock Road after failing to reach Fawnskin the back way due to heavy slush when a dirtbiker flagged us down, and...) But fear not! I may have failed to judiciously post current events and thus keep my blog timely, but I shall not fail in this. I hereby resolve to devote a few more posts to personal stories. I bloviate a lot, but I don't reminisce enough. So I'm going to tell you some of the funny, interesting, whimsical, didactic, touching, enlightening, enrapturing and hilarious things that have happened to me. If nothing funny, interesting, whimsical, didactic (etc.) has happened recently, I'll draw on something from previous years, college life or childhood. We'll have ourselves a little fireside chat every now and again. Should be a good time. Stay tuned. And if you like what you see, follow along. It'll probably get better.

this damn novel

I don't know if I've mentioned this properly, but I'm an aspiring novelist. I've been writing ever since I was a pre-teen, mostly tongue-in-cheek poems and short stories about animals. Then, after I got to college, I realized two things: (a) I really couldn't stand advanced chemistry, and therefore probably couldn't be a zoologist; and (b) I actually really enjoyed writing. I began to wonder if I could do it for a living, in fact. I liked to write, and I liked animals, and science, and people, and culture...and I loved to travel, see new places and describe them floridly. Why not?

So I switched my major to journalism, got my degree, and set out on the road to become a travel writer. But even before that, the writer's madness began to take hold. My imagination has always been overactive. I read ravenously as a child and was instilled not only with the capacity to create fantasy-worlds from the whirling darkness of my mind, but also to put them on paper in an intriguing way. And so the short stories took shape. They were awful, undoubtedly. The writing may have been above average, but the plots were thin and the premises ludicrous. I wrote an entire novelette in high school about a family of nurse sharks who migrated across the perilous ocean floor to a new home in a secure reef. (Needless to say, it was inspired by Watership Down.)

When I was 19, something finally resembling an original idea began to coalesce in my head. An idealist. Yeah, there's this dissatisfied idealist. Unhappy with his lot, see? Working a dead-end job. Going nowhere, slowly. Him and his best buddy, both. And then what do they find out? They're reincarnated from history's heroes. The souls of humanity's most famous warriors, leaders and tricksters are bound up inside them. These two guys are privy to these famous men's powers, fighting prowess, intelligence, cleverness, and charisma.

The story underwent several permutations. At first, my two protagonists discovered a time-machine and became sort of like time-traveling private investigators. That didn't last too long. It's a rip-off, for one thing. There's half a dozen original Star Trek episodes just like that, not to mention that Sci-Fi Channel series TimeCop. I also wasn't happy with the realistic side of things, either. My idealist (let's call him Protagonist Number One, and his buddy Protagonist Number Two) was working in an antique clock shop in Los Angeles, inherited from his deceased parents. That coincidence seemed a little too corny. So I scrapped it.

I'm paranoid about plagiarism, so I won't say much about the plot of the story as it stands now. I will say that the theme is now post-apocalyptic. A global time disaster sucks these two guys in and spews them onto a new world, where (armed with their new-found metaphysical powers), they pursue their fortunes. The plot roughly parallels human history (beginning with ancient Sumer, hence all the stuff I've been reading about old Mesopotamia). I've got some rather weighty things to say about human civilization and social behavior along the way, too. Protagonists 1 and 2 will acquire a motley bunch of supporting characters over time, all of whom have something to contribute to the story (literally and allegorically). It's going to be a great adventure, a little bit preachy, grandiose, captivating, lucid, funny, rip-roaring, swashbuckling, touching, and all those other things that my favorite adventure novels and fantasy epics are.

Now, I've actually finished writing the damn thing. It's been sitting in my top desk drawer for months. Why could that be? I love writing. I love this story I've created with all my heart. I think other people are going to love it, too. So why am I hesitating yet again?

I'm scared. I'm scared of that manuscript. I know exactly how Victor felt when he looked down upon the monster he'd sewed together from corpses, and it opened its watery yellow eyes and grinned at him. I've created a monster. It's grown into something much larger than I thought it would. I think it could be great. But there's the terrifying thought that, after my editing is done, it might not be great. I want this to come out perfect, or as near to perfect as possible. And I'm not sure I can do it. And even if it gets to the point where I think it's good, and have grown as fond of it as a proud father of his child, and send it out into the world to seek its fortunes...where's the guarantee that other people will like it? What if they hate it? Or sweet mother of sassafras, what if they love it? What if it becomes the biggest thing since Harry Potter? What if this thing transcends genres, age groups, sexes, borders? What if the entire planet likes it? What if it becomes so popular that ravening fan groups on the Internet begin breathing down my neck for endless sequels?

All of these fears and apprehensions torment me daily—whenever I open that top drawer and see that manuscript sitting there, grinning at me with water yellow eyes. I'm afraid of imperfection, I'm afraid of failure, and I'm afraid of success.

But you know what? I've decided not to care anymore. I've waited long enough. I want to see people's eyes light up when they read this story, the way mine do. I want to get this thing revised, accepted, printed, published.

So I finally unleashed it from the desk drawer two weeks ago. It sat on my nightstand for two weeks, just sort of "airing out," as I told myself. But today, after a long bout of late-night soul searching the previous evening (during which tears were shed, Coldplay was listened to, mournful pamphlets written, and morose epigrams dispensed on Facebook)...

Today, after four years of daydreaming, writing, ripping, tearing, destroying, rewriting, rethinking, and reworking...

Today, after four months of equivocating, stalling, hiding, cowering, rationalizing, hemming and hawing...

Today I picked that manuscript up, sat down on my bed, and had a look at Chapter One.

And you know what? I reworked it. I rewrote some bits that other people had said weren't working. I switched some stuff around. I changed some information. I refined, expanded, revised, expounded, redid. My heart swelled with every word. And I got it done. The long-awaited second edit of the Postman's very first novel has commenced. It's not the last edit, certainly not. But it's a start. It's the first step down the long, leery, hardscrabble, soul-scouring road of revision. At the end lies the publication process, itself a trial, but the next link in the chain to everlasting glory.

I'm sitting here, typing this, that exhilarated feeling pounding through my torso, feeling like I've just run a marathon or survived the final round of a trivia contest. I'm on cloud nine. This feels good. I don't know why I waited this long. I ought to be ashamed of myself. Since when have I ever cared what other people think? Life's scary. So what? Overcoming uncertainties isn't easy. Who cares? That's how you're supposed to live life: conquering insecurity, dealing with uncertainty, and learning from your mistakes. I don't care if I get critiqued. I'll take whatever harsh edits my friends and editors throw at me, and use them to better the final product. The criticisms of the audience I'll use as ammunition against error in ensuing works.

I don't mean to be a name-dropper, but there are a few people who said what I want to say before I did, and I want to give them their due. It was Winston Churchill who gave us what is now my new favorite quote:

"Criticism may not be agreeable, but it is necessary. It fulfills the same function as pain in the human body. It calls attention to an unhealthy state of things."

Henry Ford had something else pithy to contribute:

"Whether you think you can or think you can't—you are right."

And it was Eleanor Roosevelt, bless her, who stated:

"Nobody can make you feel inferior without your consent."

I don't care if people say this is the single greatest flop in the history of literature. I'm going to fix it. I'm going to finish it. And I'm going to do my best with it. Then I'll sleep easy.

At least I'll have tried.

danged if you do

I can't take criticism at all, really. I'm an inveterate weasel. Should anyone say anything remotely critical or even neutrally corrective (i.e., "There's a better way to do that"), my self-esteem and dignity throw themselves out of the window. Depending on my opinion of the other person, I'll either (a) equivocate by saying "I'm rusty" or "I'm trying my best," or (b) deny everything to save face. Rarely, very rarely will I ever respond to criticism by saying, "Is that so? Thank you for telling me. I'll try to do better next time." A deplorable situation. But that is not the point. Being unable to take criticism is one thing. But, it seems, I can't take praise either. I have an extremely odd way of dealing with praise. When I'm in company, I'll look down at the ground, go red, mumble an refutation, and scuff the dirt with my toe.When I receive a compliment electronically, however, I turn into something like a zealously rehearsing actor with Tourette's. I jump up and wander about the house, giggling eerily and repeating odd snatches of movie lines and book excerpts. I'm not sure why this happens. Perhaps this is my inherently modest psyche's way of deflecting praise: leaving the room and pretending to be somebody else. Or maybe my joy at being recognized for something overwhelms my puny brain and sends me into a hurtless form of schizophrenia. I've heard that, across cultures, there are a variety of ways in which praise is received. According to the brief-but-informative international etiquette guide Behave Yourself!, it is unnecessary to deny a compliment or be self-effacing in the United States, as it is in some other places. If someone compliments you, accept it and say "thank you." Whereas in Asian cultures, it's not only common, but actually considered the norm to deny any compliment you're given with a self-deprecating statement. In China, people will never come out and say "no." Saving face is so important to them that they will use very gentle negatives like "I'll consider it" to preserve the other's dignity. In Japan, when giving a gift, one commonly says tsumaranai mon ("It's nothing special"). In Singapore, if you even express disagreement with someone you don't know very well (thus causing them to lose face), you can be viewed as pushy or hostile. Diplomacy, correctness, and indirect dissension are the keys to politeness. I routinely do all three of these things. I hate to just flat-out say "no way" to people. So instead I'll say mealy-mouthed things like "I'll think about it," or "You have a point," or "Perhaps next time." Whenever I give somebody something, and they're gushing over it, I invariably say "Oh, it's not much," or "It's the least I could do." I tend not to disagree with people at all the first time I meet them (particularly beautiful women). I'm afraid I'll impress them as being argumentative or disagreeable. It's only after I get to know them that I begin to dissent with whatever wrong-headed, idiotic opinions they may have. So what does this mean? Well, it confirms something I've suspected for a long time. I'm a closet Asian. I'm turning Japanese. I was this way even before I went to Korea, so it must be something hidden deep within my genetic makeup. Perhaps my great-great-grandfather wasn't from Prussia like Ancestry.com says. Maybe he was a Sino-Korean transplant from Manchuria and immigrated to Prussia before marrying my great-great-grandmother (who had an Asian fetish before it was cool) and subsequently immigrating to the States from there. I'm sure any genealogist or psychiatrist could give me a categorical answer on this one. But he or she had better be careful in phrasing their diagnosis, or I might get up and start stalking around the office, grinning and muttering movie quotes to no one.

to blog or not to blog

That is the question. Whether 'tis nobler in the mind to suffer the slings and arrows of outrageous fortune...or to take up a keyboard, and by so opposing, divulge them. I've been casting around other people's blogs for a while now, and I've seen some pretty heavy stuff. And by "heavy" I mean very weighty, very personal matters. Stuff that you'd ordinarily think somebody would want to keep quiet. I stumbled upon this one blog once that dealt with nothing but the writer's sex life. The post I read was a meticulous 2,000-word treatise on the events leading up to her and her boyfriend's first attempt at anal sex. I'm not sure what good that kind of post does anybody, but that's not what I'm here to talk about. Being a blogger is kind of like being the editor of the coolest, wackiest newspaper ever written. It's all about YOU. It's anything you want. You, and you alone, decide what gets put onto the front page. Complete control over the whole process, that's what you've got: topic, writing, tone, voice, stance, revision, publishing, the works. The final slash-and-burn is the kicker. That's where you sit back, look at what you've written, and think to yourself, "Okay, is this worth putting up?" A few bloggers are shallow and uninteresting, writing without depth or merit. A large number of bloggers, on the other hand, are honest. They pour out their hearts and souls onto the web page. They speak on highly personal issues, things near and dear to their hearts, private matters that they perhaps would never have dared to bare in person. Sometimes this writing is brutally honest and gruesomely detailed. Oftentimes, even if the subject matter is not something a reader would ordinarily find interesting, the way in which its presented can win an audience over...if the blogger tells the truth and write from the heart. Quite often, however, the subject matter is both relevant and truthful. The result is something incredible: something deep, something resonant, something emotionally powerful. Reading these blog posts (about a dear friend who passed away, or a violent crime that the writer was a victim of, or even a beloved place or time) is cathartic. We feel transported to that place, introduced to that person, victimized by that crime. We feel like a bridge has been built between our soul and the writer's. Reading becomes a joining of hands, a meeting of minds. I have experienced this amazing sensation several times on the blogsphere, and never expected to. That, friends, is perhaps what this whole blogging gig is about. But I'll skip the commercial. This is not the point of this post. The point is this: there's a difference between being honest and truthful when writing, and using some...discretion. Not everything one does is newsworthy, no matter how exciting one's life may be. At some point, a blogger must draw the line at even the most brutal or hilarious details of his or her existence. But where should that line be drawn? At what point does a blogger cease being honest and truthful and is instead merely airing his dirty laundry in public? Being honest, truthful, open, or gut-wrenchingly detailed in your writing (or just writing about personal matters) is one thing. Using the blogsphere as a confessional is another. This is the crux of my argument. Be honest, sure. Be truthful, yes. Be gritty, even. But don't write about things that happened to you because you feel as if you'd be hiding the truth otherwise. Don't bare your soul just because you feel you need to be totally, unreservedly honest. Don't include all the gory details just for the audience's information. If you are doing it, make sure you're doing it for YOU. You're the editor, remember? There's two things that very recently happened to me that I was going to blog about. I was going to blog about them enthusiastically, in fact. But I'm not going to now. I can't write about the first thing because I might get somebody else in trouble. I can't write about the second because...well, it's a highly embarrassing, personal matter, and I think I'd rather keep it private. I'm entitled to a little privacy, after all. Be wary that you don't fall into the same trap. Write about what you want to write about, but don't compromise your privacy. Goodness knows it's hard enough to hold on to any privacy in this day and age anyway. Write by all means, just ensure that you're not doing it to assuage your insecurities. Do it to give yourself wings.

psycho-emotional armor

Insecurity is one of those things everyone denies suffering from. Yet we all have to deal with it on some level. Every time one's beliefs are ridiculed, one's intelligence is defamed (after one makes a mistake, for example), or one receives a personal insult, even the most stalwart sense of self-esteem crumbles just a little. Well, mine does, anyway. Guess I must be a softy. Once, I was the most untouchable weirdo in my peer group. I didn't care one whit for what people said about me. I'd go sauntering through the playground in a camouflage jacket and a black top hat (styling myself "Mr. Different"), and all the insults and derisive hoots that were hurled at me just bounced right off. And then, for some reason, I began to care what people think. Thus began the downhill slide. Nowadays I don't deal very well with criticism, nor belittlement. Soon as somebody says, "That's stupid, Andy," or "How can you not like Family Guy? You must be a Communist, Andy!" my soul shrivels up a little, and I feel a mysterious need to backpedal and void my previous assertions. And in so doing, I want to backpedal again and reassert my previous assertions, because voiding them due to public opinion makes me feel like a spineless, obsequious, sniveling, slimy weed, bending whatever way the wind blows. I have resolved to go back to utterly not caring about what other people think of me: particularly, what I do and the things I like. As I mentioned earlier, I'm something of a weirdo, you see. Take In-N-Out, for example. In-N-Out is a fast-food burger chain native to California and the west coast. It's inordinately popular, particularly in Southern California. I've never liked the place much myself. The fries are too greasy, the decor is sterile white, and the burgers don't come up to the level of, say, Tom's, or even Carl's Junior. But the moment I say that I don't like In-N-Out, no matter how large the group of friends I'm with is, the vote is unanimous. Jaws drop, eyes bug out, horrified gasps resound. "What?!" "How can you say that, Andy?" "Have you even had In-N-Out?" "Are you a Communist?" "You're definitely un-American if you think that." Some of you might be wondering Hey, how come this weasel gets so insecure over an issue as trivial as this? So his friends all disagree with him about which burger chain is superior. Big whoop. That's no reason for him to feel he needs to change his opinion to fit in. Well, hold on a minute. You said it just now. It's not so much the issue at stake. It's the fact that all my friends disagree with me. All of them. That's bound to make any member of the group, particularly one whose acceptance is as iffy as mine, nervous. I was a social outcast my first year in high school, and was (and still am) so socially inept that I still wonder how I managed to garner any friends at all. My pals are incredibly valuable to me. I would have had a lonely, lonely time in high school if they hadn't seen fit to tolerate my weirdness. I'd like to keep running with this gang. So naturally, if it seems as if I'm about to alienate them (or even distance myself from them in any way, shape, or form, no matter how minor), I go on red alert. Pretty pathetic, right? It's not that I'm fundamentally weak-willed or mealy-mouthed. It's just that I've been out on the fringes for so long that I'm starting to get the idea that I might be off base after all. I've gotten so used to being the only person in the room who thinks a particular way that I'm beginning to believe I might be wrong. Now I realize that this is all just herd mentality. Just because no one sees eye-to-eye with me doesn't mean I'm the littlest man there. So no more. I'm done being a sniveling weasel. I'm through cringing inside whenever somebody criticizes something I like or believe in. I'm done thinking that my beliefs are inferior to anyone else's just because I happen to be the only person who holds them. I'm through caring what other people think. From now on, it's just going to be me and my mind, laughing together at private jokes, starting two-member fan clubs for the most arcane and obscure bits of pop culture available, grinning at each other whenever another person's eyes bug out. I'm going to be more like George Bernard Shaw: I'll say what I think, be right most of the time, abhor the general lack of intelligence in others, and focus on offending as many people as possible. Mr. Sulu! Activate the psycho-emotional armor! But I can't leave it there. I've dropped a few hints but have not unveiled the full enchilada. I'm going to give you a complete rundown of my most controversial beliefs, opinions, likes, and wants, so you can judge for yourself how weird they are, and have an appropriate baseline to appraise your own. This is also a defiant scream. Each item listed here has earned me a disbelieving look, a disapproving comment, or a jaw-drop at least once. This is what I believe, world, and nobody's going to make me doubt myself anymore for believing in it. And we commence!

• I hate vodka. Yes, I'm a mixologist. But still, I detest the stuff. Can't stand it. The only way I can stomach it is mixing it in cocktails, and even then, it's only good for its alcoholic content. Gee whiz, what's the point?
• Capital punishment is a good thing. Violent criminals don't need to be helped. They don't need to be rehabilitated. They need to be killed. Removed from the gene pool. Sent to hell. Whatever you want to call it.
• There is such a thing as "righteous war." When innocent people are suffering, when peace and injustice have gone to the dogs, when diplomatic relations have broken down, and economic sanctions have (finally) proven their impotence, it's the duty of the powerful, forthright, upstanding nations of the world (you know the ones I mean if you live there) to step in and take a military hand in matters. People say war is ugly, and that killing our fellow humans is the worst crime we've ever committed. I say, standing by and letting evil men take over and run things according to selfish whim is worse. I say, live and let die. And I also think rapists and child molesters ought to be castrated.
• I'm an atheist. I don't believe in God. And when I say "I don't believe in God" I don't mean that I believe He exists but don't worship Him. I mean that I don't believe He exists, period. Apparently those are two different things now. Jesus may very well have existed, but I have serious doubts about his parentage. I've examined the evidence for both camps, read science books, attended numerous churches and church services, and made up my mind that a universe based on random chaos and the complete lack of any divine guidance just makes more sense. It's more logical to me, more believable. I keep an open mind, however. Given compelling evidence I might start believing that God exists. Don't know if I'd worship Him even then, though. I do believe that we humans know less than 0.001% about the way the universe works, and that there are things undoubtedly going on out there that science can't explain. That thought thrills me.
• I have not seen American Pie, Forgetting Sarah Marshall, Superbad, Beerfest, or any other such raunchy, tasteless, obscene comedy. And I don't intend to, either.
• I have not seen Mrs. Doubtfire, Dumb & Dumber, The Big Lebowski, and a lot of other films that everybody tells me are "essential." (Name another, I'll bet you I haven't seen it.) I suppose I will someday, though. Maybe. I have my own ideas about what constitutes "essential," thanks very much.
• I am reading Little Women by Louisa May Alcott. I've discussed this before. People now doubt my sexual orientation. Apparently this is a "girl's book." I don't care. If it's a good book, I'll read it. (Romance novels don't count, of course; but this isn't a romance novel.) I'll bet LW is a grand book, too. And you're all missing out on it because you're worried that if you even touch this book you'll have to run and wash the gay off you or something. I'll bet you don't wear any purple, either. Your loss.
• I just might put bourbon in my hip flask. Yes, yes, I know that's a cardinal sin. A real man would never keep anything but high-grade Scotch whisky or brandy in his hip flask. It could be worse, though. I haven't stuck any rum or vodka in there, and I don't intend to. I just thought bourbon might be a nice change. And I've got to do something progressive in my life. Maybe I'll start a new manly trend.
• I despise Family Guy. And furthermore, I don't see how any right-thinking person couldn't. It's crass, vulgar, stupid, disgusting, shoddy, obnoxious, and a blatant, shameless Simpsons knockoff. Suck on that, my former college roommates.
• Gifts should not be purchased cheaply. To me, the whole idea of shopping around for the best deal (on a gift, that is) is abhorrent. One should buy the gift from the first place one finds it, irrespective of how expensive it is. To go around pricing gifts seems very, very miserly to me. One might as well hand the person their present and say "Here, this is the cheapest one I could find." No. Gifts are not given in that spirit. Price is irrelevant. What matters is that you're giving them what they want. On the other hand, if it was me, I'd want people to save as much money as they could when buying me gifts. This rule applies only to yours truly.
• Jethro Tull is the best rock 'n' roll band of all time. 'Nuff said.
• Asparagus sucks. Yes, there are actually some people who disagree with me on this one.
• I'm pretty set in my ways, musically; rock 'n' roll, some progressive, some classical; but I enjoy the occasional bout of hip-hop. I'm not a hypocrite. There's a few tunes (by, say, Lil' John, or Ludacris, or Usher, or Sean Paul) that have a remarkable amount of nostalgic value for me, seeing as how I got down and dirty to their stuff at my high school dances. And you must admit, while most rap is atonal or just downright abrasive to the ear, it has a pretty good beat. It's just those buggers who drive around with their bass woofers turned all the way up (making the everybody else stuck in traffic think there's a mighty rhythmic earthquake going on) who give it a bad name. If you want a specific example, I've had "Stand Up" (by Ludacris) stuck in my head the last few days. That one makes me chuckle.
• Fox News IS fair and balanced. Nothing you can say will make me think otherwise. CNN can go pound sand.

That's all I can think of for now. So help me, I will never waver in my convictions again. Unless I hear some compelling evidence to the contrary, of course. So there.