Yes, Obi Wan died for your sins.
And in order to be Luke's co-pilot so that he could destroy the Death Star.
Impious since 2006
Jan 28, 2013
Jan 24, 2013
And god said, "Got A Light?"
"You want me to smoke it for you too, Father Conti?"
Jan 18, 2013
Comma Chameleon
(posted by killre)
"The pen is mightier than the sword, but no match for a gun." --Mike Love
Okay, I'll say it: The founding fathers were sloppy writers.
Yes, it was originally my intent to tackle what can be called the "comma issue" inherent in the Second Amendment to the Constitution of the United States. For those who are unfamiliar, most versions of the Second Amendment --yeah, I said, "versions of the Second Amendment," a grouping of words that should already give you pause-- most versions of the Second Amendment you see in print contain three commas. That's at least one too many and arguably two too many. I was going to tackle it, but like a mildly concussed cornerback I've chosen a different angle. I no longer seek to tackle; I am content to run the issue out of bounds. More on that in a moment. First, let's return to my opening blaspheme: The founding fathers were sloppy writers. Don't get me wrong. I freely acknowledge the task of composing, editing and polishing was far more difficult in the days of parchment and quill than now, with our souped-up word processing programs. Moreover, I fully recognize that even the best-educated of the founders was essentially self-educated, owing to their era's lack of universal standards in higher learning... and by higher I mean, like, beyond the sixth grade. However, even in those long ago, halcyon days of the late eighteenth century, the concept of "one more draft" wasn't exactly a technological advancement the founders could not have foreseen, nor were the rules of grammar, spelling, punctuation and capitalization closely guarded secrets of the illuminati.
Now to those who would say substance (what is said or written) matters far more than style (how it
is said or written), I would retort, "Au contraire," which is a stylin' French phrase that translates roughly to, "Shut up, you stupid-head." While the relationship between style and substance cannot truly be described as symbiotic, it is one that is intricately intertwined. Style influences substance, shades it, texturizes it, enhances it when done well and detracts from it when not. Often enough, and sometimes on a level neither the reader nor the writer are fully aware of, style effects substance to the point of
mutating it.
I cite the opening lyric to the chorus of a song by Tim Cavanaugh... How it is written: "I want to kiss her, but she won't let me."
How it is uttered: "I wanna kiss her butt. She won't let me."
Similar messages overall, yet decidedly different in detail.
The framers of the Constitution did grasp, to some extent, the notion that style is a component of
substance. Alas, their grasp was at times disappointing and at others almost
shocking it its frailty. For example, I love that they skirted the accepted rules and
capitalized the word People in the document's preamble. I wish they had been more consistant and done so throughout. They didn't. Conversely, they got so carried away in
some instances (just in the same preamble they capitalize the words order, tranquility, welfare and
blessings) that the style becomes dizzyingly chaotic and I find myself again concluding: The founding fathers were sloppy writers. So I was going to fire up a chain saw and perform a delicate disection of the comma issue.
Why, you ask? A fair question. Too bad my answer is anything but. Based on what I have encountered in my random and idle perusals of numerous other sites on this here internet thingy, there's a 98.6% chance that I'm better qualified to dissertate the proper use of commas than you are. And as long as I'm transmuting abstract educated guesses into poorly poured concrete numerals, let me also state that at this moment 42.4% of you think you are part of the previous sentence's remaining 1.4%. I will let you decide for yourself whether you'd rather contemplate the bald mathematics of that statement, or the wavy and lustrous socio-econo-political metaphor half-buried within. Take your time. I'm about to digress anyway. While I'm in the neighborhood of punctuation, allow me to render this rant... This - is a hyphen. This -- is a dash, or what passes for one when your keyboard lacks a dash and/or your word processing program fails to recognize you're trying to dish a dash. While the two marks share some cosmetic traits --both are horizontal lines elevated to approximately half the height of the average character-- there are differences, too. For example, one of them is 130% longer than the other. They also serve entirely different functions in making the written word more readily accessable to the reader. If you want to use short cuts when twitting (yeah, said it that way on purpose) or texting, that's your business. If, however, you are writing an article or essay for general consumption, you need to (a) know the differences and (b) employ them properly. Otherwise, you're a hack. I keep repeating that I was going to tackle the comma issue. Past tense. You might wonder why I changed my mind... 4. Length. As is, this piece is going to have to come in several installments. 3. It was to have been about half tongue-in-cheek anyway-- an amusing analogy ranging from extreme liberals wanting to rid the Second Amendment of any and all commas to extreme conservatives insisting that the only real solution is for every word to carry a comma on its hip. 2. While skimming my copy of Rip Van Winkle recently (to settle a bet), I couldn't help noticing how drunkenly comma-happy Washington Irving was. The publishing date of Winkle, 1819, was not all that far removed from the year the Bill of Rights (which form demands I point out the Second Amendment is a part) was composed, 1789. Further research led me to the following conclusion: The founding fathers were sloppy writers, but no sloppier than anyone else in their era. 1. Like a clutch hitter, somebody got it right when it really counted. Most reprintings of the Second Amendment are copied from the version in the National Archives. That version has three commas. That is not, however, the OFFICIAL version. The official version of the Second Amendment, ratified in 1791, certified, and filed for posterity... resides in the Library of Congress. It has one comma. Here then is the official version, rendered character-for-character: (under the heading) AMENDMENTS TO THE CONSTITUTION. Art. II. A well regulated militia being necessary to the security of a free State, the right of the people to keep and bear arms shall not be infringed. If we are going to debate the Second Amendment, this is the version we should be discussing. (more to come) ------------- P.S.... Bud "De Devil Is In De Tails" Selig must go. |
Jan 17, 2013
About Pluking Time
(posted by killre)
Somewhere, tucked snugly into a compact plastic case that probably has a broken hinge and might not even be the original, which itself is stacked haphazardly inside a slightly squashed shoe box, which in turn is packed inside a large cardboard box that had one of its lid-flaps torn away long ago (the other flap is mislabeled in faded black marker, and partly in cursive, which from what I gather is now akin to being mislabeled partly in cuneiform), which itself is--
Never mind. You get the idea.
Somewhere, I have a cassette copy of a partially reconstructed, forty-minute (or so) excerpt from a Boston-based Top 40 radio show from 1961. Back then, Top 40 was broadcast on the AM spectrum, which apparently meant the disc jockey had to shout into the microphone as if he was addressing his listeners through a third-story window.
The biggest telltale that the show has been reconstructed? At one point the d.j., Arnie "Woo Woo" Ginsberg (woo-woo, sound effect, for you-you), introduces another solid-gold blast from the past over the intro to the Playmates' "Beep Beep," a song which had been popular in the ancient era of three years prior. Just as Ginsberg hits the post (if I may use the parlance of his profession), the reconstructing bozo splices in, with all the subtlety of a sledge hammer, a NOT EVEN ORIGINAL RECORDING of Chuck Berry's "Johnny B. Goode." For a radio aficionado like me, it's a little like finding out there's going to be a Three Stooges episode on in five minutes and then, five and a half minutes later, finding out it's one of the ones with Shemp.
So, anyway...
At another point on the tape, Ginsberg yells at his New England audience, "1961 is the only year in this century that you can write upside-down, and it'll read the same... and if ya wanna do it again, you've gotta wait until 6000 and 9."
I mention the above to throw into proper context my congratulations to you on surviving last month's "Mayan Apocalypse," the tag the media insisted we attach to the date which commemorated the auspicious event of one Mayan calendar maker turning to another and saying with a shrug, "That's as good a place to stop as any, don't you think?"
I know, topical as all get out. As long as I'm airing make-goods, though...
Like a bad boyfriend or a mediocre husband, I let another date on the calendar slip by recently with nary a comment. Our anniversary. It was on January 6, 2006 that this site officially launched. Seven years. In some ways, it's a shame we didn't agree on an Official Dirty Word of the Year, to be changed every January 6th. You know... for continuity. It helps to have a theme.
On the other hand, it's probably for the best we didn't do that. Since we are now into Year Eight, we'd have had to search far and wide to find a vulgarity that doesn't have the virtue of being restricted by the Federal Communications Commission-- yet. Also, with George Carlin dead, we might actually have had to dream one up ourselves! That would have meant committee meetings, endless votes, resentful infighting and no doubt some sort of back room deal. Ultimately, we'd have grudgingly agreed to use the word Frank Zappa suggested on his album Joe's Garage... pluking. After all it has a P in it, so it's funny. Then we would have tabled next year's Official Dirty Word discussion until January 5, 2014.
On to other business. You wouldn't know it by looking (unless you looked very carefully), but for most of the past seven years and change, this site has had four contributing editors, simultaneously. (At least that many. There may even be one or two I don't know about.) As to why two of the others flew the coop and left Cap'n to do all the work, I couldn't say. I could tell you why I took an extended sabbatical, but the whole sorry saga would bore you. I will say that I spent the better part of a fortnight in late November 2008 living in a cave (in a place, somewhat ironically, named Maverick Canyon) meditating upon the precise denotational and connotational differences between the words historic, historical and histrionic.
Several things drove me to these contemplations.
One: In California's Cajon Pass, there is a small highway sign which reads, "Historic Route 66 Next Exit." Half a mile on, another reads, "Historical Route 66 Next Right." Technically, both signs are as accurate as a road sign in California gets (which isn't saying much), but why are there two of them and why are they different? My conclusion: It is a manifestation of (a) a bureaucratic compromise, (b) idiocy in mid-level civil service or (c) both.
Two: In the wake of Barack Obama's election to the presidency, none of TV's talking heads seemed able to agree whether it was historic or historical. While the two words are obviously related, they are not precisely interchangeable. Use of the word historical in that context is an example of either (a) a smug commentator knowingly undercutting Obama's achievement or (b) idiocy in mid-level journalism.
Three: I think that four-foot-tall, bipedal, talking orange salamander with the green mottling and the crazy eyes may have been bi-polar, too.
Oh, did I not mention the wild mushrooms growing in that cave? My bad.
-------------
P.S.... Bud "Shemp" Selig must go.
Somewhere, tucked snugly into a compact plastic case that probably has a broken hinge and might not even be the original, which itself is stacked haphazardly inside a slightly squashed shoe box, which in turn is packed inside a large cardboard box that had one of its lid-flaps torn away long ago (the other flap is mislabeled in faded black marker, and partly in cursive, which from what I gather is now akin to being mislabeled partly in cuneiform), which itself is--
Never mind. You get the idea.
Somewhere, I have a cassette copy of a partially reconstructed, forty-minute (or so) excerpt from a Boston-based Top 40 radio show from 1961. Back then, Top 40 was broadcast on the AM spectrum, which apparently meant the disc jockey had to shout into the microphone as if he was addressing his listeners through a third-story window.
The biggest telltale that the show has been reconstructed? At one point the d.j., Arnie "Woo Woo" Ginsberg (woo-woo, sound effect, for you-you), introduces another solid-gold blast from the past over the intro to the Playmates' "Beep Beep," a song which had been popular in the ancient era of three years prior. Just as Ginsberg hits the post (if I may use the parlance of his profession), the reconstructing bozo splices in, with all the subtlety of a sledge hammer, a NOT EVEN ORIGINAL RECORDING of Chuck Berry's "Johnny B. Goode." For a radio aficionado like me, it's a little like finding out there's going to be a Three Stooges episode on in five minutes and then, five and a half minutes later, finding out it's one of the ones with Shemp.
So, anyway...
At another point on the tape, Ginsberg yells at his New England audience, "1961 is the only year in this century that you can write upside-down, and it'll read the same... and if ya wanna do it again, you've gotta wait until 6000 and 9."
I mention the above to throw into proper context my congratulations to you on surviving last month's "Mayan Apocalypse," the tag the media insisted we attach to the date which commemorated the auspicious event of one Mayan calendar maker turning to another and saying with a shrug, "That's as good a place to stop as any, don't you think?"
I know, topical as all get out. As long as I'm airing make-goods, though...
Like a bad boyfriend or a mediocre husband, I let another date on the calendar slip by recently with nary a comment. Our anniversary. It was on January 6, 2006 that this site officially launched. Seven years. In some ways, it's a shame we didn't agree on an Official Dirty Word of the Year, to be changed every January 6th. You know... for continuity. It helps to have a theme.
On the other hand, it's probably for the best we didn't do that. Since we are now into Year Eight, we'd have had to search far and wide to find a vulgarity that doesn't have the virtue of being restricted by the Federal Communications Commission-- yet. Also, with George Carlin dead, we might actually have had to dream one up ourselves! That would have meant committee meetings, endless votes, resentful infighting and no doubt some sort of back room deal. Ultimately, we'd have grudgingly agreed to use the word Frank Zappa suggested on his album Joe's Garage... pluking. After all it has a P in it, so it's funny. Then we would have tabled next year's Official Dirty Word discussion until January 5, 2014.
On to other business. You wouldn't know it by looking (unless you looked very carefully), but for most of the past seven years and change, this site has had four contributing editors, simultaneously. (At least that many. There may even be one or two I don't know about.) As to why two of the others flew the coop and left Cap'n to do all the work, I couldn't say. I could tell you why I took an extended sabbatical, but the whole sorry saga would bore you. I will say that I spent the better part of a fortnight in late November 2008 living in a cave (in a place, somewhat ironically, named Maverick Canyon) meditating upon the precise denotational and connotational differences between the words historic, historical and histrionic.
Several things drove me to these contemplations.
One: In California's Cajon Pass, there is a small highway sign which reads, "Historic Route 66 Next Exit." Half a mile on, another reads, "Historical Route 66 Next Right." Technically, both signs are as accurate as a road sign in California gets (which isn't saying much), but why are there two of them and why are they different? My conclusion: It is a manifestation of (a) a bureaucratic compromise, (b) idiocy in mid-level civil service or (c) both.
Two: In the wake of Barack Obama's election to the presidency, none of TV's talking heads seemed able to agree whether it was historic or historical. While the two words are obviously related, they are not precisely interchangeable. Use of the word historical in that context is an example of either (a) a smug commentator knowingly undercutting Obama's achievement or (b) idiocy in mid-level journalism.
Three: I think that four-foot-tall, bipedal, talking orange salamander with the green mottling and the crazy eyes may have been bi-polar, too.
Oh, did I not mention the wild mushrooms growing in that cave? My bad.
-------------
P.S.... Bud "Shemp" Selig must go.
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