Twitter is Now Officially Un-Cool

It's true! If I'm doing it then it must have gotten past the cool stage. Go here if you feel like it, or check out the Twitter gadget on my sidebar.

I'm still not comfortable saying that I am tweeting. Can I call it hooting? Probably not. I'll bet it's in the fine print.

Ho Ho Poe

Last week my best beloved and I took in a lecture at the Boston Public Library. The subject was Edgar A. Poe and humor. A natural enough subject, Poe being so well known as America's literary funnyman. No? Come on, wasn't “Masque of the Red Death” a million laughs? “The Pit and the Pendulum,” surely that was worth a giggle? “Annabel Lee,” “The Raven,” “Berenice;” what's funnier than the death of a beautiful young woman right? Who's with me?

Okay, I know, Poe isn't seen as the most cheerful of our great writers. But his tales of the grotesque were only a small fraction of his work. He certainly had his funny side.

The lecture, held in the library's beautiful Abbey Room, was called “What's So Funny About Edgar Allan Poe.” It was presented by two gentlemen: Professor Paul Lewis of Boston College, who is the curator of the library's current Poe exhibit, and Robert Mankoff, the cartoon editor of The New Yorker. Prof. Lewis began with props, including an Edgar Poe finger puppet, bobble-head doll, and everyone's favorite, the Edgar A. Poe action figure (I have two, one for home, one for work). He noted that on the back of the blister card that the doll comes in it lists Poe's weapon of choice as “morbid rumination.” The professor dramatized a confrontation that might occur between Poe and The Incredible Hulk, using action figures. Hulk, of course, seethed with rage, and was on the verge of smashing, while Poe ruminated morbidly. Hulk never stood a chance.

After that the talk settled down a bit. Most people think of Poe as being a writer of the macabre but in his own day he was far better known as a brilliant if vicious literary critic. Poe used humor when attacking, as in his frequent shots at Henry Wadsworth Longfellow, or when counter-punching, at which he was a master. He used humor to great effect in his tales as well, notably in “The Cask of Amontillado,” when Fortunato asks Montresor if he is a Mason. Montresor replies in the affirmative and produces a trowel from under his cloak. Now that's funny stuff right there. It was quite a good talk, interesting and very amusing.

Mr. Mankoff spoke on humor in general. As a cartoonist and cartoon editor he has obviously given the subject a great deal of thought. He spoke about the science of the subject, of what humor means in primate and human relations, and how it has changed through history. He touched on how humor is related to fear but also on how humor requires distance, a temporary stilling of compassion. Humor is funny when it is about the other guy. He reminded us of the fad of “dead baby” jokes (PDF) back in the late 70s. The kids who laughed then would not even be thinking of such humor now, years later, while they wait in the maternity ward. An interesting point. His talk was illustrated, of course, with cartoons, pictures, short film clips, and even the occasional graph. It was a howl while being thoughtful and stimulating.

During the question time most people were asking about humor in general or about contemporary humor. I wanted to know about what Prof. Lewis, who had earlier stated that he liked political humor best if he agreed with the humorist's point of view, thought of “Some Words with a Mummy,” one of Poe's attempts at an outright funny story. The reanimated mummy title, Count Allamistakeo (funny name, huh?), reflects Poe's disdain for democracy. The professor explained to the crowd that it was one of Poe's more obscure stories and that it wasn't one of his favorites. As a Poe geek he can't help but like it a bit, but he felt that the piece was more typical of its time then of the writer. That was a point I hadn't thought of, but it makes sense when viewing it in context with Poe's other work. He also said that it showed that when Poe was trying to use humor to advocate for his beliefs he was less successful. That is certainly true. Mr. Mankoff pointed out that humor that is didactic in purpose often fails.

Later I though of another question that I would have liked to have asked. I wonder what the professor thinks of Poe's inability to take a joke directed at himself. I recall the offense he took at James Russell Lowell's little jibe about him, a spot of doggerel – “Here comes Poe with his raven like Barnaby Rudge, / Three fifths of him genius, two fifths sheer fudge.” I really don't see why Poe was upset. Edgar was a well known hoaxer and proud of it (another example of humor the professor discussed). He was two fifths fudge. I'd be happy to have someone like Lowell call me three fifths genius. Poe could dish it out, but he didn't like to take it.

I think that most of Poe's humor is either badly dated or terribly heavy-handed, but there are some lovely exceptions. In “A Predicament” he satirizes the sort of story that he has become best known for:

But now a new horror presented itself, and one indeed sufficient to startle the strongest nerves. My eyes, from the cruel pressure of the machine, were absolutely starting from their sockets. While I was thinking how I should possibly manage without them, one actually tumbled out of my head, and, rolling down the steep side of the steeple, lodged in the rain gutter which ran along the eaves of the main building. The loss of the eye was not so much as the insolent air of independence and contempt with which it regarded me after it was out. There it lay in the gutter just under my nose, and the airs it gave itself would have been ridiculous had they not been disgusting. Such a winking and blinking were never before seen. This behavior on the part of my eye in the gutter was not only irritating on account of its manifest insolence and shameful ingratitude, but was also exceedingly inconvenient on account of the sympathy which always exists between two eyes of the same head, however far apart. I was forced, in a manner, to wink and to blink, whether I would or not, in exact concert with the scoundrelly thing that lay just under my nose. I was presently relieved, however, by the dropping out of the other eye. In falling it took the same direction (possibly a concerted plot) as its fellow. Both rolled out of the gutter together, and in truth I was very glad to get rid of them.

How an eye can wink and blink after it has fled the body is something that should not be contemplated for too long.

“Never Bet the Devil Your Head” is good for a laugh, even if the title does give away the eventual fate of poor Mr. Toby Dammit. “The System of Doctor Tarr and Professor Feather” is pretty funny, in a twisted way of course. And I've always been fond of “The Literary Life of Thingum Bob, Esq.” which tells of the glittering career of the eponymous Bob, who wrote a celebrated ode to a tonsorial preparation called “Oil-of-Bob.”

Yes, a million laughs is our dear Eddie. You can have your Mark Twain, your Ambrose Bierce, or even your Abraham Lincoln. I'll stick with that old rib tickler, Mr. Poe.

Fidelis

Sixty-five years ago today this happened on top of a mountain called Suribachi on an island called Iwo Jima.


When I was a much younger fellow my parents took me to Washington DC. We took in all the sights and saw most of the monuments. Across the river in Arlington is this sculpture, the Marine Corps War Memorial. It's a powerful work, and I was moved by it. What moved me the most was seeing another visitor to the Memorial. He stood ramrod straight as he gazed up at the metal men. He was dressed in blue, except for a red stripe running down the outer seam of his pants, and he wore a distinctive Eagle, Globe, and Anchor on his collar. He was standing there when we came. He was still standing there when we left.

I wondered what was going through his mind in that moment. Was he contemplating the nature of heroism? Service? Sacrifice? Was he thinking about the enormous responsibility of continuing in the traditions of the men on that mountain? The weight of history, the pride in being a part of that tradition, the honor of his Corps? I can guess, and I can imagine, but I will never know. Only another Marine would understand, and I think that's the way it ought to be. For me, I'm just glad of that Marine and his brothers in arms, and grateful that they are there, always faithful.

Kathryn Kuhlman On Ice

I remember watching the Miracle on Ice 30 years ago today. I remember how nervous I was. Team USA was ahead with only a few minutes left. The dangerous Soviet team was pushing hard, trying to even it up, and I was wishing that the clock would move faster. I just wanted the game to end before the red team could get one past Jim Craig. And then 3 . . . 2 . . . 1 . . . yes, I do believe in miracles Al.

It was something like a miracle. The Soviets were the best professional team in the world. The Americans were a bunch of college kids, a lot of them Boston University Terriers. It was amazing.

Those were tough times for America. We had just dragged ourselves out of the 70s. Vietnam and all it carried with it, Nixon and Watergate, civil unrest, race riots, recession, oil embargoes, stagflation, Carter and malaise. If you think national pride was at a low ebb during Bush’s second term, you don’t remember the 70s.

And then a miracle happened. People stood up in taverns around the country and sang the national anthem. Because the felt like it. People began to chant “U.S.A.” Americans began to feel good and even a touch of pride. It was something we had grown unaccustomed to.

That’s something that will never happen again. Not just like that anyway. It wasn’t just that our kids had beaten our arch-enemy’s winter soldiers. It was the way a simple game made us all feel. That was the miracle.

The Sky is Not Falling

I've added a French Toast Alert Level gadget to this blog so those of you in the Boston area will know when you should panic.

I saw this over at Violins and Starships and I'm kind of ashamed I didn't spot it first. The tendency of otherwise rational folks to stock up on bread, eggs, and milk before a predicted storm has been a goofy phenomenon I've been watching for three decades. Here in the Boston area we have a permanent spot in our memory labeled “The Blizzard of '78.” It was a huge storm that took almost everyone by surprise. Only one of the weather guys, Harvey Leonard, said that it might happen, but even he thought it unlikely. We got socked with more than two feet of snow. The wind blew at hurricane speeds, with gusts over 100 miles an hour. Drifts were several feet high. In some ways it was terrible. Power lines came down. Roads were impassible for days. People were trapped in their cars on the highway. Some even died. For most of us it was several days off from work and school, a bit of an adventure, and for us kids a lot of fun. My family walked through the snow to the grocery store and yes, they were out of bread and milk. It seems that a lot of people were traumatized by that. My folks bought powdered milk, walked back home, and made pancakes. I love pancakes.

Here are a few things I would like to say to my fellow New Englanders:

1. You are in New England. It is winter. It will snow. You know this.

2. It's just snow – the sky is not falling. You know this.

3. If you hear it is going to snow, don't panic. Yes, if it is bad enough the store may run out of a few things. You have some things in your pantry. There are substitutes for your usual sources of grain, dairy, and protein. You'll make do. You're a yankee dammit! Show some of that ingenuity and flintiness you're supposed to possess.

4. No, just because there are a few inches of snow on the ground doesn't mean that you don't have to go into work. You're a grown-up now, get over it.

5. On the other hand, there is snow on the ground, respect it, and don't drive like an idiot.

6. If you have a sidewalk in front of your house, shovel it, scrape it, and salt it. If you don't, you are a jerk.

7. And if you do shovel but you shovel the snow into the street where it will freeze and be a hazard for drivers, you are still a jerk.

If you are one of those people who ran to the store last week to load up on gallons of milk, cartons of eggs, and loaves of bread, then go back to the store, buy some real maple syrup (try to find something made locally while you're at it, your neighbor sugar farmer will thank you) go home, and make a lot of french toast. Then invite me over. I like french toast too.

Happy John Frum Day

Take a moment today to join the people of Tanna as they honor the American messiah, John Frum. Perhaps he will return soon.

It's a Major Award!

Good heavens! I have had the One Lovely Blog Award bestowed upon me. It's the first time I've ever won such a thing. I'm all a-tingle. Thank you Jaquandor for this great honor. I'd like to thank my mother, my father, my friends, my agent, my personal brain care specialist, my pharmacist, the good people at Maker's Mark Distillery, Catherine Zeta-Jones, Gene Roddenberry, Anton H. Clemens, all the fans, the members of the academy, and the teachers of America.

Jiggety-Jig

I'm just back from another business trip to southeastern Pennsylvania. I usually expect to see Amish folk with their horses and buggies. I didn't. I usually don't expect to be shoveling a couple of feet of snow. I did.

The trip started badly. I was booked on a flight with AirTran. The night before I was scheduled to take off I checked to see that everything was okay. There had been snow a couple of days ago in the mid-Atlantic, so there was some possibility of delay, but no problem, the flight was listed as being ready to go. Fifteen minutes before I was to leave home I got a phone call. It was AirTran. Psyche! Now I had to scramble to find a way south. I checked the other airlines. None would get me there on time (unless I wanted surpass my annual travel budget on one trip). I checked Amtrak. Nope, nothing I could get now. If the airline hadn't fibbed the night before I might have caught an early train, but too late now. I had to do one of my least favorite things -- drive 390 miles to get to a meeting that was six and a half hours away.

I reserved a car online, walked over to the rental place, then took off. I stopped once at a fast food drive-through for lunch and then twice for quick rest stops. I almost made it before the “low gas” warning light came on. Had to stop for gas just short of my meeting, coasting on fumes. I got there just a little late.

I'm usually a pretty slow driver. Cars zoom by me as I putter along, carefully observing the speed limit. This time I couldn't do that. I generally don't speed for short distances. I was over the speed limit for hours at a stretch this time. Not my idea of fun.

I saw a couple of cool birds. There was a turkey vulture sitting next to some roadside carrion in New York. That may not sound like much to you, but I've never seen a vulture before and I've always wanted to. Amazing damn thing. During the meeting itself someone spotted a hawk and someone else, a better birder than me, identified it for us as a cooper's hawk. It's a beautiful creature and another life bird for me.

The snow began to fall late in the second day of our meeting and kept snowing until late into the night of day three. It was one of the heaviest snows I've seen in quite a while. While it was a serious problem for a lot of Pennsylvanians and for some of my colleagues who found themselves temporarily separated from home and loved ones, it had something of a magical quality to it. It's just not supposed to snow that much in that place. It fell so quickly that the landscape, already white from the major storm just a week before, was transformed. High winds created huge drifts, leaving some spaces with just a few inches and others with several feet. Strange formations were created in this new white world. Lines, curves, and ridges abounded, as if some giant hand had been cutting abstract shapes into the snow. Snow had slipped off the low, peaked roofs over the houses we were sheltered in, then curved up and under the eaves, freezing at impossible angles. Icicles that had been vertical were now nearly horizontal. Winter wonderland indeed.

We drove out on Thursday, me giving a lift to another northbound attendee. Shoveling the cars out was a pretty good chore, even for a New Englander, and the local streets, while they had been plowed in the night, were more packed down than cleared. No problem, just slow driving. The highways were better. Only one major route was closed. That was the one I had planned to be driving on, but not that day. My boss suggested another route and Google gave me the details. I'd be getting out of Dodge on the Pennsylvania Turnpike. It was mostly okay, but there was a lot of packed down ice on the way. It was pretty rough and occasionally dangerous highway driving all the way to New Jersey. The fine people who take care of the Jersey Turnpike did a better job of clearing their road.

While I was in New Jersey I thought I might sample the local culture, so I pulled off the road at the Woodrow Wilson Service Area. It was named to honor our 28th president. During his administration racial segregation was established in the federal government for the first time in fifty years. He was one of our most well educated presidents, having served as president of Princeton University, where he successfully kept black people from becoming students. The scholar-president wrote several books, including a ten-volume history of the American people, in which he declared his admiration for the Ku Klux Klan. He is today remembered as being a great peacemaker, having been an enthusiastic supporter of The League of Nations and one of the principal authors of the Treaty of Versailles.

He is honored in the state where he served as governor by a service area that presents weary travelers with architectural beauty and a range of fine cuisine choices. I stopped at Roy Rogers and refreshed myself with a cheeseburger, widely known as a “Trigger-burger.” Roy's Fixin's Bar makes it a meal.

North through New Jersey we traveled, and on into New York City. The city, by the way, is still huge. Traffic, on this day after the big snow, was relatively light. As we continued north into Connecticut, snow cover became less and less. By the time we got to Boston it was not there at all. From the snowy south into the sunny north. The weather forecasters had been predicting a big storm for our region too, but even at the worst of the weather the grass was still visible.

Safe again in the land of the bean and the cod I went out for my traditional homecoming meal of a roast beef sandwich and a cup of clam chowder. Then I slept for ten hours. It is always good to be home.

Trivial Hoot Nine

A Big Darn Hoot to DM who got our last quiz right. DM is an official steely-eyed missile man. He knew that the fine looking fellow in the picture was Major General John Sedgewick, one of the most well-liked officers in the United States Army during the Civil War. During the Battle of Spotsylvania he saw that his men were ducking a sniper's bullets. “I'm ashamed of you, dodging that way,” he said. “They couldn't hit an elephant at this distance.” A couple of minutes later the sniper found him. To quote from volume 3 of The Civil War: a Narrative by Shelby Foote: “He smiled strangely, as if to acknowledge the dark humor of what had turned out to be his last remark, and did not speak again. Within a few minutes he was dead.” John Sedgewick, an eternal monument to irony.

Now, way ahead of schedule, is our next puzzle. As always the first person to get it right will receive a big hoot and will join our roll of honor as a steely-eyed missile man or woman. Here goes:

Please name the author of the following works “Monograph on Cryptology,” “Age of Documents,” “Monographs of the Human Ear,” “Upon the Distinction Between the Ashes of Various Tobaccos,” and Practical Handbook of Bee Culture, with some Observations upon the Segregation of the Queen.

Zombies vs. Unicorns!

The ultimate question. Bigger than pirates versus ninjas. More absurd than cowboys versus insurance brokers. Awesomer than Chuck Norris versus everybody. Coming to a bookstore near you this fall, it's Zombies versus Unicorns! Can you even stand it?

So, when it all falls down and the end is near, who do you put your quatloos on? Zombies, unicorns, cowboys, ninjas, pirates, insurance brokers, Cthulhu, Chuck Norris, Loki, the g*dd*mn Batman, or Keith Richards?

Death Panels!

In a recent lecture Discworld author Terry Pratchett has called for “euthanasia tribunals” so that people who are dying of an incurable malady can receive legally approved medical assistance to end their lives. Sir Terry, who is suffering from an incurable illness himself, is arguing that we have a right to die and that we should be able to seek expert assistance so that the deed can be done with the least pain and the most dignity possible.

In the past I would have disagreed. I was once something of an absolutist on the subject of the sanctity of human life and I had a strong paternalistic streak. My positions have changed radically over the years as I've come to realize that life, while a good, is not the greatest good, and that if individual liberty is to mean anything then people should have a right to do as they will, even if the state might not agree that it is in their best interests.

What do you think dear reader? Do we have a right to die? Should there be a legal avenue to sanctioned assisted suicide?

Greetings Sports Fans and Seekers of Wisdom Everywhere!

Your are, no doubt, wondering who will win tonight's football game. You have, quite rightly, come here for the answer. While my heart pulls for New Orleans (they would throw the best party), that is hardly a scientific approach. When it is important, I always consult the infallible source, the Uma and the Thurmanin. I have cast these lots and read their meaning. The winner shall be the Colts.

You read it here first.

Decisions, Decisions

You've heard people talking about seeing a Starbucks across the street from a Starbucks. Yeah, we've got that in Boston too. I can stand next to the Starbucks near Copley Square and see the Starbucks across the street. But this is New England, and Dunkin' Donuts is king here. This week I happened to pass though Back Bay Station for the the first time in a while. As I entered I noticed that the pizza joint that used to be just to the right of the entrance had been replaced by a Dunkin' Donuts. I turned slightly to the left and looked at the Dunkin' Donuts that had always been there. Both of them looked like they were doing a pretty good business. That's right, two Dunkin' Donuts in the same small train station. Only Boston.

Pure Evil

Christopher Hitchens has a review on Slate of a new book about the North Korean government and its internal propaganda. It looks equally interesting and horrifying.

Quaint and Curious

I had no idea this even existed. William Shatner reciting Poe's "The Raven."

How cool is that?

The Great Conservative Reformer

We read history to know the past. But to really know the past, to get a feel for what mattered to people and how they thought, read their fiction. This unoriginal thought occurred to me the other day when I was reading The Absentee by Maria Edgeworth. It's a novel (or tale as Miss Edgeworth would have it, since “novel” was a bit too sensational and down-market a term) of Anglo-Irish aristocrats and Anglo-Irish relations.

I'll just take a moment to point out that I, unlike smart people, tend to read with little plan or direction. I tend to choose books almost at random and apparently on a whim. I was thinking about the nineteenth century, stumbled across this work from 1812, and got interested. I suppose that's why my mind is a patchwork of curiosities, nonsense, and vast empty spaces.

One of the things that got me interested was the book's reputation as being one of the earliest novels of social reform. Might be fun, thought I. And so I learned that one of the greatest social ills of early nineteenth century Ireland was the problem of landlord absenteeism. That is, the Anglo-Irish gentry, who were masters of vast estates, often lived in far-off London, enjoying high society, and left others to look after their responsibilities and collect their rents. If you were Irish you had to pay your rent to the local lord's representative, who did little or nothing for the community.

Perhaps you are thinking some radical solution might be called for? Kick out the landlords and allow people who were not members of the “established churches” to own property? Tax those drones or force them to reinvest for the good of the people they were exploiting? Kick out the English? Silly twenty-first century person.

Maria Edgeworth is the most conservative reformer I've ever run across. The problem, as she seemed to see it, was that people weren't keeping to their places. The Anglo-Irish were in England, trying to deny their Irishness and move up in the social hierarchy. Very foolish. Instead they should return to their estates and take up their proper places as lords of their land and people. The simple Irish folk would be cheered to see that their beloved masters were back to care for them, and they, the nobility, would be on hand to see to the needs of their people and administer things for their greater benefit. They would be certain to do this, of course, because of their superior breeding. The masters would be in the big house, their happy servants surrounding them, and all would be right once again on that lovely island.

I'm not really being fair to the book. There was a lot more to it than that and it was actually quite good. Still, the underlying assumptions about society are, to my modern eye, risibly quaint and terribly interesting. Mixed into all this are descriptions of London society and the people who lived in that world, descriptions of the simple folk in Ireland and the funny way they talked, and a love story. All of this is tied up in the social conventions and assumptions of the time. To Edgeworth's English readers, her portrayal of life in Ireland would have been a window into another land. To me, the whole thing is a window into another time.

Trivial Hoot Eight

Greetings puzzlers. I'm back with another trivial question. I'll make it easy and give you a picture. Here goes:

Who is this distinguished looking fellow and what were his famous last words?

As always the respondent who is first with the correct answer gets a big hoot, a bucket of nothing (bucket not included), and the warm feeling that comes with acknowledged mental superiority.

Say Something Nice About Microsoft Day

No, that's not a real holiday. I just feel like it. It's kind of difficult. I've never done it before. The nicest thing I think I've ever said is that I'm not uncomfortable using Windows. Otherwise I tend to avoid that which emanates from Redmond. When I heard about OpenOffice.org's free office suite I downloaded it right away and use it for all my word processing and spreadsheet stuff. I don't have the Microsoft version on my computer and I never miss it. I tried Hotmail once. Dumped it. I gave Bing a chance. Google still works better for me most of the time. I even find MSNBC to be annoying (which isn't really saying much, as the alternatives are pretty darn annoying too).

For the last year or so I've been running Windows Vista. Why, you may ask? Because some nasty virus strolled right past my Norton anti-virus (screw you too Symantec) and made a nice little nest for itself in XP-land. Killer. I switched over to a new machine with the operating system that had just come out. Vista was . . . you remember Clippy, the annoying “office assistant?” When Microsoft finally killed the critter its soul migrated into Vista. Here's how it worked. You want to do something routine. “It looks like you're trying to do something. Are sure you want to do that?” Yes, I'm sure. “Are you really sure?” Yes, dammit, I'm sure. “Okay. Oh wait, you can't do that.” What, why not? “Because I am Vista, and I HATE YOU!”

Or something like that. Anyway, I recently switched to Windows 7. I've been using it for more than a week now. And here comes the difficult part.

I like Windows 7. I like the way you can move things around and personalize your machine. I like the new taskbar. I like jumplists. I like the way things are laid out. It makes everything easier. I like it.

There. I've said something nice about Microsoft. Confession, I'm told, is good for the soul.

Happy Groundhog Day

Yes, once again it is Groundhog Day, the day that science stops with its pointless pretension of predicting the future and turns to the unerring oracle of our climate, the humble groundhog. Perhaps someday we will finally have the wit to ask the great Delphic marmot about this global warming business. You can bet he wouldn't have screwed up the Himalayan glacier prognostication. Take that IPCC!