What Kinda Rumble was That?

Fridays are Trash Day here at Roseholme Cottage. Tam and I, bein' no more dilatory than any other girl gunbloggers and not particularly desirous of bein' the Food Messiahs of the local raccoon an' possum posse, had left the setting-out of trash until the morn.

Of course the whine and grunt of air brakes and diesel was heard early this ayem, and of course it was an all-hand-on-deck scramble to get the refuse in its heavy bins and cans around to the front, me in sandals and a coat hastily thrown over my bathrobe, hair damp and unbrushed.

What we found in front, like lost blimps moored along our narrow residential bywater, was not one, not two but three massive trash trucks, two headed one direction and one 'tother, with the crews out and...arguing? Over which crew gets to pick up our trash? W00t?

Now that right there is a work ethic!

...But I swan, if they'd've formed up inta' groups and began fingersnappin' an' hummin' riffs from West Side Story, I'd'a called it a day, 'cos it would be a Sure Sign Of The End.

Mailbox: Such Swag!

If I'd'a known people were gonna send kewl stuff, I'd'a rented out space to gun-blogger gals a long time ago!

Mucho thanx to Joe Huffman, who sent a brace of wonderfully geekworthy T-shirts; felicitations and a labcoat & goggle-wearing "yum!" to Stingray and Labrat of Atomic Nerds for the huge big bag of Actual! Home! Made! peanut butter cookies; and a delighted grin for Turk Turon, who found and sent not only a pair of "View From The Porch" (though not the Porch) calendars but a marvelous picture book about Bad Airplanes. And a smile and a hat-tip to all the other friends who've helped out, too! (Also to Target for the kewl "digital skull" T-shirts, 'cos they are).

Y'all're the bestest!

(Correction, 14 hours on: I had credited CarteachO for the T-shirts; this'll teach me to blog prior to coffee! My apologies to both fine gentlemen. >blush<)

Niceology? Evil Niceology

Tam's finding name-calling adds nothing to debate. It's been a dinner-table topic here at Roseholme, my contribution being listening and nodding agreement whilst shovelin' down salad.

William F. Buckley's recent death has reminded us of those few -- those happy few, who are, unhappily, far too few -- capable of verbally flaying an opponent with nary a foul word or childish neologism, quite often using the other side's own words in a neat a bit of verbal judo. It's not a skill limited to any political leaning; Buckley and his occasional sparring partner Gore Vidal each had the touch, though not as easily against one another. (Oh heavens not!)

It's good exercise for one's mind, one's vocabulary and perhaps even one's inner self. Sure, it takes more work to take ijits down without mud-hurling, but it'll build up that pinkish-grey muscle in between the ears. And it leaves the Opposition with a full head of steam built up and not much to complain about if'n you used their right name and title and smiled all the while as you took their fool notions apart.

Crash! Boom! Moon!

NASA is planning to smash spacecraft into the moon!

Usually it's a sure sign of boredom with little Sammy starts blowin' up his toys. Maybe not this time: they're huntin' H2O.

NASA is the smallest and one of the least-objectionable uses of my tax money, the hidebound and not-invented-here nature of the agency notwithstanding. If there is easily had water on the Moon, it will make establishing a base and eventual commercial development a lot simpler. I'm all for that.

Hey, maybe they could exile us crazy freedom-freaks to the Moon?

The World Just Got Stupider

I thought I felt a disturbance in the Force.

William F. Buckley passed away last night. I agreed with him half the time or less but oh, what a delight he was to read or listen to. He treated the language like fine food -- and in his hands, it was.

Law, Liberty, Motherhood

A discussion on another blog got me to thinking down a track a bit off the mainstream. Far enough askew that I decided there was no point in gettin' in an argument with a fellow (and his spouse!) on his own blog when there was no chance of persuading them.

Hey, la, I've my very own soapbox and a window to throw it out of, so lets.

The anarchist-leaning libbytarian is oft' accused of bein' a "dope-legalizing hippie" who would selfishly interfere with the supposed "right" of a majority of her friends and neighbors to govern the whole of the people to a faretheewell. This is argument by scare quotes ("It'll sour the milk!") and it makes me itch right between the ears where it's difficult to scratch.


One point put forth as decisive was, in re illegal drugs, "What about my children? You're not gonna stop me from protecting them!"

Aw, gee, lady, I wouldn't. Not ever. --Now tell me how some darned law and a bunch of door-kickin' DEA agents does a better job of protection than the moral and philosophical instruction you (supposedly) provide your own offspring? If they've got that inner compass, they've no need for the law -- and if they haven't, no mere law or lawman will stop them. Hinder, sure, lock 'em away, sure, but if they're scum, they will in all likelihood continue their scummy ways after time-out.

Here's the deal -- if your kids are dope-swillin' scum, I want them to be able to get plenty of it, in good quality. If they're gonna do themselves in with it, it's best for all of us, even you, if they get it over with quickly, serve as a horrible example to others, you can grieve and go on, and I can avoid having them stick a gun in my face and request financing some dark night. Everybody wins! Well, except the doper. Oopsie.

...And if it's not illegal, little Sue or Johnny stoner can, if he or she decides to seek it out, go get help to kick the habit without havin' to admit to felonious behavior.

In my extended family, there were alcoholics. One drank himself to death. Slowly. Painfully. Heart-rendingly. Another buckled down, cleaned up his act and turned his life around; a gifted musician, he's the man who introduced me to Fibonacci, opening a world of wonder to skinny lass with a rabbit-hop mind. Tell me what good Prohibition would have done either man, especially considering the latter example began his drinking when the gin was bathtub and the jazz was hot. (As for me, I don't and won't, other than the occasional hard cider or small beer with a meal. Dope is Right Out. Ew).

Your offspring's need to be handled with kid gloves is your problem, not Society's or The Gummit. The "Greater Good" does not consist of wrapping up widdle Bambi in cotton batting every night with a gentle smoochie on the forehead, it consists of making the crooks run away on time, preferably into the hoosegow or an early grave.


This leads us, somehow, to the fool idea that a majority of neighbors can tell you how much starch to use on your bra, not to mention the damfool idea that this is, somehow, Good.

It's not.

The Bill of Rights was a sincere, if limited, attempt to restrain democracy; most State constitutions go even farther that way, though still, thanks to the clever, inventive, tool-user get-around-it minds of Our Duly Elected Representatives, not nearly far enough.

Y'know why governments are instituted among men? It's sure as shootin' not to protect the rights of the majority. They've already got the edge! Nope, it's to keep the majority from whompin' on the Quakers, hippies, militia members, Jews and skateboarders. It's to ensure little Johnny can read Sleazyriders (only for the articles) and it keeps the Gladys Kravitzes and Mrs. Grundys among us from ruining everyone else's peaceable work and fun. Period. If you've got a government doesn't do that, it needs fixing. If it allies itself with the WCTU-thinkers of this world, you've got a problem and had better dredge out the big ballot box, and fast.

Many folks think it's too late -- like Uncle, here. Others point out that a determined minority can make a difference. Me, I don't know. You cannot impose freedom and Mothers everywhere, racked with anguish, will always cry "But what about my babies?" (I dunno, lady, I'll change 'em for you this time but I doubt any bureaucrat will consider so doing to be within his purview). Maybe only a cold and ruthless beast can ignore that. Maybe my stunning lack of compassion and humanity is actin' up again.

Freedom dies one worried Mother at a time, for the most high-sounding of ideals.

Raise your own kids. Shoot your own dog. Vote out your own loser Congressthings. Let your neighbors tend to their own knitting. It's time to grow up.

Mr. Funk? Mr. Wagnall? Mr. Bueller? Anyone?

I have -- albeit reluctantly and late -- come to the conclusion that most Congressbeings (and their State, County and City level counterparts) view their office as a defalcatory responsibility.

Geo. Washington On Party Politics

"The alternate domination of one faction over another, sharpened by the spirit of revenge natural to party dissention, which in different ages & countries has perpetrated the most horrid enormities, is itself a frightful despotism. But this leads at length to a more formal and permanent despotism. The disorders & miseries, which result, gradually incline the minds of men to seek security & repose in the absolute power of an Individual: and sooner or later the chief of some prevailing faction more able or more fortunate than his competitors, turns this disposition to the purposes of his own elevation, on the ruins of Public Liberty."

Y'think?

Found here.

Sunday At Roseholme

Sundays tend to be a reflective day for me, a day for thinking, reading...and eating. Havin' a boarder doesn't change that, it simply reduces the amount of leftovers.

Started with an, ahem, basic breakfast: sage sausage, peppered bacon, portabella mushrooms and diced skin-on potatoes, all properly fried up with a little cajun seasoning on the last two items, with scrambled eggs with a dash of Worcestershire. The green items over at the right are a very mild chili pepper and some mild green onions to sprinkle atop it right before serving. I should've added some Jarlsberg Swiss cheese.

Your cardiologist will shake his head at this treat and he's right. He's also not having any fun.

Much later in the day: Chili!

I make the stuff with mild canned chilis, whatever bean suits my fancy, plenty of ground beef with a dash of chili powder and Red Gold (tm) tomatoes, usually a can of the "chili ready" and a can of crushed. Real-chili types will find it a bit plain and look askance at the beans.

Tam convinced me to try some chipotle peppers in sauce (there's one lurking about 11:00 in the photo); three was more than enough for me and I'd suggest starting with just one if you've never tried them. However, the taste is just s-m-o-o-t-h and the smokiness adds a nice depth.

It's not insightful commentary, I know, but you've got to feed yourself in addition to the Inner Person. ...Plus I like to show off my 1337 k1tchen skilz, modest li'l gem that I am. Lemme at that can-opener!

Tam's New View

In case you were wondering.

Edge of the Earth is just past the fog.

I Am Unique, Just Like All The Other Bloggers

Right?
Git yer own Brainscanner results.
Look, I already wrote something today.

Geek History

It's That Month again. I've no argument with it to the extent that it reminds folks to take a look at what's too often conveniently overlooked -- nastiness like Woodrow Wilson's blandly blatant racism (I don't agree with everything this article says but it's the best a quickie search turned up) as he segregated the Federal government cannot be forgotten just because we find it awkward nor should driven entrepeneurs like Madam Walker be ignored. You're not required to play along and there is some point to it, sappily off-putting public-service announcements notwithstanding.

Like just about[1] everything they touch, government schools and the (m)ass media twist the entire thing into blithe and heedless self-parody and among its worst excesses are the distortions suffered by techies. For example, alpha-geek Elijah McCoy, a Canadian who worked his way up from not much to the design and construction of many wonderful gadgets -- 57 patents for lubrication devices alone! There's even a bit of John Galt in his life, at least to modern eyes: a steam-engine fireman[2] with his own home machine shop and many patents to his name. Alas, the admirable and inventive Mr. McCoy is fulsomely lauded with the overblown title "the father of lubrication" (what a shock to that first Fertile Crescent tinkerer who slathered olive oil on the screw of a wine press -- or his g'g'g'grampa, who first splattered mud in the path of a big rock being slid from here to there) and his true cool-geekiness is lost in the hype. He's not a god and his were not the only automatic oiler designs to be built and used nor were they the first. He was a remarkable guy -- and he was what all humans are: a tool-user. A tool-designer. He was a good one and not by chance: he worked at it. That's a man I want the young to know about!

But I want them to know the real guy. Putting any man or woman -- Tom Edison, Madame Curie, Elijah McCoy, C. J. Cherryh -- on too high a pedestal runs the risk of others looking up and thinking, "A fluke. Most [deaf guys/women/Canadians] could never do that. I never could" Bosh! Yeah, maybe you or your kids aren't going to invent a radioactive, self-oiling light bulb that flies faster than light, but there's plenty left to do and the human race is just the species to do it!

Maybe the tools you use are words. Or a guitar, a computer, a Bridgeport mill, a kitchen, a classroom. Maybe it's just your bare-nekkid mind against the universe or a sharp stick and your mother-wit against starvation, but you're a human. A tool-maker. A tool-user. Just like the guy who first tamed fire, likely so grimy you wouldn't be able to categorize his ancestry even if he was staring at you at the front door, offering Fuller brushes.

One man who'd had just about enough dithering and pussyfooting about was one of the many fathers of the early versions of the traffic light, a fellow whose manually-operated design found use because it allowed the hard-workin' traffic cop to get away from the deadly middle of the crossing and still work the signal! Garrett Morgan's stoplight signaled by color, by word, by position of the signal arms (including an "all stop" to give pedestrians a fightin' chance) and rang a bell when changing state. Try an' miss that, friends!

All history is geek history: famous generals, unknown inventors, all the scribblers and orators, the thinkers and tinkers, mothers and fathers[3], everything we do is driven by our handy hands and clever minds. If you're going to take a month and look at one small segment of the species, take a real look. Don't phone it in with fables and fairy tales. There are some Geeks Grande to be found if you'll go beyond the blurbs. Geeks like you.
_______________________________
1. I'm trying to be kind here
2. But don't go too far: "fireman" on a locomotive is no shrug and more than just shovelling coal. It's a skilled trade; keeping the fire properly shaped and burning efficiently, managing the loco's fuel supply vs. refuellings, etc. is not mindless labor. By the time bunker-oil-burning locomotives came along, the whole thing looked and behaved more like a modern nuke plant, with start-up times measured in half-days and not a single automatic anything.
3. I gotta quarter sez the Greek had their "agora hoplites," some of whom turned out to have the Right Stuff when the time came, some of whom lived in their Dad's basement with a bunch of tattered scrolls and knucklebones. Greek Geeks: more than just Archimedes!