tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-64575159533413349592024-02-19T10:40:27.008-05:00Vita BrevisMJenkshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12761003604210840898noreply@blogger.comBlogger909125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6457515953341334959.post-1719410478193950752016-04-22T09:53:00.003-04:002016-04-22T09:53:57.125-04:00Friday Morning Latin Lesson: Vol CXIIIIn case you're living under a rock--and if you are, hey, more power to you, I don't judge (freak)--you know of the untimely passing of Prince yesterday. The diminutive yet iconic rock star was only 57 when he shuffled off this mortal coil. <br />
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This past December, I turned 40. I'm definitely into my middle ages (yea verily and a hey nonny nonny to you); I'm not sure when it happened, but it did. I turned into an adult and, though my memories continue to keep me trapped in a continuous loop as a younger, more vibrant version of myself, I am sometimes reminded that I have been alive and cruising through this plane of existence for four decades.<br />
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As a middle-aged man, my childhood was stretched across the 1980s, though I still consider the early 90s (when I was in high school) to be the wheelhouse of my musical preference and formative years. Yes, grunge rock has risen and faded, leaving its fingerprint on the current alternative music universe, and though the heyday of alternative may be behind us, I still love it. However, to ignore the influence that artists like Madonna, Michael Jackson and Prince had on my musical tastes would be ludicrous. <br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhyj4ff4brda9wzCslOYJFWxlV8S9-RNe7Qoz_E3XBTZJzf9Si1G0WmFb4ust_YEY6o4NucFgJcz5A1NovbJR_mUXW6Dn5s_M_ypTUB7JNcx6_xj11KSS8QFXCq12SFRA2ua4Q2t3uv/s1600/raspberry.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhyj4ff4brda9wzCslOYJFWxlV8S9-RNe7Qoz_E3XBTZJzf9Si1G0WmFb4ust_YEY6o4NucFgJcz5A1NovbJR_mUXW6Dn5s_M_ypTUB7JNcx6_xj11KSS8QFXCq12SFRA2ua4Q2t3uv/s200/raspberry.jpg" width="200" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Isn't she supposed to be wearing <br />
not much more?</td></tr>
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When Michael Jackson died (again, shockingly and suddenly), I realized that my youth was behind me. Those halcyon days were past; MJ's death took a little piece of me with him. Not only was I reminded of my own mortality, but I was shown that the icons of my childhood were no longer titanic and immortal. With time, all things would pass, and even those giants of my youth would be beginning to slip away. </div>
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It's already been well-documented how much 2016 has sucked as far as losing talented and well-beloved celebrities. It may be a quick summation of those we've lost, but there are a few that stick out in my mind above all others. Earlier in the year, we had the double gut-punch of losing both David Bowie and Alan Rickman to cancer. Abe Vigoda finally changed the website tracking his mortality to "yes." Merle Haggard has also passed. And yesterday, of course, we lost Prince.</div>
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I will be honest: growing up, I was never a huge fan of Prince. I knew his music and I liked most of it; there were times, though, when I grew tired of the constant replays that pumped out over the airwaves in the upper corner of Northeastern Indiana (a land renowned the world over for being a hotbed of musical variety). It got worse as we slumped toward the end of the millennium and 1999 seemed to be on an endless loop. </div>
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As I have grown older, and my children have suddenly discovered the music of the 80s, I developed a new appreciation for Prince (and Michael Jackson, but that's because my kids treat him like I treated the Beatles growing up...talk about feeling old...). The only Prince I was ever exposed to growing up was what I could pull in on my little clock radios; Prince was "too weird" to be allowed in my house growing up. But now, when I'm surfing through the stations, and I hear Prince on one of them, I stop. I listen. I remember. Most importantly, I appreciate.</div>
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Another important thing is that Prince had a long career, influencing and making music for our enjoyment. He was a celebrity, an icon, a leader in the industry, and a musical genius; however, you never heard anything from him that was remotely scandalous. The biggest issue was his fight with the music companies and when he changed his name to a symbol. Think about that today, in our celebrity-obsessed culture, where those icons we pay a little too much attention to say or do something wrong or dumb or downright stupid. This never plagued Prince. Prince was always just Prince. Nothing more, nothing less. </div>
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With that being said, Purple Rain is still a fucking awesome song.</div>
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<i>Princeps mortuus est; vivat princeps!</i></center>
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Pronounced: "Prin-keps more-too-us est; wee-what prin-keps!"</center>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg2LwcGVTnN8sGgpMmEk6xxUjeLtlBm1UXNxttEDpi6iZBAfWeStW9w4cyCI9kKSttvBiyTGjP8jwkJvehI7SRUpZHIPlX2qdEZUb4u3Fh3KxlUr06zCMLA2zC4OBJcbq1QRQIH6oWn/s1600/FingerPrints.png" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img alt="" border="0" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg2LwcGVTnN8sGgpMmEk6xxUjeLtlBm1UXNxttEDpi6iZBAfWeStW9w4cyCI9kKSttvBiyTGjP8jwkJvehI7SRUpZHIPlX2qdEZUb4u3Fh3KxlUr06zCMLA2zC4OBJcbq1QRQIH6oWn/s400/FingerPrints.png" title="Prince is dead; long live the Prince!" width="360" /></a></div>
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<i>Hovertext for the translation; bottom of the screen for mobile translation.</i></center>
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I still love this pun. Animaniacs was the best.</div>
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The word "<i>princeps</i>" was used in Rome to mean "first man" or "leader" or even "chief." Rome, somewhat notoriously, began as a kingdom, where the word "<i>rex</i>" was used for the title "king," although it probably meant something more along the lines of "chief" in those early days. Once the kings were overthrown and the Republic was formed, the idea of becoming a king in Roman eyes was deplorable, at best, and cause for murder, at worst (see: Caesar, Julius). As the Roman state moved away from the Republic and more into the rule under one man, the term "<i>rex</i>" was not used to avoid linking the Emperors with kings (Jennifer Lawrence's "okay, yeah, right" .gif goes here); instead, the title "<i>princeps</i>" was used to designate the leader, or the first man of Rome.</div>
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The term later moved through various iterations to become the first man in line to inherit the throne <i>after</i> the king. A shortened version of the word became the title a king's heir received, whether it was his son or his brother or even his uncle--looking at you, Scar--and thus prince entered into the English language (thanks to the Normans). In case you were wondering, <i>principissa</i> was the feminine version of the word, with the feminine and diminutive forms tacked on the end. It's more of a "New Latin" construct, but it does mean princess.</div>
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I realize, given the shock and fondness that many people had for Prince, it's an easy pun to make, but I do think that this weekend as we reflect on the passing of a rock and musical genius, we all know what it sounds like when doves cry.</div>
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Translation: "(The)Prince is dead; long live (the) Prince!"</div>
MJenkshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12761003604210840898noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6457515953341334959.post-56555106314995197482016-04-12T08:00:00.000-04:002016-04-12T08:00:27.360-04:00Totally Blowing Shit Up Tuesday: Alcohol!!!In chemistry, we teach you that there are five simple reactions: synthesis, decomposition, single replacement, double replacement, and combustion. Synthesis is bringing two or more pieces together to form a new unit. Decomposition is shit falling apart. Single and double replacement reactions are pretty straight-forward: they're just switching things out for something new. Combustion reactions, however, are the stuff of dreams. Or the dreams of Tuesdays, at the very least.<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgzW-iDCuFgglFHb5bCxeMF8vfC_M8OCsHdV1FanHESQvWisuq9zHXAuK858yfRwlmJvmc2V6hY6L6y6QWkhR_XET5_RGy2It8yTGZhVWylqoHI-w8Ct0stuqjJG6l-k41RibhyC9ln/s1600/chemistry.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="170" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgzW-iDCuFgglFHb5bCxeMF8vfC_M8OCsHdV1FanHESQvWisuq9zHXAuK858yfRwlmJvmc2V6hY6L6y6QWkhR_XET5_RGy2It8yTGZhVWylqoHI-w8Ct0stuqjJG6l-k41RibhyC9ln/s200/chemistry.jpg" width="200" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">I have a new lab assistant.</td></tr>
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Within chemistry, there are different divisions which add a different layer to the five basic types of reactions. Myself, I'm an organic chemist. Despite what several of my dates have thought over the past years, organic chemistry has nothing to do with being a perv. Yes, I've been accused of being "like that" when I tell a woman I'm an organic chemist. I mean, take a spin around my blog and you'll know that I'm "like that," but usually not on the first date. Or the first fifteen minutes of the date. Maybe.<br />
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Organic chemistry is the study of the element carbon and all of its myriad fascinating compounds...with the notable exceptions of carbon dioxide and calcium carbonate (and other metallic carbonate salts...mostly...sort of...um...let's move on). These compounds are usually considered to come from non-organic, or non-living, sources...even though animals exhale carbon dioxide and plants take carbon dioxide and form it into sugars. Oh, and sea creatures make a literal shit ton of calcium carbonate that we use to build things with and as decoration. Um...again, let's move along.<br />
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One thing about organic compounds is that they feature carbon and hydrogen. Usually, they feature a lot of carbon and hydrogen. We chemists, always a clever lot, refer to compounds that feature a lot of hydrogens and carbons as "hydrocarbons." Brilliant, eh? I thought so, too, as did many of my predecessors! Now, when you mix together hydrocarbons and oxygen and add in just a touch of flame, something wonderful and enchanting happens!<br />
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*inhales deeply* Magnificent!<br />
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What you are seeing here is the mixture of ethanol--yes, the same ethanol that causes you text some gorgeous red-headed girl in the middle of Pennsylvania at three in the morning--vapor, oxygen, and just enough of a heat source to get this thing going. Since the neck of the vessel is narrow, the fire cannot reach all of the vapor at the same time, so that's why you see that lovely cascade of fire sliding down the insides of the plastic bottle. The ethanol has pooled a little in the bottom, which is why the bright yellow flames dance in the middle of the bottle once the cascade has reached the bottom. Heat from the fire has caused the air to warm and rise toward the opening of the bottle, which is why the dancing flames are climbing toward freedom as the fire begins to extinguish itself.<br />
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Now, I know I just talked about hydrocarbons, and <i>technically</i> ethanol is not a hydrocarbon; it's an alcohol, which means it has an oxygen inserted between one carbon and one of its hydrogens. In theory, you could do this with any hydrocarbon with a low enough boiling point that it's a vapor at room temperature. Butane comes to mind. As does gasoline (octane)--both of which are hydrocarbons. Unfortunately, I personally would not try that; the combustion reactions of these gases are pretty spectacularly exothermic (they're hot), and that could cause some issues. What kind of issues? Let's find out.<br />
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Caveat time: the "whoosh bottle" is a pretty simple experiment, but you need to make sure you're safe doing this. After you swirl the ethanol around inside the bottle, dump out the excess liquid. Make sure the bottle is not cracked or structurally compromised. And, for the love of God and anything else you might find even the slightest bit holy, be fucking careful.<br />
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Why? What happens if you're not careful and don't follow the instructions? You'll end up like this dipshit here: <br />
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Fortunately, no one was hurt. I don't know if the bottle was cracked or if there were any other issues, but the excess ethanol was not dumped out. That left way too much fuel for the fire and the expansion of the gasses trapped inside the bottle was too rapid for the bottle to hold together. Thus, kaboom.<br />
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In the top experiment, the phenomenon witnessed is called "deflagration," where the fuel is ignited and burns away until no more fuel is left to consume. It's like a very fast, very hypnotic, very pretty log burning in the fireplace.<br />
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The second is a detonation, because the container couldn't hold it and everything went boom.<br />
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And notice, aside from some bad glasses on the teacher's face, no safety equipment was used (although flannel shirt girl did have the fire extinguisher ready and handy for the teacher to use). Safety first...or, somewhere in the top five.<br />
<br />MJenkshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12761003604210840898noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6457515953341334959.post-6371729979207934042016-04-11T08:00:00.000-04:002016-04-11T08:00:16.787-04:00JAK (Part 1)When I was in the 8th grade, I had a crush on three different girls at the same time. These polyamorous leanings probably weren't <i>that</i> unusual given that in the average 13-year-old's body, there's a raging maelstrom of hormones swirling around and anyone who smiles at you or even lets their gaze linger for a few moments is crush-worthy. <br />
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To be fair, the first girl I had a crush on, Jody Rupert (as usual, names are disguised <i>just enough</i> to avoid lawsuits), I had crushed on since the beginning of 7th grade. That was the year that the new students from Lancaster Elementary were incorporated into Salamonie Elementary and Middle School, where I had attended since the first grade. Jody sat behind me in science class, and I turned around to talk to her one day early in the school year and it was love at first sight. She didn't really say anything, but she had the most beautiful green eyes that I had ever seen. Or maybe they were "hazel," since I have a difficult time discerning between green eyes and hazel eyes sometimes--especially when twenty-eight long years have intervened and tampered with the memories.<br />
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Jody had blonde hair and slightly vulpine features--high cheek bones, a bit of a pointed nose--and a delicate, albeit non-feminine, frame. Her hair swayed back and forth--almost bounced--when she walked. She was kind and friendly...though she was annoyed with me almost immediately. I know that she was kind, though, because she tolerated me turning around and talking with her every day after I finished my in-class work. Plus, she was pretty smart, too, which really appealed to me, especially when coupled with everything else. However, she was quiet and not nearly as voluptuous as I tend to prefer, but she was still pretty and kind and didn't shank me in the middle of frog dissection, so all those things were a bonus in my mid-pubescent mind.<br />
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The second girl I had a crush on was Angie Submachinegun, whom I fell for one day in algebra class. She was also a Lancaster transfer, but my lecherous thoughts did not begin until the middle of the 8th grade. I was sitting in the back of the room one day, which happened to be right after we had gym class, and for whatever reason, Angie Submachinegun decided to wear a thin, white t-shirt after we had finished with gym. Again, for reasons that escape my memory, she went to sit down in her seat which was one seat ahead of me and to the right. When she went to sit down, she was turned 180 degrees from how she would normally sit, resting her right knee on the seat and gripping the back of the chair with her hands. This caused her arms to push her breasts together in a manner most magnificent; when coupled with her thin, white t-shirt, this really put her sub-machine guns on display. It was instant lust from there on out.<br />
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Angie had light brown hair that was curly. She had big, blue eyes, rounded cheeks, and the kind of mouth that always seems to smile. Despite it being only the 8th grade, she had an hour-glass frame. She was short, too, so all that feminity was really packed into a nice, neat little package. She, too, was friendly and nice. She was a little more outgoing and bubbly and friendly than Jody. Unlike Jody, I don't think Angie has or had any idea that I crushed on her so. <br />
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The last girl I crushed on was Kim Firebolt. She was kind of a blend of both Jody and Angie. She had wavy dark blonde hair, green eyes, and her mouth always looked like it was smiling because I think her mouth always WAS smiling. She was taller than Angie, shorter than Joy, and though her breasts weren't nearly as large as Angie's, they were still finely shaped. She was very athletic, and so she had a great ass to go with the rest of the package.<br />
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The thing about Kim was that she was very, very extroverted. She went beyond friendly and bubbly. She was loud. She loved to laugh and she had a great sense of humor--maybe not as dark and twisted as mine, but it was still a good one. She was fun. Kim did have a couple of drawbacks, however. One, her older brother was one of my good friends; he's one of the few friends of mine that have had hot sisters. The other drawback was that the Firebolt family were big Purdue fans. Big. <br />
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Unlike Jody, I never asked Kim or Angie out or to go with me or whatever the fuck stupid dating ritual middle school kids did in the Great Lakes region of the Midwest. Shuck each other's cobs? I don't know. I'm sorry that last joke was so corny.<br />
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Of course now, almost thirty years removed from those halcyon days of middle school awkwardness, I could never see myself with any of these girls. I've grown as an adult and changed and--<br />
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Oh, who am I kidding? Thanks to the wonders of the Internet, I broke my own rules and did Facebook searches for all of them. Jody is stunningly gorgeous and Kim still has awesome boobs and is still smiling. Unfortunately, I couldn't find Angie, but I found ten thousand women with the same name, many of whom I wanted to see naked. <br />
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However, the important thing is that these three were the last crushes I had in middle school; despite never letting Kim nor Angie know and despite countless rejections from Jody, they were the three that I focused on the most as I made that transition from the awkward days of middle school into the <i>really</i> awkward days of high school. In addition, these three young women introduced me to a part of my psyche that I would eventually embrace fully as I grew older...albeit, somewhat unintentionally.MJenkshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12761003604210840898noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6457515953341334959.post-84009061491714389952016-03-18T10:24:00.000-04:002016-03-18T10:24:10.593-04:00Friday Morning Latin Lesson, Vol. CXIIAs referenced earlier in the week, this is a busy and fun time of the year for people who enjoy classical history and dipping into the hagiography of the Catholic church. Which is true: I haven't been quite this busy blogging for three or four years, at least. Four entries in one week? Amazing.<br />
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And what have I talked about? Oh, the usual things. I've just rehashed the fact that I like desserts (especially pie), drinking, and redheads. Nothing new here, I know. Hope you were sitting down for that shocking revelation.<br />
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I glossed over the murder of Caesar for the Ides of March post in favor of the murder of Odoacer, Rex Italiae, since I felt like mixing things up a bit for the Ides of March post this year. Same with St. Patrick: I didn't so much discuss Patrick's life, legend, and legacy so much as I focused on some of the peripherals that are associated with Irish "history" and St. Patrick's Day celebrations.<br />
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Anyway, as is known, Julius Caesar was murdered in the Theater of Pompey on the Ides of March--March 15th--because various senators were worried that he had accrued too much power for himself and the Republic was moving toward rule by a single citizen...which, of course, happened a few years after Caesar's murder. His murder was the thing that precipitated the end of the Republic; I think we call that irony.<br />
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Caesar was stabbed 23 times, and according to some "forensic" studies I've read, only one of the stab wounds was really deep enough to kill him. It may have been that murder was not what was on the senators' minds when they attacked him, but more just to teach him a lesson. Although, 23 stab wounds is quite a lesson. What they didn't tell you is that there was one last senator in the group who had a bunch of lemon juice to pour in those wounds. Talk about cruel and unusual punishment!<br />
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Famously (thanks in part to Shakespeare's dramatization of the event), Caesar withstood the attack until he saw his friend Brutus among the attackers. In the play, Caesar asked aloud "Et tu, Brute? Then here falls Caesar." In actually, he probably said "Kai su, teknon?" (according to Roman historian Suetonius, at least), which means "And you, child?" in Greek. Whichever is more correct is debatable (not like we can ask anyone, unless the Doctor shows up to clarify Caesar's final moments), but I like to think that right before asking either of these questions, Caesar queried the senators as such:<br />
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<i>"Estne pugio in toga, an solum tibi libet me videre?"</i></center>
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Pronounced: "Est-nay poo-gee-oh in toh-ga, ahn so-loom tee-bee lee-bet may wee-dare-ay?"</center>
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Translation in the hovertext (I remembered how to do it).</td></tr>
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Pugio was the Latin term for a dagger. It's related to the word <i>pugno</i> which means "I fight" or "I combat" and several terms in English have been derived from this root, including "pugilist" which is a fancy word for "fighter" or "boxer." To tie this all up together, my beloved Fighting Irish play their opening round tournament game today against the hated skunkbears from Michigan. In Latin, the term for "Fighting Irish" would be "Hibernii Pugnaces," ergo I shall be watching the game tonight and shouting "<i>Imus Hibernii Pugnaces!</i>" at my computer screen.</div>
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Well, not really, but you get the idea.</div>
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In case you can't hovertext: "Is that a dagger in your toga, or are you just happy to see me?"</div>
MJenkshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12761003604210840898noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6457515953341334959.post-40848940237554002672016-03-17T09:51:00.000-04:002016-03-17T09:51:00.291-04:00Happy Saint Patrick's Day!<div style="border-image: none;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi2XBAxERud_fXnla9mpcuBzhEV_ilCQ2T4h7bJzk6zbu5NoqtNgdu4WX_e9JlKzMc_CnE163ProwhgB5t6niPn49eRF4XgSvVUjBTsyFZCZwPztuQjKOmemJNvXG2HNdXOwLTNZICS/s1600/StPatrick.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi2XBAxERud_fXnla9mpcuBzhEV_ilCQ2T4h7bJzk6zbu5NoqtNgdu4WX_e9JlKzMc_CnE163ProwhgB5t6niPn49eRF4XgSvVUjBTsyFZCZwPztuQjKOmemJNvXG2HNdXOwLTNZICS/s200/StPatrick.jpg" width="140" /></a>If I were a better writer, I'd track down what iteration of the Saint Patrick's Day post this is. I am not that person, however, so I'll just roll with it. Pretend the Germans just bombed Pearl Harbor.</div>
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I've discussed in the past how Patricius (the man who would become Patrick) was a Roman citizen of Brittania who was probably a member of some minor noble family. He was already a Christian when he was kidnapped and taken to Ireland, where he served as a slave for several years before escaping and making his way to mainland Europe. After a trip to Rome, he returned to Ireland and drove out the snakes (symbolism for the pagans) and converted the Irish to Catholicism. He then went on a spree of church building through the British Isles and ended up in Northern Indiana where he founded the greatest Catholic University on the Face of the Planet and Possibly the Universe. That last part might be apocryphal.</div>
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<br /></div>
<div style="border-image: none;">
Or he might have been a composite mixture of another Irish saint, Palladius, who also made a lot of churches but isn't nearly as tied in with the weak excuse to drink Guinness and behave like an asshole on the 17th of March.</div>
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<br /></div>
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As far as stouts go, Guinness is a pretty weak one. Thanks to the craft beer revolution here in America, I can think of at least ten stouts that are far better than Guinness. Stouts are actually a subset of porters, which are dark brown ales that are made with roasted malts, giving them the darker color. They're typically stronger than their lighter-toned cousins, and the strongest of porters came to be known as "stout porters" and eventually just "stouts." Nowadays, stouts are typically just the darkest of beers and the word "stout" has little to do with the actual alcohol content (for instance, Guinness, the "best" stout, weighs in at a paltry 4.3% abv, per the wiki entry). And here's the real kick in the teeth for those who want to link Guinness (certainly a true Irish brewer) and stouts with Ireland: Porters were first developed and named in London, England. The dark color, thicker consistency, and affordability of porters made them popular with--sit down for this--porters (men who carried things). Since the beer was cheap to make and was somewhat undesirable (philistines), it was shipped to Ireland where it quickly grew in popularity. To lower costs even more (hooray, free market capitalism!), Guinness began brewing porters in the late 1700's and by 1780 was one of the top producers of this kind of beer.</div>
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<br /></div>
So, not only is Patrick, the Patron Saint of Ireland from the British mainland, so too is the national beer of Ireland an English import.<br />
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<br /></div>
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhehP38220gYw5XJ5DWMNN4PkCfAxJwSnIuDOHe5KdPpL6nsIg3IYBciBuhyphenhyphenTtowOq4Nv9EWflFnJFmXmrlVgd0Bs8u1uVmJ3T7cSNrpFaKtHJRs0dXSTZ16CJ5qQF7IOY7xuu0pLpX/s1600/Leprechaun.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhehP38220gYw5XJ5DWMNN4PkCfAxJwSnIuDOHe5KdPpL6nsIg3IYBciBuhyphenhyphenTtowOq4Nv9EWflFnJFmXmrlVgd0Bs8u1uVmJ3T7cSNrpFaKtHJRs0dXSTZ16CJ5qQF7IOY7xuu0pLpX/s200/Leprechaun.jpg" width="143" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Best damned leprechaun ever!</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<div style="border-image: none;">
Well, the leprechaun <i>has</i> to be a true Irish symbol, right? Well, yes and no. The leprechaun, for all its connotations with being Irish, rarely appears in Irish mythology. When the leprechaun does pop up, it is typically a mischief-maker, but more commonly is associated with being a loner who moves about the countryside repairing shoes. A leprechaun is more similar to German sprites and gnomes than it is with any of the pantheon of Irish mythology. In fact, the leprechaun appears so rarely in Irish stories that it's assumed to be a later addition to Irish lore than more traditional Irish spirits, such as the Banshee or the Tuatha de Danaan (which is a whole wide range of Irish spirits). There is even confusion with what to do with a leprechaun, should you manage to catch one. He (they are almost invariably male) will either give you his pot of gold (another property of the leprechaun that seems to be a late addition to the story) or he will grant you three wishes. Most depictions of leprechauns center around the stereotypes of the Irish, especially in America, and many traditional Irish people look at leprechauns as just a prop for tourism.</div>
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<br /></div>
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Well...if Patrick isn't all that Irish and Guinness is a British import and a leprechaun is just a symbol for anti-Irish propaganda, what about the color green?</div>
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<br /></div>
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjzra1j8rrCy9x0W3a9WrGYRFvAHiwgQnwBVmJwAwCQI5dFhoctn8tvo9qFAAE6_0SUNaUHaqPYezZc-icRYoVynMdQkjOhUCLobYd4nSRA9iG4ynUatKI9VQaBhtReOt7AEpx5yggz/s1600/Irish01.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img alt="" border="0" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjzra1j8rrCy9x0W3a9WrGYRFvAHiwgQnwBVmJwAwCQI5dFhoctn8tvo9qFAAE6_0SUNaUHaqPYezZc-icRYoVynMdQkjOhUCLobYd4nSRA9iG4ynUatKI9VQaBhtReOt7AEpx5yggz/s200/Irish01.jpg" title="Redheads: God's gift to the Irish" width="147" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Green, White and Orange <br />
has never been sexier!</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<div style="border-image: none;">
Finally, we've found something that does seem to be a true symbol of Ireland...ish. Ireland, of course, is known as the "Emerald Isle" because of the lush, verdant fields and the magnificent greenery that can be viewed in the countryside. It makes sense, then, that the Irish national color would be green and that they would march into battle or rally behind a green banner, right? Sure...except the green flag of Ireland is actually younger than the flag of the United States. The "traditional" Irish flag featured a lot more blue than any other color for most of its history (Ireland, of course, being a loose conglomeration of kingdoms until the British conquests).</div>
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<br /></div>
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It wasn't until the late 1700's (Guinness is actually older than the green flag) that green began to be used as a symbol of Ireland. Inspired by the French Revolution (and probably a little by the American Revolution), the United Irishmen raised a banner of green with a harp emblazoned on the field (the harp actually is a traditional Irish symbol) sometime around 1790. Part of the choice of the color green was to stand in opposition to the orange color associated with the Orange Order, which was a symbol of King William of Orange and the Glorious Revolution of 1688. William of Orange, of course, was an "English" king and was thus a symbol of British rule over the Irish. After the Irish Rebellion of 1798, the modern Irish flag with the green, white and orange was introduced as a hopeful means of bringing a peaceful end to hostilities between the Catholic majority (the green) and the Protestant minority (the orange) of Ireland, with white being the symbol of peace in between the two groups.</div>
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<br /></div>
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Well, fuck. It seems as though all the things we naturally associate with the Irish and Saint Patrick's day aren't all that Irish. Unfortunately, leprechauns, the Irish spirits that most Irish want to disassociate with their Irish heritage, are the most Irish of all these symbols.</div>
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<br /></div>
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Next, you're going to tell me that the Notre Dame Fighting Irish, a school in Northern Indiana with a French name by a priest of Romanian heritage isn't all that Irish either! The nerve!!!</div>
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However you decide to celebrate Saint Patrick's Day, just remember to lay off the brogues and drink responsibly. Maybe enjoy some basketball and don't make an ass of yourself.</div>
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<br /></div>
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Happy Saint Patrick's Day!</div>
MJenkshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12761003604210840898noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6457515953341334959.post-56092404214028083122016-03-16T07:30:00.000-04:002016-03-16T07:30:33.610-04:00Cave Idus Martias...This particular week of the year is a big week for this blog. One thing that always fascinates me, or at least tickles that little piece of my brain that implores me to write, are the various holidays, observances, and feast days that litter our calendar. Monday (March 14) was Pi Day, or, if you're into that kind of thing, Steak and Blowjob day (which I've never observed/celebrated). Thursday of this week is St. Patrick's Day, which has a special meaning to me since I went to Notre Dame AND my blog readership saw a sudden uptick in traffic when I first began writing summaries of a few of the big saint feast days, St. Valentine's Day and St. Patrick's Day.<br />
<br />
But Tuesday...Tuesday was the Ides of March, which, on the Roman calendar, translated to the fifteenth of March. In case you've been living under a rock, you should know that I love some Roman history as well as Shakespeare. That makes the Ides of March one of those days that, as a blogger with a penchant for writing about ancient history, I should circle on the calendar and put gold stars in the little box marking the date. It was especially fitting because Tuesday, on the Roman calendar, was dedicated to Mars...for whom the month of March was named! The Ides of March on the day honoring Mars! Whoa!<br />
<br />
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right; margin-left: 1em; text-align: right;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjwxfUeI2CV5dRJcahoe9y8XTzs9laucBqGAzZtD9rU-49LzvRrY1MuQyBj-FRXKM_cX25lWuiFo4JgFwGKpffkrab-Yf0HK60nBDeLArNEL_8XofkvAqO_K7998vAZ6oF4a16s9RQV/s1600/caesar.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjwxfUeI2CV5dRJcahoe9y8XTzs9laucBqGAzZtD9rU-49LzvRrY1MuQyBj-FRXKM_cX25lWuiFo4JgFwGKpffkrab-Yf0HK60nBDeLArNEL_8XofkvAqO_K7998vAZ6oF4a16s9RQV/s200/caesar.jpg" width="166" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Stabby stabby.</td><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><br /></td></tr>
</tbody></table>
And...I kind of dropped the ball on that one. <br />
<br />
The Ides of March are famous for being the day that Julius Caesar was murdered in the Theater of Pompey by a gang of sixty senators who feared that Caesar had grown too strong politically and was looking to consolidate his power, thus ending the Roman Republic.<br />
<br />
Kind of a self-fulfilling prophecy, then, when the murder of Caesar was one of the events that sounded the death knell for the Republic and ushered in the age of the Empire.<br />
<br />
But, I have not come here to bury Caesar.<br />
<br />
No, our story takes us to a time roughly 500 years later. Even though the Roman state--kingdom, republic, empire--had existed for some 1200 years, all good things must come to an end. By the end, the Western Empire was a ramshackle shell of itself, a ghost barely clinging to the territories that men had conquered and secured centuries before. The last Roman Emperor--and that's a contentious title--was Romulus Augustulus, who knelt before a Germanic invader named Odoacer in 476. This ended the Roman Empire in the west and ushered in the very first Kingdom of Italy on that fateful September morning. Odoacer placed the crown upon his head and was ever since known as the first Rex Italiae, or King of Italy.<br />
<br />
For all intents and purposes, Odoacer was allowed to rule in Italy (which included some of modern day France, Switzerland, Hungary, Austria, Slovenia, and Croatia) by the grace of Emperor Zeno, who controlled the Eastern Roman Empire (later, the Byzantine Empire). For the most part, Odoacer was a decent king. He settled the unrest within the kingdom, helped secure the borders against outside tribes (especially the Burgundians), and generally saw himself as a proxy ruler for the <i>real</i> last Roman Emperor, a man named Julius Nepos, who had been deposed (but not killed) by Romulus Augustulus' father. Told you that "last Roman Emperor" title was contentious.<br />
<br />
Unseating the "rightful" Roman Emperor in the West had never sat well with Zeno, and so he tried to control both parts of the empire by setting Odoacer upon what was essentially a throne in Italy. As mentioned earlier, for the most part, Odoacer was a decent guy (for a barbarian) and a fairly good king.<br />
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjKj1ryPgY7WbX4fb9ii29Q8W5-_pohLJ55RG595aynXVgx_Qc_ZfdLfg6tuvTd6bwr5WXOrX9DjRa0P28UQGvjSOgHx7xSniwgW0Zfy2vRD03zZBTdc4ho5v4YeBkDsrDMkuedHCU5/s1600/goodtobetheking.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="202" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjKj1ryPgY7WbX4fb9ii29Q8W5-_pohLJ55RG595aynXVgx_Qc_ZfdLfg6tuvTd6bwr5WXOrX9DjRa0P28UQGvjSOgHx7xSniwgW0Zfy2vRD03zZBTdc4ho5v4YeBkDsrDMkuedHCU5/s320/goodtobetheking.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">It's good to be the king.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
We know this both from records that exist as well as the fact that he became popular enough and powerful enough that Zeno began to worry. A man of Odoacer's status and charisma (he was a very successful military leader, prior to becoming King of the Italians) would most likely chafe at Zeno's hegemony and eventually become a threat. To that end, Zeno decided that Odoacer must be killed.<br />
<br />
Odoacer, for his part, was satisfied with just being Rex Italiae and not worrying about the East so much; he saw Zeno and the Eastern Roman Empire as allies and friends and had no designs on conquest of the other half of the Roman Empire. Zeno didn't see things that way, however.<br />
<br />
This was not the first rodeo for Zeno in which he murdered someone he had set up on a puppet throne to ostensibly extend his rule. Which is why Theodoric the Ostrogoth--or Theodoric the Great--was so eager to lead the invasion of the Kingdom of Italy from his home in the Balkans. Theodoric had already seen Zeno assassinate and murder several other men who were in positions of power--positions that Zeno had set them in. Theodoric, who was smart enough to know what was up, saw that he, too, would probably soon become one of Zeno's targets, and so he decided to get the hell out of Dodge.<br />
<br />
Theodoric and his merry band of warrior Goths--along with some other tribes--led a very successful invasion of Italy, beating back Odaocer's forces time and again. Odoacer managed to punch back and hold off Theodoric's forces for a while, even besieging a city in which Theodoric and a large portion of his army was trapped. However, in a very strange, and likely one of the few moments of Gothic solidarity, one of Theodoric's cousins sent over a large force of Visigoths to savage the Italian countryside. <br />
<br />
This spelled doom for Odoacer.<br />
<br />
In addition to protecting and rewarding his people, Odoacer had been good to the church. Odoacer had been very respectful of all of the various Christian sects that were spreading out across Europe at the time, even though he, himself, was an Arian Christian. With Theodoric's forces pressing in, Odoacer retreated to Ravenna--the seat of his power, where he had been crowned king when Romulus Augustulus abdicated--and continued to fight what he had to know was a losing battle. Finally, in 493, the Bishop of Ravenna, a man name John, out of respect to Odoacer and all he had done for the Italian people and the church, brokered a peace between Odoacer and Theodoric.<br />
<br />
The war ended and things were promising to become a little more normalized. To celebrate the peace, Theodoric invited Odoacer and some of his men to a feast.<br />
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right; margin-left: 1em; text-align: right;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiMmDveEpgbGxyrS-LV7UAXp7Xy5Lm8pORI44HfXOtNN9uRsxxqagXxET__6asjz6nI0Zj8qxMe1gNuqFM7h7O1SdDjMsOv7FJtPLaJodQ3BflQEZLrRDYBKg_aynN4w57xlrddlbIz/s1600/Lannister.png" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img alt="" border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiMmDveEpgbGxyrS-LV7UAXp7Xy5Lm8pORI44HfXOtNN9uRsxxqagXxET__6asjz6nI0Zj8qxMe1gNuqFM7h7O1SdDjMsOv7FJtPLaJodQ3BflQEZLrRDYBKg_aynN4w57xlrddlbIz/s320/Lannister.png" title="Grabbed from DeviantArt by an unknown artist." width="180" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">This is fabulous.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />
Cue the Rains of Castamere.<br />
<br />
In a very Game of Thrones twist, Theodoric planned and planted several of his men among the crowd at the feast with the very intent of killing Odoacer and his allies. Odoacer, who was not quite the bumbling idiot that Theodoric assumed him to be, caught wind of the plot against him and planned appropriately. When the time came for the attacks, Odoacer and his men were able to foil them. Theodoric, however, would not suffer defeat lightly. In frustration, he drew his sword and hurled it at Odoacer, striking him somewhere in the upper chest/throat area--it was described as "hitting his collarbone." Odoacer fell and died there at the feast with Theodoric standing over him.<br />
<br />
The date: March 15th, 493.<br />
<br />
In another very Game of Thrones twist, Theodoric hunted down and killed Odoacer's family, including his wife and daughter. His son was exiled to Gaul, but when he entered Italy later in life, Theodoric had him captured and executed. <br />
<br />
So, while the Ides of March are <i>most</i> famous for being the day that Julius Caesar was cut down for having too much power and potentially tearing down the fabric of the Republic, the Ides of March are also famous for being the day that the first King of the Italians was cut down for having too much power and potentially tearing down the fabric of Zeno's rule in the East.<br />
<br />
If you're an Italian ruler, you would be wise to beware the Ides of March, indeed.MJenkshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12761003604210840898noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6457515953341334959.post-92106688704399132422016-03-14T07:30:00.000-04:002016-03-14T07:30:23.113-04:00Happy Pi Day!As a man who has enjoyed a few sugary treats over my forty years of life, I have come to the conclusion that desserts fall into three categories: cake, ice cream, and pie. All desserts are just some subset of these three, with pudding being the superfamily over all of them. See what I did there, Britain? No angry messages left in the comments.<br />
<br />
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right; text-align: right;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjt7nJ9AK_Cd3O__Hkjk4tYI6rfR2wBSinh7s74AMNScGNr2tPDyNkeV9MSBMfL6ib-EEjlKyVSzC-bnWG1tV_qFhwhIvEE16L-2HkBpukx3Yt9JXUxMJK0hPp-345Hi9KWzjeMGbrk/s1600/Pie+bear.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjt7nJ9AK_Cd3O__Hkjk4tYI6rfR2wBSinh7s74AMNScGNr2tPDyNkeV9MSBMfL6ib-EEjlKyVSzC-bnWG1tV_qFhwhIvEE16L-2HkBpukx3Yt9JXUxMJK0hPp-345Hi9KWzjeMGbrk/s200/Pie+bear.jpg" width="200" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Bears...always funny.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
Each one of these delicious treats has a certain aura and mystique surrounding them. Cake, for instance, is celebratory. Marking another successful circuit around the sun on an annual basis after springing forth from your mother's womb? Have some cake! Finally shuffling off that employment coil and heading into the sunset of retirement? Have some cake! Decided to stick your dick in one vagina for the rest of your life? Cake me, baby! Even at bachelor parties, the stripper jumps out of a cake. Cake is for celebrating. You're never having sex again? Let's eat cake! <br />
<br />
Ice cream is fun. Hot day? Let's have some ice cream. Celebrating a birthday? Well, hell, let's have some ice cream along with that cake (see paragraph 2). On a date? Well, we're not quite to the marriage and wedding cake step, so let's have some ice cream! Even the ice cream man drives around in a fun, festive cart with Pop Goes the Weasel or some other song from your childhood blaring over the loudspeakers while he patrols the neighborhood like some sort of angry, frozen dairy treat bearing predator of the sea. Sure, he has his victims bound and gagged in the back of his festive refrigerated van, but, man, for a few moments while you're picking out the overpriced, frozen dairy treat from the menu on the side of the truck, the ice cream man sure seems fun! Who wants a side of chloroform to go with this drumstick knock-off? Me!!!!!!...zzzZZZzzz...<br />
<br />
I went to a dark place again, didn't I?<br />
<br />
Pie, however, isn't really celebratory (the stripper doesn't jump out of a giant pie, does she?), nor is it as fun as ice cream (man, this pie just doesn't fit into the sugar cone like I was hoping!). No, pie is something completely different.<br />
<br />
Pie is pure sex.<br />
<br />
Pie is a lot of work. Sex is a lot of work. When you make pie, you have to make the crust, you have to fill the crust, and then you have to put another crust over the top of the filling. And the crust? Yeah, it's so flaky and delicious because it has lots of layers. There's some sex pun in there, but it's late and I can't be bothered to connect the dots. When you make cake, you just dump some stuff into a bowl, crack a few eggs, stir, bake, done. You don't <i>need</i> to frost cake; cake is pretty damned delicious as is. Frosting is just...well, the icing on the cake!<br />
<br />
No, pie is something more, something that is in tune with the deepest seated needs and wants of our psyche. Eating pie makes us feel good, sure, but it also makes us feel a little naughty after enjoying it. There's something a little lascivious about enjoying a pie. <br />
<br />
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right; margin-left: 1em; text-align: right;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg6zkjL8G1vQdDcBTmHDsJF-Rx4Pyx4_unGIcrBbesRtpETwNDVr738BHwBitwLHNHGS6p1l2wo6Yr6JnnSxxPxQFE8pjnEwiPU88ho5InZDGOr-Rie3yCg6XkXVxxHWj488OHYCc45/s1600/Pie-Meme.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="160" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg6zkjL8G1vQdDcBTmHDsJF-Rx4Pyx4_unGIcrBbesRtpETwNDVr738BHwBitwLHNHGS6p1l2wo6Yr6JnnSxxPxQFE8pjnEwiPU88ho5InZDGOr-Rie3yCg6XkXVxxHWj488OHYCc45/s200/Pie-Meme.jpg" width="200" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Indeed.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
Hell, pie is even used as a euphemism--and I use that term lightly--for sex. A woman's vagina has been likened to a slice of pie for a long time running. Maybe it's because the shapes of the two are somewhat similar in appearance. Maybe it's because they're both delicious. Maybe it's because your face is a mess when you eat either of them without using your hands. I'm not sure, but I do know that it does sound a lot nicer to liken a vagina to a pie than it is to describe it as cakey in any way. When Eugene Levy was encouraging Jason Biggs to shove his dick in a dessert, he didn't tell him to fuck a cake. No sir. It was pie! American Pie! Yum. *pukes*<br />
<br />
And, do I really need to mention Warrant and their assault on our early 90's radio experiences? I didn't think so. But it tastes so sweet it makes a grown man cry...<br />
<br />
I apologize for any and all earworms this spawns.<br />
<br />
Even though there's no <i>real</i> relationship between the value pi, which is the ratio of the diameter of a circle to it's circumference, and pie the delicious, salacious treat, we've still come to associate the dessert pie with March 14th, which is 3.14...or the first three digits of pi the mathematical value. At least in America. Those silly Europeans write March 14th as 14.3...so they don't celebrate pi day until the 31st of April.<br />
<br />
Oh. Right.<br />
<br />
So, join me today in celebrating a unique number, pi, by treating yourself to a lascivious and tasty indulgence, pie the round circle dessert. Oh, hey! There's our connection!<br />
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Mind. Blown. Indeed.MJenkshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12761003604210840898noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6457515953341334959.post-45702402847998096082016-02-24T07:30:00.000-05:002016-02-24T07:30:17.889-05:00100% Chance of It Happening When You Least Want It ToAs I've confessed here many a time, I'm a tinkerer. I tinker. I fuck around with stuff I probably would be better served to just hire someone who knows what the hell they're doing to do. But, I don't. I do it. AND THEN I hire someone else to do it for me. At ten times the cost. At least.<br />
<br />
The water heater being a prime example of this.<br />
<br />
A couple of years ago, I bought a car. It was not a new car. I did that once, and then the car proceeded to destroy not one but TWO engines--the first before I even paid the bastard off. Ah, life as an adult. For the record, I didn't tinker with either of those blown engines. I trusted OnStar a little too much with the life and quality of my oil, to be honest. Screw you, OnStar. You owe me an engine.<br />
<br />
I digress. I bought a car. Not a new car. It was after the aforementioned car destroyed its second engine (on the way to church, no less). I bought a Subaru Outback, so that I could impress all the hipsters and MILFs in Durham (trust me, it's a hot car here). More impressively, I bought a 1998 Subaru Outback. For reference, that's the same year the I graduated from college.<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhoX7PeRAFQ4MnSaBvZiFzZZ31uvy1KPyf4okK6GUmxPiDYA-3ZNFNHm9REV2hEFYXcpotCSNeLK2z1Hx-qi5M0E_TdBMDqXWqJ93m7kTJ7ZW7LfVhzi_7XYilxL1KnS6rTRS4QfF4c/s1600/subaru2.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhoX7PeRAFQ4MnSaBvZiFzZZ31uvy1KPyf4okK6GUmxPiDYA-3ZNFNHm9REV2hEFYXcpotCSNeLK2z1Hx-qi5M0E_TdBMDqXWqJ93m7kTJ7ZW7LfVhzi_7XYilxL1KnS6rTRS4QfF4c/s1600/subaru2.jpg" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">A Panty-Dropper if ever I've seen one!</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />
The best part? It had fewer miles on it than the car that destroyed two engines. <br />
<br />
Everything was fine for the first four or five months. Then, one day, while waiting in line at a drive thru, the car suddenly lurched and the check engine light came on. Great. Not only was I getting punished for eating shitty fast food by clogging my arteries and sending my sodium count through the roof, but I also now had a lovely amber light glowing at me from the depths of my dashboard. Not cool, man. Not cool at all.<br />
<br />
The light went off, though, later that same day. And then came back on a few days later. And then off again. And on. And off. It was a lot like my last relationship--hi-yo!!!!<br />
<br />
This off-and-on was a pattern for a couple of months until I finally went to my mechanic (for an oil change) and I asked him what the hell was up with the light coming on and going off. He hooked a monitor up to the car and the computer told him it was a "knock sensor error."<br />
<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjFKQhFmmcdyR1PPEj-89JY2FIl-ztrfcy-YKy3R13jNTion18qmu8chDSfyjQHrZtf3EWVPe2Uxl6veF4CRHXuDiSjGKEWQ8lLgcJB5SwgSZruTDcvKAaQ9dASc7quu7iJw6F8rAbY/s1600/JesusKnocking.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="149" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjFKQhFmmcdyR1PPEj-89JY2FIl-ztrfcy-YKy3R13jNTion18qmu8chDSfyjQHrZtf3EWVPe2Uxl6veF4CRHXuDiSjGKEWQ8lLgcJB5SwgSZruTDcvKAaQ9dASc7quu7iJw6F8rAbY/s200/JesusKnocking.jpg" width="200" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Shhh...pretend we're not here. <br />He's probably trying to sell us something!</td></tr>
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If you're like me, then you might have been clueless as to what a knock sensor was up until the very point that you heard it was in error. The knock sensor is kind of like a tuning fork for the engine; it basically makes sure that the engine is running okay and that the pistons are all firing at the desired rate and tempo. Thank you, Google, for teaching me that. I also learned that day that changing a knock sensor was easy. Any boob could do it.<br />
<br />
Well, buddy, I'm just the boob to try that out on!<br />
<br />
Last summer, I also picked up a slow leak in one of my rear tires. Fantastic. Oh, and all the coolant ran out of my air conditioner. No biggie. Except that it's a black car. With leather seats. And summers are hot here in North By God Carolina.<br />
<br />
So, I did what any sane, rational human being would do: I parked the car. I did nothing with it. It wasn't going to pass inspection, it was hot, it needed an oil change, and I couldn't afford to get the knock sensor replaced or the tire fixed. Instead, I drove a tiny, beat down, dilapidated 2002 Saturn SL. You can imagine the chick magnet that dream machine is.<br />
<br />
This past weekend, I decided that I needed to step away from the Saturn and fix the Subaru. In addition to the tire and the knock sensor, the battery was run down and I couldn't get it to jump. Add that to the list of things to fix. But, hell, I had some great weather for working on the car! It was a lovely weekend. Beautiful. Warm, highs in the low 70s, and not a chance of rain at all.<br />
<br />
Well...except maybe Sunday there could be some sprinkles.<br />
<br />
Or, you know, a pretty intense downpour to start shortly after you lift the hood on your car and begin working with the electrical systems!<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjC75cK_HhKCrJC-TNDvWSmm-QGSlLlfnU8o5-los2i19WVTs5kTuNm1YEwnU6ic_nVpdUElFhEbrTBZeVi-JQ4FZhYEQdVEVByOY7p79_v3ecN4IDHu7riW52BFKrlPmsfc8fUudDm/s1600/umbrella.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjC75cK_HhKCrJC-TNDvWSmm-QGSlLlfnU8o5-los2i19WVTs5kTuNm1YEwnU6ic_nVpdUElFhEbrTBZeVi-JQ4FZhYEQdVEVByOY7p79_v3ecN4IDHu7riW52BFKrlPmsfc8fUudDm/s320/umbrella.jpeg" width="213" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Mind sharing that umbrella, ma'am?</td></tr>
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<br />
Which is precisely what happened. <br />
<br />
Oh, and when I went to put the spare on the car, I discovered that the spare was flat, as well. It was a thing of beauty, really.<br />
<br />
So, after removing the tires and the battery, I loaded them all up in my other car and went off to replace them. Just as I was about to pull away, the sky opened up and I had to scramble to get my tools put away (inside the car), and close the hood. By the time I got home, the rain had stopped, and things were dry enough that I could finish the repairs. As one more "Fuck you" from the Universe, the car's alarm was activated with the new battery, and so I about pissed my pants when I hooked the positive lead to the battery and the alarm system started blaring in my right ear.<br />
<br />
ABOUT pissed my pants. This isn't TMI Thursdays anymore.<br />
<br />
With the battery switched, I turned to the knock sensor. For the record, yes, a knock sensor is easy to replace. However, what they didn't tell me was that a knock sensor is a real bitch to get to, especially if you have big, meaty claws like I do. Or sausage fingers or however you want to describe the size of my hands. *tips cap* Ladies. <br />
<br />
However, when everything was settled and done, I fired the car up and, after a very sluggish start (I suspect I need to put a new starter in the Black Beast soon<br />
<br />
<br />
), the car turned over and ran rather smoothly. Most importantly: no amber lights on the dash.<br />
<br />
Despite the rain and all the other stupid stuff that went on, I believe this was a job well done, and it totally makes up for me not being to free that bottom element from the water heater.MJenkshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12761003604210840898noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6457515953341334959.post-59143328410143685612016-02-23T07:30:00.000-05:002016-02-23T07:30:28.222-05:00Totally Blowing Stuff Up Tuesdays: We're Back!If you have been a reader of this little slice of the Internet, you know that there are a couple of things that I like. Well, boobs, yes, and they usually travel in a pair, so good job. You aced the pop quiz. Nicely done.<br />
<br />
The other things I like are explosions and doing stuff around the house that makes me feel all handy and manly and rawr, I want to feel some boobs now.<br />
<br />
This story begins on Valentine's Day. I was preparing to take a shower ere heading off to the grocery to get something to cook for dinner. I turned the water on and left it run so that I could climb in and enjoy the warmth of the wet water running down my tortured and aching muscles. However, when I stuck my hand in to check the temperature, it was like feeling ice pelting down on me. <br />
<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjraa_imP2NjsMSTI75XljW9keloG0uj5X1tUVknrna2a-xbJGQsWz3ylD7_NhNgox3siVsI5AhndtPfn-knKXotEDQ69ksh_hpic6JyEYKbrVsrX1jU3tqFF05JBkLFpwFrYK7NXjj/s1600/eskimo.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjraa_imP2NjsMSTI75XljW9keloG0uj5X1tUVknrna2a-xbJGQsWz3ylD7_NhNgox3siVsI5AhndtPfn-knKXotEDQ69ksh_hpic6JyEYKbrVsrX1jU3tqFF05JBkLFpwFrYK7NXjj/s320/eskimo.jpg" width="213" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">There's some kind of Eskimo fetish<br />going on out there...apparently</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
Huh.<br />
<br />
So, I let it run for a little while longer. Still cold. Then I turned on the sink's hot water faucet. Call Manny and Sid, cause we got another Ice Age on our hands.<br />
<br />
At which point, I uttered many a swear word, almost all of them beginning with "fuck."<br />
<br />
Fortunately, I have a brother who is a plumber and an electrician. Unfortunately, my brother the plumber and electrician lives four states and approximately 13 hours away. Fortunately, there is this website called Facebook, where you can stalk your old high school crushes AND ask your handyman siblings for assistance when needed. <br />
<br />
He told me to press the reset button. Reset button? I didn't know there was such a thing.<br />
<br />
There is. It's usually hidden under the top panel and it's big and bright red and you can't miss it, even if you think you can. You will immediately hear the water heater switch on, too, upon pressing it. Neat. Sexy AND informative, this blog.<br />
<br />
So, I crawled into the darkened depths of the crawlspace and pressed the reset button. Everything was Jim Dandy, Hunky Dory...for about 36 hours. On Tuesday, I had to reset the water heater four or five times. All the mind-numbing cold water pouring out of the shower...numbed...my mind...and so I lost count. But it was definitely a whole number and it was more than three and less than seventy five.<br />
<br />
Anyway, I decided to act. Coming home early on Wednesday afternoon, I drained the water heater and rushed off to buy a replacement kit for the water heater elements--those things which do the yeoman's work of heating the water in the tank. It set me back about $40. Not a problem. The problem was, though, that I began to worry just a bit, because in order to heat all that water inside the tank, it requires electricity. A LOT of electricity. So, I was fearful of electrocuting myself under the house with no one around to notice that the lights went dim for a few moments and that the lovely smell coming from under the floorboards was not dinner, but it was, instead, roast Dad.<br />
<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjMLFllH-5ksi0kSnNp_OyyS4xyaR-YizBGVrMowf_y_Q3Z17EVhs9nKsuXfRAYLXXise-cHXzeMoRX8dO05f2VD6m5_ohmA9CWbRvIGGeU4fg3ciZgcwsAOuQSGw7zm2flt4GFi1SM/s1600/lightning.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="158" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjMLFllH-5ksi0kSnNp_OyyS4xyaR-YizBGVrMowf_y_Q3Z17EVhs9nKsuXfRAYLXXise-cHXzeMoRX8dO05f2VD6m5_ohmA9CWbRvIGGeU4fg3ciZgcwsAOuQSGw7zm2flt4GFi1SM/s200/lightning.jpg" width="200" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Precisely what I was trying<br />to avoid doing...</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
Spoilers: I'm savvy enough to have found the correct switch to throw on the breaker box, AND I double-checked the flow of electricity through the machine. Multiple times. There was none. Cool. Let's do this.<br />
<br />
Switching out elements on a water heater is actually fairly easy. I'm here to attest to this. For real. It took me all of fifteen minutes to get the top element switched out. I was pretty proud of myself. I was going to get this done in an hour and a half (an hour of the project being the draining and the shutting off of power) and we would have hot water by dinner time.<br />
<br />
Eh, not so fast, my friend.<br />
<br />
The bottom element...was a bitch. To put it kindly. I sliced the living hell out of my knuckles trying to get the beast to move. I laid on the wrench, pushed, sprayed it with all manner of lubricant, tapped on it. Nothing. It would not move.<br />
<br />
After two hours, I decided to call in professional help. Enter Kevin, the friendly guy from <strike>Roto-Rooter</strike> some national chain who laid on the wrench, pushed, sprayed it with all manner of lubricant, tapped on it, nothing. He even put a hex nut head on the element and stood on the wrench. It. Would. Not. Budge.<br />
<br />
Well, fuck me running. <br />
<br />
There's a little back story to fill in here, as well: the water heater was easily 30 years old. I'm shocked that it lasted this long. It was not up to code, and since I'm looking to sell this <strike>money pit</strike> house in the near-ish future, I made the decision to get a new water heater installed. Again, I relied on the professional. Mostly because there was a SECOND fear lurking in the back of my mind while dealing with maintenance on a water heater. Namely, that it would build up pressure and burst, shooting through my house like a rocket.<br />
<br />
Seem far-fetched? Again, not so fast, my friend.<br />
<br />
<iframe allowfullscreen="" frameborder="0" height="315" src="https://www.youtube.com/embed/0rXwcDkobUY" width="420"></iframe><br />
<br />
I know I give Mythbusters some shit for their "scientific" claims for all their experiments, but there is some serious proof in the pudding here. That video should set you up with another video to watch from Mythbusters where they destroy a small house by having a water heater shoot THROUGH the entire structure. It's pretty impressive. For real. Watch it.<br />
<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg5KEJ2aDrCL_IdW6LRCiJCx6Ie5lLqEB4ns4kwU7RM6UdJTHxRZtievnllDq9NIlsygak0fAHMObOrfNDM91Q7Wrvy9Bz0GHk2JASvB75Mma-cCGWMVjNkqX7Ziv1DPHghnygmtcAE/s1600/scientist.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg5KEJ2aDrCL_IdW6LRCiJCx6Ie5lLqEB4ns4kwU7RM6UdJTHxRZtievnllDq9NIlsygak0fAHMObOrfNDM91Q7Wrvy9Bz0GHk2JASvB75Mma-cCGWMVjNkqX7Ziv1DPHghnygmtcAE/s200/scientist.jpg" width="160" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Science </td><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><br /></td><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><br /></td><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><br /></td></tr>
</tbody></table>
Oh...the explanation. Right! When the pressure builds up inside the inner chamber of the water heater, the water begins to get really pissed off. It wants to expand, to turn to steam, something--anything!--to relieve that pressure (which is why there is a pressure release valve on water heaters). These water heaters are engineered to release out the bottom in just such a scenario (rather than rupturing and shooting shrapnel everywhere, which is actually a lot worse than what you just watched), which unfortunately turns them into rockets. Rockets that fly 500 feet in the air, gushing superhot water, but rockets nonetheless.<br />
<br />
Ah, science!<br />
<br />
So, not only was I glad to not have electrocuted myself, but I also am glad that I had the professional install the water heater so that it was up to code AND installed correctly. Even if my $40 fix-it-yourself project suddenly turned into something that cost over $1000. I'm up to code, and there's nothing firing off through the two floors of my house and the roof.<br />
<br />
Oh, and the showers? Yeah, they're nice and hot now. And I don't have to crawl under the house in order to press the reset button on the water heater. Now I can save all that energy for pushing better, more sexy buttons.<br />
<br />
Yeah, I'm not sure what that means, either.MJenkshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12761003604210840898noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6457515953341334959.post-2175870506319329772016-02-15T12:57:00.000-05:002016-02-15T12:57:00.539-05:00Some Things Haven't Changed...I was looking at my stats the other day, for giggles (and shits), now that I've decided to make a concerted effort toward blogging again. I will probably never get back to the level of 2009, when I was writing something new nearly every single day...and sometimes two a day. Wow. That's something akin to actual effort.<br />
<br />
*shudders*<br />
<br />
I know the last few years have been...sparse...to say the least. Some shit went down--some of it I'll talk about, some of it I was <i>legally</i> bound not to speak about. Some of it, well, it's just better left unsaid.<br />
<br />
However, there are things that don't change...such as the shitty weather forecasting around these parts.<br />
<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjHFwPH4s1oi7S1nSOI4-Y5V_Kt1IDcgOdGb1OlEh2NhSV7cKTeJ-nJcdxbvZcaPSCfSaScvURE7KhemtP_Kws9LUtsIEJ-u6MLVXWovWK72kv9xdvaCRuUc_1srMolxYF1FXiNODQi/s1600/snowbunny.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjHFwPH4s1oi7S1nSOI4-Y5V_Kt1IDcgOdGb1OlEh2NhSV7cKTeJ-nJcdxbvZcaPSCfSaScvURE7KhemtP_Kws9LUtsIEJ-u6MLVXWovWK72kv9xdvaCRuUc_1srMolxYF1FXiNODQi/s320/snowbunny.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">This is not exactly what I was looking for, Google.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />
<br />
In North By God Carolina, the weather and--more specifically--the snow predictions have been right once over the past ten years. Well, maybe twice--there was a ten inches plus forecast last year that ended up around 8, so I'll give them some leeway there. Although my power was out for two days, which meant I couldn't make coffee, and I had a tremendous headache, which filled me with even more murderous rage, but I couldn't do anything about it because I had a terrible headache. So, maybe I shouldn't give them a pass. <br />
<br />
Today was another one of those swing-and-a-miss forecasts. We were supposed to have a weather system move in, but we were assured to worry not our pretty little heads about accumulations. It wouldn't be an issue.<br />
<br />
My son walked into the dining--or the room that serves as my office--and announced, "It's snowing!" last night right before he went to bed. Sure enough, I looked out and we had an inch on the ground, easily. It was dry, powdery stuff, because the air temperature was cold enough that the water droplets didn't have time to properly expand before they changed to ice. How's that for science? (it's a little more complicated than that, but whatever). Had it not been so dry, it might have been three or four or maybe six inches.<br />
<br />
I stepped outside and it was that beautiful, heavy snow-falling kind of night. There was a muffled quiet that had spread through the darkness, and the silence and solitude was magnificent. I loved it. It reminded me of so many snow events of my youth. It was the kind of snow that reminded my why I like snow so much.<br />
<br />
However, the forecast also didn't really call for snow. Just freezing rain. Or sleet. But not a lot of snow. Maybe some mixed in with the rain. That's all. Don't worry at all. No accumulations, kids!<br />
<br />
Or do worry...because they told us not to.<br />
<br />
The only reason I'm complaining is because I had everything set up to work from home today, and it was going to be glorious. It would be quiet. There would be solitude. I could drink coffee as often and as much as I wanted. I didn't have to wear pants!!!<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgQGUlybcg9R2jo1RWPNKvHVzQFEsb11q58VgNVvGLWNZ2c5WckDH9-MgsxhL_j4X7EomQduvk9N5RAzxYIyp9SigNWDVjT1dxgyFqGUNFN3dZ5vuWlm1FQ5KmQPGvi8avqa2Xz4vGA/s1600/crystal.png" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgQGUlybcg9R2jo1RWPNKvHVzQFEsb11q58VgNVvGLWNZ2c5WckDH9-MgsxhL_j4X7EomQduvk9N5RAzxYIyp9SigNWDVjT1dxgyFqGUNFN3dZ5vuWlm1FQ5KmQPGvi8avqa2Xz4vGA/s200/crystal.png" width="170" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">I guess it's boot season...</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />
And then they cancelled school.<br />
<br />
I don't blame them. It's gross out there. Cold and wet and snowy and icy. It's all the reasons that I don't like snow, now that I'm an adult...or at least pretending to be one. <br />
<br />
So, the quiet is out the window as every neighborhood kid screams while riding a sled down my frozen driveway. And, since the children are home with me, I have to wear pants. <br />
<br />
*grumbles*<br />
<br />
At least the coffee is still hot and flowing. For now. I don't want to say anything TOO loudly, else the Universe might decide to intercede. Again.<br />
<br />
I hear more screaming that might be slightly less than joyous. I better go and make sure no one's body parts are mangled. At least, not on my property.<br />
<br />MJenkshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12761003604210840898noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6457515953341334959.post-68549376016874899212016-02-12T07:30:00.000-05:002016-02-12T07:30:21.689-05:00Friday Morning Latin Lesson, Vol CXII swore that I wouldn't fall back into the same traps of rehashing ancient legends, tales and history when I fired this thing back up, but then I trotted out the falling down the stairs story that I had already told about Betsy Hagar. I guess this is just lazy writing. Welcome to the rest of the Internet, Jenks!<br />
<br />
I know that <i>today</i> isn't Valentine's day, but it's this weekend and no one reads a <strike>this</strike> blog <strike>ever</strike> on the weekends, so I thought I'd <i>also</i> fall into the old habits of writing about saints on their feast day. I mean, when it comes to lazy writing, go big or go home.<br />
<br />
Or just don't write at all. Looking at you, 2015!!!<br />
<br />
Anyway, on Sunday, the calendar page flips over to a gigantic pink heart and a box of chocolates and a giant Vermont teddy bear--no, NOT Bernie Sanders. We're talking about an ungodly huge stuffed bear that is sure to get your female counterpart to cross her legs at the knees forever while she stares icy daggers at you with every chance she gets.<br />
<br />
Speaking of ungodly...<br />
<br />
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhPCqhgsQjqP6ijVDdh8D8KMa_Hsv0kfocDA9q2HLQdULKHObIxLsZ0v_6Xpqgekh-4s1KI2FYLYow16av9ejzZvhUCb66If_DWwQ135diE0k9DUEZZkzcRTFmIRUNdQn8x7N80D-de/s1600/cupid.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhPCqhgsQjqP6ijVDdh8D8KMa_Hsv0kfocDA9q2HLQdULKHObIxLsZ0v_6Xpqgekh-4s1KI2FYLYow16av9ejzZvhUCb66If_DWwQ135diE0k9DUEZZkzcRTFmIRUNdQn8x7N80D-de/s200/cupid.jpg" width="150" /></a>One of the symbols of Valentine's Day is Cupid, the Roman god of erotic love. He is the son of Venus, and depending on who you ask in Rome, you will get a different answer as to his father's identity. If we follow the Greek tradition, Eros (Cupid's "Greek counterpart) just sort of arose from the Chaos at the beginning of it all. Some people will tell you that Mercury is the father (hence the wings), others insist Vulcan is the father because he was, after all, married to Venus. Still others prefer to insist that Mars is the father, because there is a certain beauty in describing love as being both erotic and warlike.<br />
<br />
Kinky.<br />
<br />
In Roman traditions, Cupid is a beautiful youth with a quiver of arrows at his belt and a bow at his side. He's deadly accurate with those arrows, too: one shot of his golden-tipped arrow and you're doing things you never thought you would ever do. Cupid's arrows are very much like tequila.<br />
<br />
However, Cupid gives and Cupid taketh away. In addition to his golden-tipped love darts, Cupid could also fire off lead-tipped projectiles that would turn you from being a wanton and love-filled youth and into Grumpy Cat, but with less personality and more bitterness. Essentially, me.<br />
<br />
Cupid's most famous myth is the one where he is sent to destroy the beautiful Psyche, but in a somewhat ironic twist, Cupid falls in love with the mortal and ends up not killing her. Psyche is pretty fucking hot, and this makes Cupid's mom, Venus, upset and thus dispatches her son to do her dirty work. Instead, once Cupid sees Psyche, he wants her immediately and we get, as is usually the case, a case of divine kidnapping. Nothing says love like stealing your girlfriend from her home and locking her in a dark room (no, seriously...don't do this). According to the legend, Cupid spirits Psyche off to his palace where he keeps her in a dark room...no mention of whether he lured her into his chariot first with candy or went strait to the chloroform. At night, he comes to her (and probably on her), telling her of his love for her, but she can't be allowed to see him (because then the jig will be up as she would instantly recognize him as Cupid). Concerned--and here is where her sisters, jealous that Psyche is getting some godly dick--Psyche sneaks a lamp into the room while Cupid is asleep and she lights it, discovering that her lover is Cupid. In her excitement, she spills some oil on him, burning him awake (I'm sure he would have preferred a blow job), and, seeing that Psyche now knows his godly identity, Cupid flees.<br />
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEglyEzflxGFEoMNlLj-7pLX4EaOrUwP0-0FEzJoDh37rMj-xw2IxKg5whZ-VZUOfFtNqISJLJFr2pGs6QCFPAlt-tsaIJHOwknstlli3mpRZ7ybhN_hIBYQLkJjsI6KOUEcTjqlzKZC/s1600/Psych.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEglyEzflxGFEoMNlLj-7pLX4EaOrUwP0-0FEzJoDh37rMj-xw2IxKg5whZ-VZUOfFtNqISJLJFr2pGs6QCFPAlt-tsaIJHOwknstlli3mpRZ7ybhN_hIBYQLkJjsI6KOUEcTjqlzKZC/s200/Psych.jpg" width="200" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">No. Psyche. With an 'e' on the end!</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
Psyche goes off to search the world in order to find Cupid, but she can't, so she implores his mother--the one who wanted her dead in the first place--to help. Yeah. This is going to end well. Being that she's a psycho jealous bitch, Venus tortures Psyche, sending her on impossible tasks that she somehow manages to complete. Finally fed up, Venus sends Psyche into the Underworld to retrieve some of Porserpina's beauty with the instructions not to look at it. As Admiral Ackbar once said: IT'S A TRAP! Curious to see what this beauty is, and perhaps to use a little for herself, Psyche does not heed Ackbar's warning and instead peeks in the box and is condemned to eternal sleep. Cupid "stumbles" on her in the wild while she is out cold and <strike>feels her up</strike> revives her, sealing the sleep back in the box.<br />
<br />
Impressed by her perseverance, Jupiter decides to deify Psyche, that way she can wed Cupid as an equal and not have that whole immortal/mortal dynamic that plagues so many other couples in mythology and tragic literature.<br /><br />Wait. What? Jupiter didn't just say, "Nice job, kid? Here's my dick!" Huh. Will wonders never cease?<br />
<br />
Anyway, this is a story about how love conquers all. Or maybe it's a story about how we kind of lose our minds when we're faced with love. Or just a nice set of boobs (you know who you are).<br />
<br />
With that in mind, here's this week's Latin phrase:<br />
<br />
<center>
<i>Amare et sapere vix deo conceditur.</i></center>
<br />
<center>
"Ah-mar-aye et sah-pair-aye wicks day-o con-kay-dee-tour."</center>
<br />
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg_k2zRIn6LphcX7mGNlpCyxFaGZM_K_Y4h6oxzfuJs1_mr2F525ZEN470zmawoeMfVrjLn29PsPo3JfM_mxFMPlHwv_CDkxD1NXY1BLQKhtLVGns93xqG4SlsopyIxDq3RipFr11Me/s1600/redhead.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg_k2zRIn6LphcX7mGNlpCyxFaGZM_K_Y4h6oxzfuJs1_mr2F525ZEN470zmawoeMfVrjLn29PsPo3JfM_mxFMPlHwv_CDkxD1NXY1BLQKhtLVGns93xqG4SlsopyIxDq3RipFr11Me/s320/redhead.jpg" width="212" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Even a god finds it hard to love and be wise at the same time.</td><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><br /></td><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><br /></td></tr>
</tbody></table>
It wasn't until some time after Alexander the Great died and before the Roman Empire rose to power in the Mediterranean world that Cupid went from being a handsome youth to the chubby little spanker we know him as today. As his symbolism for both Heavenly and Earthly love began to be translated over into Christian mythology, Cupid became more of a cherub type image, and that's how he persists today, morphing into a more cartoonish caricature of himself. If that's possible. Unfortunately, Psyche hasn't followed along with him, and so Cupid has become associated with a sort of cruel prankster who enjoys seeing people fall in love with the wrong partner. His most famous modern namesake is the "dating" site OKCupid, whose abbreviation (OKC) always makes me think of the Thunder and Kevin Durant.<br />
<br />
Wait a minute...Kevin Durant is deadly accurate shooting, as well. Holy shit, guys! Kevin Durant is Cupid!!!<br />
<br />
Happy Valentine's Day!<br />
<br />MJenkshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12761003604210840898noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6457515953341334959.post-73813504405306082622016-02-09T07:30:00.000-05:002016-02-09T07:30:15.372-05:00An Even MORE Tragic FinaleI come to you, handful of blog readers, with hat in hand, ready to issue an apology for the oversight. After writing last week's blog, I sat and thought on it (I have a lot of traffic to contend with on the daily commute) and I'm pretty sure that I had already told the story of falling-not-falling down Betsy's stairs.<br />
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right; margin-left: 1em; text-align: right;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjGt6ndQCe7-6QtzTnFxhWbb-J9WpYZ0N2cRxrmPlsM0SeFrGdaKBwPvayYKg7iCDMAysghyphenhyphenoqxGrJ-M0vEi7Ct_zRnFPB52pJXd5DHZojj6VuIZAaf-8haSWIoU0vMOxotyk94BwBR/s1600/bugs.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjGt6ndQCe7-6QtzTnFxhWbb-J9WpYZ0N2cRxrmPlsM0SeFrGdaKBwPvayYKg7iCDMAysghyphenhyphenoqxGrJ-M0vEi7Ct_zRnFPB52pJXd5DHZojj6VuIZAaf-8haSWIoU0vMOxotyk94BwBR/s200/bugs.jpg" width="153" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Close enough to the image<br />I was trying to invoke</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />
My shame, it is evident. Do with me as you will. <br />
<br />
*ties blindfold around eyes* <br />
<br />
*lights cigarette*<br />
<br />
But wait. If you pull the triggers on that firing squad, you'll never get to hear the <i>even more</i> tragic tale of what happened <i>after</i> Betsy's graduation party!<br />
<br />
Oh, I see I've earned myself a brief stay of execution.<br />
<br />
Now, for this, you need to realize that I lived in a dingy little backwater town called Markle, which confidently strode the border of Huntington and Wells Counties in Indiana. I lived on the western (read: far more cool and hip) side of town, so I went to Huntington North High School in Huntington, Indiana (don't ask where Huntington South is...). Huntington was the county seat of Huntington County (amazing, I know), and as such was the largest city in the county. Most of my friends lived in Huntington, not Markle. It was a ten mile drive to Huntington--you know, all day trip type distance.<br />
<br />
Betsy was one of those Huntington-residing friends. Another was my good friend Matt Webb (it's almost like Matthew was a popular name for boys born in the middle of the 70s), and so it was that I made sure to go to Matt's graduation party. I think it might have been the same weekend as Betsy's. Don't ask for specifics; it was <strike>twenty</strike> a few years ago. I've imbibed a few drinks and had mind-<strike>altering drugs</strike>blowing sex since then. Details are a bit hazy. Concentrate and ask again later.<br />
<br />
Anyway, my friend Matt was a doctor's son, and a fairly successful doctor, at that. As such, he could afford the finer things in life...such as a pool. A pool which was fully engaged when I showed up at his party. However, this was his "official" graduation party, and so all of his family--including ten thousand younger cousins--were at the party, and they were using the pool.<br />
<br />
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right; margin-left: 1em; text-align: right;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjBITrKNllg0KVxnWoz2quDSS1GBJPe_sn0rMSZD3td2OkWJUZ0qXZFWdzrYB3mSSywv65yHFpUOEuXKclr_iPSfiRBpMD04nKxGbiY2jOWIl0TlMfndXY0mbEMtwNjuZ2iPJxb7SLj/s1600/UglyTie.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjBITrKNllg0KVxnWoz2quDSS1GBJPe_sn0rMSZD3td2OkWJUZ0qXZFWdzrYB3mSSywv65yHFpUOEuXKclr_iPSfiRBpMD04nKxGbiY2jOWIl0TlMfndXY0mbEMtwNjuZ2iPJxb7SLj/s200/UglyTie.jpeg" width="150" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Like this, but with MORE purple</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
Unlike Betsy's party, I had no grand schemes or designs or speeches to deliver. What I did have was a small bag of the ugliest fucking ties that the Seventies could have ever vomited up and called fashionable. Matt was a big fan of retro fashion, and so I knew he would love these. My dad didn't want them, so I folded them neatly and put them in a bag and took them to Matt's party. <br />
<br />
I was right. He loved them. He gushed over how happy they made him. I felt pretty good. Having a big slice of cake probably didn't hurt. I spent probably an hour at Matt's house talking with him, his younger brother (he was a sophomore at HNHS), his mom (she worked at the school), and his dad (never met him before that day). It was a great time.<br />
<br />
After overstaying my welcome, I shook Matt's hand, congratulated him for graduating (I mean, why not?) and turned to go. As I was leaving, Matt stopped me and said, "Hey, come back later tonight. After dark. A bunch of people are coming over. It's going to be a pool party." There was a hesitation, and then he added, "You can bring a suit...if you want..."<br />
<br />
Now, the important thing here is that Matt and I ran in many of the same circles in high school. This meant that, at this pool party, where bathing suits may or may not be needed, there was an excellent chance that several of the girls I had crushed upon over the course of the past four years would be in attendance, including Rachel, Amy, Elizabeth...and Betsy.<br />
<br />
Holy shit. I might get to swim naked. With Betsy Motherfucking Hagar.<br />
<br />
(This was not her middle name. It was Anne.)<br />
<br />
Ecstatic, I went and visited a couple of other friends, where they, too, were talking about Matt's graduation pool party. Oh, the debauchery that the night promised. It was almost too much for my 18-year-old mind to process. I was almost literally aquiver with excitement. <br />
<br />
We'll just call it excitement and leave it at that.<br />
<br />
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right; margin-left: 1em; text-align: right;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhao9eHHJ5DPxua0201GLkNYvJJvsf-2Z_Gps5lUqDC4Na55PG4wwgRjz0i36RDMHbZyS0YNG9lZm_vNd0t3ub-lTQf1gTBWJYnk5UAes_40S5RSQ3Qm0q4T7YijRS6C5fLFiC0FqUq/s1600/leelee.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhao9eHHJ5DPxua0201GLkNYvJJvsf-2Z_Gps5lUqDC4Na55PG4wwgRjz0i36RDMHbZyS0YNG9lZm_vNd0t3ub-lTQf1gTBWJYnk5UAes_40S5RSQ3Qm0q4T7YijRS6C5fLFiC0FqUq/s200/leelee.jpg" width="200" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Not Betsy...but another perfect blonde</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
I drove home, practically floating the whole way I was so happy. I got home, parked the car, went inside and began preparing. I got fresh clothes, grabbed the swim trunks (you know, to be gallant), and then hopped in the shower, scrubbed myself until I was pink and fresh-smelling, and then shaved and trimmed.<br />
<br />
I was looking and feeling good.<br />
<br />
I made myself some food and then sat down on the front porch with my parents to eat. That's when my mother started in.<br />
<br />
"Did you have a good time?"<br /><br />"Yes, quite. In fact--"<br />
<br />
"Well, good. You've been gone a lot over the past couple of weekends. I think it's about time to wrap up the graduation party circuit."<br />
<br />"Well, you see--"<br />
<br />
"There aren't any other of your friends--your good friends, your close friends--parties to go to, right? Good."<br />
<br />
"Well Matt Webb--"<br />
<br />
"You just went to Matt Webb's house. You gave him all those old ties. No need to go back."<br />
<br />
Instead of arguing further, I just frowned down onto my plate and said, "Yeah, I guess not." It's not like I could tell my mom that I had been invited to a pool party where I might see the nakeds. Especially not ones that I had pined for for years, written erotica about, or developed pubescent carpal tunnel syndrome over. Dejected--nay, defeated--I stayed home with my parents that night.<br />
<br />
And yes, Matt had his pool party.<br />
<br />
And yes, there was skinny dipping involved.<br />
<br />
And yes, Betsy was there.<br />
<br />
*peeks out from under blindfold*<br />
<br />
Oh, what's that? I've earned my freedom by spinning that tale? Well, thanks, I'll just be going now.<br />
<br />
*thinks back to what might have been on that fateful night at Matt Webb's house*<br />
<br />
On second thought, just end it for me now... MJenkshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12761003604210840898noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6457515953341334959.post-46557546933738876522016-02-02T09:19:00.000-05:002016-02-02T09:19:47.553-05:00Resuscitation The other day, I was asked about breathing life back into this blog by a very attractive, very funny, very sexy <a href="https://whitegirlsbelike.wordpress.com/" target="_blank">young redheaded woman</a>. I pondered it for a few <strike>seconds</strike> days and, at her continued urging, decided that, yes, I guess I <i>could </i> maybe string a few words together in a manner somewhat pleasing for your senses. Because, when have I ever been suggestible to the words of a hot woman? Right?<br />
<br />
Then I realized that it's Groundhog Day. Groundhog Day! The symbolism of rebirth, of being dragged unwillingly from a warm den and tunnel! Oh, the symbolism is strong with this day.<br />
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right; margin-left: 1em; text-align: right;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjT6P5OS3VCUxdDi1Fs1BBLKb9ayGSH8AV7GLNWjqQkE_VaaJJ7G4Jtsw3tqkJXtOSgrm463mPNhFgI2vPhy4wDkkndoOUkw0MxGmiJjFLkjPwD2fZS5DknTxD_DN82xju3xOAcUgTE/s1600/Groundhog.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="150" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjT6P5OS3VCUxdDi1Fs1BBLKb9ayGSH8AV7GLNWjqQkE_VaaJJ7G4Jtsw3tqkJXtOSgrm463mPNhFgI2vPhy4wDkkndoOUkw0MxGmiJjFLkjPwD2fZS5DknTxD_DN82xju3xOAcUgTE/s200/Groundhog.jpg" width="200" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Fear, anger, hatred? <br />
A Groundhog knows not these things.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />
And once I began thinking about the symbolism of Groundhog Day, I remembered that it was the birthday of on Betsy Hagar, the Teutonic goddess on whom I crushed throughout high school, unrequited, silently, there in the corner...there in the spotlight.<br />
<br />
*clears throat*<br />
<br />
You get the idea.<br />
<br />
At this point, I don't remember all the stories I told in the past, and frankly, I don't feel like going through all my past entries and reading everything that I've already written. I mean, I like you guys; I just don't know if I like you that much. Except you. Yes, you. You know why.<br />
<br />
In movies, there's always the guy pining for the girl who is way out of his league, and he wants her from afar, but he never summons up the courage to tell her <strike>that he writes and masturbates to erotica about her</strike> that he has deep, deep feelings for her? And then at the end of the movie, he finally grows a pair, and he walks up to the girl and he tells her that he loves her and then she always--<i>always</i>--falls into his arms and they go off and presumably live a happily ever after life filled with, presumably, lots of sex and blow jobs?<br />
<br />
Well, that's what I decided to do with Betsy...from the safety of the other side of graduation.<br />
<br />
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right; margin-left: 1em; text-align: right;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhUdrRr7p4GbqE6YDACe95MGILazFSCKn8N7yCApXc40uPXZ4rFhgXIyb5aOFKQnh-za5LG5kvpB3nqLzChoYbabTi4vPaZ3eOFs3PGNLKLDOr2EpQceTRgUzRbAb9YtV0BiovJANrp/s1600/viking.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhUdrRr7p4GbqE6YDACe95MGILazFSCKn8N7yCApXc40uPXZ4rFhgXIyb5aOFKQnh-za5LG5kvpB3nqLzChoYbabTi4vPaZ3eOFs3PGNLKLDOr2EpQceTRgUzRbAb9YtV0BiovJANrp/s320/viking.jpg" width="134" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">What?<br />
We were the Vikings.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
After we shuffled of the educational coils of one Huntington North High School, I did the graduation party circuit. I went to a lot of my friends' parties and did what I could with cards and gifts and stuff--it felt a lot like Squidward in that episode of SpongeBob where he's playing Santa Claus but is basically just giving away all his shit to make SpongeBob feel good? Yeah, that was me with post-graduate gifts.<br />
<br />
This is the situation in which I found myself at Betsy's graduation party, cheesy card and shitty gift in hand, my heart racing in my chest as I pondered the speech that would certainly win Betsy's heart and make her mine for that happily ever after story, complete with lots of sex and blow jobs. I walked in, gave her the card, she gave me a hug, and...I got distracted talking to someone else. <br />
<br />
Now, I don't know if you remember a lot of the graduation parties that YOU went to, but, well, they are thrown so that the graduate is the center of attention, so that the graduate is showered with undying adulation from their friends and family, so that the graduate is the center of the spotlight.<br />
<br />
They're not thrown so that some other dork can have his teen romcom ending to his high school career.<br />
<br />
And so it was at Casa de los Hagars.<br />
<br />
The longer I stood in Betsy's living room, the more unnerved I became. Eventually, I gave up, since she was ringed by a least a dozen other attractive high school girls (all fellow graduates of HNHS Class of 1994) serving as sort of a Midwestern Swiss Guard. I approached Betsy, got another hug, and told her that I needed to be going. She asked if I couldn't stay longer (I think I had another party to get to, honestly), and I made the polite small talk of telling her I wanted to, that I would miss hanging out with her, and that I hoped to see her again soon. Not quite the romantic ending that I had built up in my mind, but it was still gallant. Ish. <br />
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Spoilers: I never saw her again. <br />
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Now, sure, in high school, I was an athlete. I wouldn't describe myself as athletic, but I also wasn't a tub of lard that hurled himself forward by the mass of my gut sticking three feet out in front of the rest of me, either. And while I had decent dexterity of foot (pedantry?), I, like everyone else, would still trip and fall slip and make a fool of myself.<br />
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As I was walking down the steps from Betsy's living room to the door, a framed photo collage that was propped on the back of the couch and leaning on the banister railing slipped and fell behind the couch. It was loud, at it startled me a little bit.<br />
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Betsy, however, thought that I had keeled over and came running to help me. There was a look of confusion on her face when I was standing there, quite upright, attempting to get the picture collage unwedged from behind the couch and back in its place of display.<br />
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"Are you okay?" she asked.<br />
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"Yes, quite. The picture just fell, that's all."<br />
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"Oh, I thought you had tripped and fallen."<br />
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There was a long moment where we stared at each other, and then I finally said, "Well, no. However, I guess I shook this loose while walking down the stairs..."<br />
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We bid each other adieu once more, and then I walked out of her life, forever. And the last thing she said to me was that she thought I was enough of a clumsy lummox that I had fallen down the stairs and done myself a grievous injury.<br />
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No. Not the romantic ending I had envisioned for that particular relationship. But at least I felt her boobs pressed against me. Twice.<br />
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Small victories.<br />
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<br />MJenkshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12761003604210840898noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6457515953341334959.post-83641552218102725262014-04-28T09:56:00.005-04:002014-04-28T10:26:02.509-04:00Happy FloraliaI wouldn't want to break with tradition here, and since today marks another obscure Roman holiday, I thought I would go ahead and write about that. I mean, I <i>could</i> be doing work. Or writing about work. But I'm not. I'm also heading a lot of sentences with conjunctions, which is a no no. But, what are you going to do? Not read my blog? You and 7 billion other people.<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgDIzxrZze_U7JEboj8BikDRaB2cbMLaC4q9yFCwvRpqYI0qFjgAK1FsLWxPeDh_Vj4GmA571n4v-wtHne7du1CR1H_WLfrDWfk-wIdFiefvGD31XoU0hImj5BchsQec4rZPTuED_Rd/s1600/Flora.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img alt="" border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgDIzxrZze_U7JEboj8BikDRaB2cbMLaC4q9yFCwvRpqYI0qFjgAK1FsLWxPeDh_Vj4GmA571n4v-wtHne7du1CR1H_WLfrDWfk-wIdFiefvGD31XoU0hImj5BchsQec4rZPTuED_Rd/s1600/Flora.jpg" height="188" title="Touchdown!" width="200" /></a>Anyway, April 28th is the first day of Floralia, sometimes known as <i>ludi Florae</i>, or the Games of Flora. Flora was an ancient goddess sacred to the Romans, most likely arriving in their culture via all the Sabine women that they <strike>kidnapped and raped</strike> incorporated into their society. A temple dedicated to Flora was built on the Aventine Hill, very near the Circus Maximus. There was a second temple dedicated to her, or to Flora Rustica (she liked it rough), on the Quirinal Hill. One or both of these were dedicated during the Roman "regal period," when Rome was ruled by a king, before the Republic and the Empire.<br />
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If I keep this up, I'll name all seven of the Roman hills. Four more to go, <i>meretrices!</i><br />
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Flora was a goddess of flowers, plants, vegetation, and fertility. You probably could have guessed that much without the explanation, just based on her name along. With the coming of the new growth and the reemergence of green vegetation after the winter, it was natural for the celebrations surrounding Flora to occur during the spring. Thanks to this, she was assumed to be a personification of the spring, or a goddess of the spring. Thus, she was venerated during the games that came at the end of April; her celebration lasted for six days. While she was not one of the "big" names in Roman mythology, she was nevertheless important, especially considering her association with the spring, rebirth, and the growing of plants. <br />
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One important note about the Games of Flora, especially for us Westerners and especially for Christians: animals, especially goats, rabbits and hares, were released during the games to celebrate Flora and her gift of fecundity. These animals were chosen based on their "fertile and salacious" nature, according to Roman poet Ovid. Another interesting tie-in with modern Christianity, although possibly more loosely tied-in, is the notion that, for Floralia, Romans eschewed the wearing of white garments and instead chose more colorful attire, similar to the pastels we associate with the spring and especially with Easter. Hell, might as well stretch all the way to the coloring of eggs, too, right? Why not. It's Floralia, after all!<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgTYliB1Khu593Z39hT0tV50cz-8Mi7J_7yxD3B7GuGHP0JzjN6SjO00O3Oyl6R2BlKZ6WjTmGwZM0En1SV2IYNFsgYa7c-1_iONPatTrM0YNdGePJxb15t5LJSoWUgGM4wB8jm78-8/s1600/PoisonIvy.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img alt="" border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgTYliB1Khu593Z39hT0tV50cz-8Mi7J_7yxD3B7GuGHP0JzjN6SjO00O3Oyl6R2BlKZ6WjTmGwZM0En1SV2IYNFsgYa7c-1_iONPatTrM0YNdGePJxb15t5LJSoWUgGM4wB8jm78-8/s1600/PoisonIvy.jpg" height="200" title="Flora was like Poison Ivy, long before Poison Ivy was around. Nice, uh, blossoms." width="135" /></a>The celebrations involved plays, dances, and, of course, games. Two things of note for the Floralia, though: one, it was more a Plebian holiday, whereas most of the other celebrations in Rome heavily favored the Patrician families. Since the common folks participated so readily in the celebration, Floralia was popular with the people, even if Flora was not considered one of the big, important goddesses--especially if you compare her to Ops or Ceres. The other interesting thing about Floralia was that prostitutes actively participated in the games. Normally, prostitutes were kept on the edges of society, no matter how valuable their services were to the populace. Since most prostitutes were slaves, they were excluded from society and were not considered citizens of Rome. Even women who were not slaves but entered into prostitution were thusly excluded from society. However, all prostitutes, even prostitutes who were not slaves, participated in the games, showing that even the whores were not completely excluded from Roman society. Their activities, aside from the obvious, included mock gladitorial battles, dancing naked (now we're talking!) in public displays, and performing their own plays--hopefully naked, as well. Hooray, prostitutes!<br />
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So, gather up your goats and rabbits, pelt your friends with beans and lupins, and go watch some strippers dance around a pole or two. It's Floralia! Get out there and celebrate it!MJenkshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12761003604210840898noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6457515953341334959.post-20889907080819845812014-04-21T13:47:00.001-04:002014-04-28T10:25:45.934-04:00Felix Dies Natalis, Roma!!!I keep meaning to tell you about my new life, but, hahahahahahahahahahaha, whatevs. I'll get to it eventually.<br />
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The one thing that <i>has</i> struck me as strange is that I picked up a new follower, though I can't identify who the noob is. I find this remarkable because I've been staring at the same 107 pictures and names for the past year or so, and then someone new pops up and confuses me. Regardless, welcome to the fold, my new friend. I hope you're not scared away by the word "vagina."<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjPai0NmvxOxxHuVtKZ-wNESVltbkjrjkVLi5bIKY4xzwYLqBYFjqgFDcvrQQPiolY114QChuhmWXc7DrpWJ8FjAswOsquGxtj2NJqXpKOazsNZr1dLP4-Oj8qX2TfREgBfUseUjBxH/s1600/birthday.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img alt="" border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjPai0NmvxOxxHuVtKZ-wNESVltbkjrjkVLi5bIKY4xzwYLqBYFjqgFDcvrQQPiolY114QChuhmWXc7DrpWJ8FjAswOsquGxtj2NJqXpKOazsNZr1dLP4-Oj8qX2TfREgBfUseUjBxH/s1600/birthday.jpg" height="200" title="Hopefully, someone disconnected the oxygen hose." width="150" /></a>The reason for not telling you about the "exciting changes" in my life today, however, is that we have a very important birthday to celebrate today: Rome's. That's right, the Eternal City was founded on April 21st, 753 BC. In Roman terms, this was year 0 AUC, which stands for <i>ab urbe condita</i>, or "from the founding of the City." It was a Roman demarcation of time, which makes sense. The Romans didn't give much of a shit about what happened before their majestic home and city was founded.<br />
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They didn't give much of a shit, not because they were proud (well, okay, they <i>were</i> a little full of themselves), but because the place where Rome currently sits was a majestic slophole of a swamp prior to Romulus cracking his brother over the head with a spade and then breaking ground on his new home. A slophole, I might add, that was inhabited by a bunch of fucking savages--like a town in New Jersey with a Quick Stop.<br />
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You've heard about the Seven Hills, right? The Seven Hills are the seven hills (duh) surrounding the Tiber river on which the city of Rome was built. The ancient Romans chose to live on those hills because the valley was an insufferable bog rife with malaria-bearing mosquitoes, and the lowland wasn't really all that habitable until the Cloaca Maxima (or, "largest sewer") was constructed. Even then, in the beginning, it was more for draining the lowlands and may not have been the best at removing waste from the city itself. It took subsequent improvements on the sewer system to make it more effective. In the beginning, it was still open the atmosphere around, so mosquitoes and other disease-carrying insects could still breed in the water that was being transported away.<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhsqUx9DJDQuBjA8EQIrEQUH0KkgUVwTar4IEHgaErLtZyCvmlgIvyHWX9E2DDRyyyPHCoix89NeVq4LnI7jHmshFe-NYK498q7BHD3bPmBOHs6MJJCPMpNYSs3IyRiPnB88TJ7qVsY/s1600/roman.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img alt="" border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhsqUx9DJDQuBjA8EQIrEQUH0KkgUVwTar4IEHgaErLtZyCvmlgIvyHWX9E2DDRyyyPHCoix89NeVq4LnI7jHmshFe-NYK498q7BHD3bPmBOHs6MJJCPMpNYSs3IyRiPnB88TJ7qVsY/s1600/roman.jpg" height="200" title="I totally don't know what Mars saw in her. Aside from his divine cock." width="200" /></a>It's kind of strange to think about how far we've come in 2700 years...<br />
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Romulus went on to become the first king of Rome. We don't know who his parents were, because he was found in the wild and suckled by a she-wolf until he became a man, along with his twin brother, Remus. I mean, his real parents. Romulus and Remus were the offspring of a Vestal Virgin and Mars, the Roman god of war (and, originally, agriculture). However, Virgil, while writing the Aeneid, was able to link Romulus and Remus (they're a package set, until it became king-making time) to the hero Aeneas, who fled the burning city of Troy after Odysseus <i>et al.</i> snuck into the city and ended the war. You remember that, right? Big wooden <strike>badger</strike> horse and all? Good.<br />
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Aeneas, after doing his <i>own</i> tour of the Mediterranean world--including plowing Dido, Queen of Carthage--went on to become one of the people who helped found Rome. After plowing Dido's fields for a while (figuratively, as Carthage didn't have a lot of agricultural lands), Dido wanted a little more commitment, and Aeneas said, <i>"Pax, ex sum!"</i> He then crossed the Mediterranean from north Africa to the boot of Italy. There, he met a cat named Evander who told Aeneas where a great place to found a great city was. That place, naturally, was the Seven Hills (and nasty swamp).<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiBnZUz7yn89zDysk_qC_wJEbD_c8lWRM0gZMcrdrDRJbnVbfJuPk-SOv6a6E48kcIjKZAWIT0m6UBCYgFlKE3Kbmo8-YAxpNhTUnXnRaJwRygAm5E2OorOiUWs6Bg6qKeCMwuWo2H0/s1600/dido.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img alt="" border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiBnZUz7yn89zDysk_qC_wJEbD_c8lWRM0gZMcrdrDRJbnVbfJuPk-SOv6a6E48kcIjKZAWIT0m6UBCYgFlKE3Kbmo8-YAxpNhTUnXnRaJwRygAm5E2OorOiUWs6Bg6qKeCMwuWo2H0/s1600/dido.jpg" height="200" title="She wants to thank you, Aeneas, and also to point out that you had a tiny dick." width="135" /></a>So, here we are, celebrating Rome's birthday, with three possible founders. Incidentally, Evander was a Greek who fled the southern part of Greece and settled with his many followers on one of the hills of Rome--the Palantine Hill, if you must know. It is from here that we get the word "palace." When Evander was showing Aeneas around, he probably said something like, "See, this is my hill. You go over there and settle on one of those other six hills. Capisce?" He totally said that, because it's Italian, and when in the place where Rome will eventually be founded, do as the people who will eventually become Roman do. Er, yeah.<br />
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This is what the founding of Rome most likely was: an accumulation and aggregation of the tribes that lived on the seven hills under one crown, the king being Romulus. From there, with the city founded, they went on to war with the surrounding tribes, including the Latins (from whom the Romans stole a language), the Sabines (from whom the Romans stole women), and the Etruscans (from whom the Romans stole a peninsula).<br />
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So, in your post-Easter ham coma, and before we start planting trees on Earth Day tomorrow, if you're feeling like you need a reason to celebrate, why not take a moment to wish Rome a happy 2767th birthday. Darling, you look marvelous, not a day over 2500, if I do say so, myself.
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Today is March 14th. The significance? you ask. Well, shame on you for not knowing that today is a holiday--two holidays, in fact, rolled into one. And, oh my stars and garters, what a beautiful pair of holidays we have--delicious holidays, even.<br />
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March 14th, or (as we Americans note it) 3-14, is special because 3.14 is the first three significant figures of the number pi, which is the universal ratio of a circle's circumference (distance around) to its diameter (cross-section). No matter the size of the circle, no matter the location, pi is the ratio of the circumference to the diameter. It is an irrational number in that it has no end, so while we may conveniently refer to pi as 3.14, the actual measure of the number is 3.1415926535897... The ellipses mean that pi continues on forever without any repeating sets of numbers deep within its minuscule fractional world.<br />
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<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right; margin-left: 1em; text-align: right;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjquU9l-2CcMeAvIk2n4ZtLrNPVwB470_I5oX_fzfsOas4kkaBHCGbO_qW6a8_4DWRPYxi-5qeQ5Cyozy7UTAUQSqdlqOcL5vyoPjKJ6ihAmTD6MdHVLB2nG1dLGRPQoq_CD9BacszM/s1600/EatMorePieShadow.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img alt="" border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjquU9l-2CcMeAvIk2n4ZtLrNPVwB470_I5oX_fzfsOas4kkaBHCGbO_qW6a8_4DWRPYxi-5qeQ5Cyozy7UTAUQSqdlqOcL5vyoPjKJ6ihAmTD6MdHVLB2nG1dLGRPQoq_CD9BacszM/s1600/EatMorePieShadow.jpg" height="320" title="This might be a different definition for piebald, or just bald pie" width="171" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Go check out <a href="http://boomerangspies.com/Default.aspx" target="_blank">Boomerang's Aussie Pies</a>!</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
Pi is also a Greek letter, the Ancient Greek equivalent to our "p," which happens to share a pronunciation with our tasty and delicious dessert treat, pie. Naturally, one wonders if there's a connection between "pi" and "pie" (especially given this blog's predisposition and love of ancient languages). The answer is...not so much.<br />
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However, the word "pie" is, most likely, a derivation of a Latin word <i>pica</i>, which means "magpie." No, seriously. I'm not kidding you (this time). The word magpie itself arrives in the langue from the word <i>pica</i>, coming into English sometime in the late Middle Ages, when magpies were simply "pies". As magpies tend to be mottled, black-and-white, things that were a mixture of black-and-white were described as "pie" or "pied." A horse or a dog with large portions of black and then smaller patches of white are described as piebald; a certain Piper from Hamelin probably also got his epithet from this source.<br />
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Now, there are two schools of thought as to how "pie" went from meaning "black and white" to "Oh my God, I'm so full but I NEED another slice!" The connection is made either through the lighter crust of the pie standing as a stark difference to the dark and mottled interior of the pie. This is feasible, sure. However, pie used to be less like the delicious dessert we so enjoy nowadays, and more like an entire meal shoved in a crust and baked. Bits of meat, vegetables, grain and sometimes fruit were all put together and baked within a flaky fold of dough. It was nutritious, fairly balanced, and, more to the point, fucking delicious. It might not necessarily have been dark or mottled on the inside.<br />
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This whole discussion is even more amusing when you think about pie as being a euphemism for pussy.<br />
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Getting back to magpies and their close avian relatives, crows and ravens, these birds are famous for collecting bits of string or brightly colored cloth or other such trinkets. The notion that lots of little pieces of whatever, coming together, was something that a foodstuff "pie" resembled is not necessarily a stretch. Think of chick pot pie (something I do on a regular basis...) and you can see the connection. This could be the link between a raucous, obnoxious bird and a delicious treat made up of lots of smaller bits that come together with delicious consequences. <br />
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Thanks to pie (our dessert) and pi (our circumstantial ratio) being homonyms, some of the more mathematically- and gustatorially-enthusiastic decided to link the two on March 14--hence, Pi Day, on which you eat a pie! Just, be sure to pace yourself...<br />
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Non possum credere me totum edisse...</center>
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Pronounced: "Nohn poh-soom cray-day-ray may toh-toom aye-dee-say..."<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhEONA5KUDmwvcLc5vOF_fXu-Wz-sLGEbRwnMt-qpJyLAtjAWfJOwn_ae8kWVsFPdvnkzqum4jPAEGln473jZiosVRep1ZWGPuHHZzfuGd0Oknbu6lux4PnZlfb-5r9UwOpIgZ71nO1/s1600/HotPie.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img alt="" border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhEONA5KUDmwvcLc5vOF_fXu-Wz-sLGEbRwnMt-qpJyLAtjAWfJOwn_ae8kWVsFPdvnkzqum4jPAEGln473jZiosVRep1ZWGPuHHZzfuGd0Oknbu6lux4PnZlfb-5r9UwOpIgZ71nO1/s1600/HotPie.jpg" height="228" title="I can't believe I ate the whole thing..." width="320" /></a></div>
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Get it? Because it's Hot Pie, from Game of Thrones?!?!? Delicious translation in the hovertext...</center>
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As mentioned, pie did not necessarily start out as a delicious, fruit-and-sweet-filled concoction, but instead was more savory, featuring meat, some delicious sauces, and a bit of salt. Since Pi Day falls on a Friday in 2014, and it's during Lent, Catholics will have to get a special dispensation from the Pope in order to enjoy the more traditional pie filling today. However, Francis seems to be down with that sort of thing, so I'm sure he'll be more than happy to let you enjoy your meat-filled pies on Pi Day. So long as you share.<br />
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Speaking of delicious meat, saltiness and sauces, March 14, as it falls one month <i>after</i> Valentine's Day, is also known as Steak and Blow Job Day. The logic here is that, since men did so much for their ladies a month prior, it's time for the fellas to recoop some of their losses spent making their women happy. Hence, Steak and Blow Job Day, which are two things that (most) men dearly love. Because, you know, I want to eat a steak and get blown only one day a year...<br />
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The Romans did not eat a whole lot of beef. Typically, especially in earlier civilizations, cattle provided a lot more than just tasty hunks of meat. Milk and cheese were more valuable commodities. Sure, if a cow got old and could no longer produce milk, then she might get slaughtered and be eaten for dinner; for the most part, cattle were seen as a source of wealth. Not to back ourselves into a corner here on Steak and Blow Job Day, the Romans <i>did</i> enjoy the sensual pleasures of having a mouth wrapped around their cocks. The word "fellatio" comes from the Latin word <i>fello, fellare</i> which meant "I suck" and was taken a step further to mean "I suck cock."<br />
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I hope you see what I did there in the paragraph previous...<br />
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If you're lucky enough to celebrate <i>both</i> holidays today, don't forget to praise your partner:<br />
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<i><center>
Quod fellas et aquam potas, nil, femina, peccas!</center>
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Pronounced: "Kwoad fay-lahs et ah-kwahm poh-tahs, nill, fay-mee-nah, pay-kahs!"<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgPPhjUPK-lpWsoPuoXtOLO2gYtBJu5n7DJy8-KrxBDWWcgLMXywssOLtEnYWa3lc-ofpa5Q3vdX9CoGhR4EzLQ-h9QFMaFqOgFVKWwnX1qD2wu_t4fh0C6Mh3zyDhNIPN1vKv-l0qd/s1600/MmmmSteak.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img alt="" border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgPPhjUPK-lpWsoPuoXtOLO2gYtBJu5n7DJy8-KrxBDWWcgLMXywssOLtEnYWa3lc-ofpa5Q3vdX9CoGhR4EzLQ-h9QFMaFqOgFVKWwnX1qD2wu_t4fh0C6Mh3zyDhNIPN1vKv-l0qd/s1600/MmmmSteak.jpg" height="320" title="Because you suck cock and drink water, you are perfect, woman!" width="213" /></a></div>
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More deliciousness in the hovertext!</center>
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The actual, word-for-word translation would probably better read "you can do no wrong, woman" or "you do not err, woman," but I went ahead and extrapolated some meaning. <br />
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Again, don't forget that it's Friday and it's Lent. Celebrate the holidays as best you can during this holy time...just don't expect the Pope to give you another dispensation for the second celebration tonight. MJenkshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12761003604210840898noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6457515953341334959.post-46294477037439023802014-03-11T10:31:00.004-04:002014-03-11T10:32:01.957-04:00Personal Failing<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgfjajsciP4SGJmjZHR7u6g1-gjBwUEQrrkGrkh2TXmZ4ubbsPp91Z9IWIgz5qsBnVXEKsESFVPON3X3bbGDist9W8G2PmyjneXFbNyOvvJbWqw1NInVY9UJB7KEundobP2gfOmPjBS/s1600/Calypso.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img alt="" border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgfjajsciP4SGJmjZHR7u6g1-gjBwUEQrrkGrkh2TXmZ4ubbsPp91Z9IWIgz5qsBnVXEKsESFVPON3X3bbGDist9W8G2PmyjneXFbNyOvvJbWqw1NInVY9UJB7KEundobP2gfOmPjBS/s1600/Calypso.jpg" height="200" title="Fine. I'll spend one more night on the island. If I must..." width="140" /></a>If you are familiar with the story of the Odyssey, you might recall that Odysseus plied the waters of the Mediterranean for several years after the end of the Trojan war, sharing in madcap adventures with his crew, getting up to all sorts of antics on the shore, fighting monsters, and sticking his dick in just about anything that he could stick his dick in. I'm looking at you, Calypso.<br />
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As one familiar with the Odyssey, you probably remember the Sirens. The Sirens were a group of comely young women with beautiful voices who sang across the waters surrounding their island home, promising riches and carnal delights to anyone bold enough and capable enough of plying their waters. However, when the lusty sailor reached the island of the Sirens, hoping to partake of their sensual delights, the Sirens ripped him apart and ate him, swallowing down his flesh and bone--and not swallowing in the good way, and not the naughty, fun kind of bone, either.<br />
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The Sirens' Song has thus come to be connected with anything that carries with it an allure of the forbidden: we know that it's not a good idea to go visit the Sirens' island, but, damn, look at the ass on that singing demon, would you? It might be worth having my flesh rent from my bones and my blood staining the waters near the isle if only I could feel the firm curve of her breasts upon my palms...<br />
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Along those same lines, we know it's wrong to eat an entire box of Girl Scout cookies, and yet...<br />
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Okay, fine. I caved and went full motherfucking cookie monster on those things. It's easy; there's like five in a package anymore. Each packing 7000 calories of sweet, chocolaty (or peanut buttery...or even better, chocolaty peanut buttery!!!) deliciousness, they go down a little too easily. Sure, I broke my self-imposed cookie ban, but it was worth it.<br />
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So. Fucking. Worth it.<br />
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Though the self-imposed cookie embargo has been broken, I'm still ice cream free, which I consider to be a victory of sorts. The Girl Scout cookies were just a small blip on the old radar, something that happens once a year. I can get past this, no problem, and be back on my cookie tee-totaling ways soon enough.<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh9qcjggeqNoTxFEsrL7N70FijpsEDnpadBXDyb_XRreeq0pM5dk1Si0LQJ5NMFLASjhW8Yz-sCZxrg-JQVZcRl1gX6kNSEoKObn63jsuviaOa899_YT34ojsKI6zBabx5XHTl8hL3d/s1600/icecream.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img alt="" border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh9qcjggeqNoTxFEsrL7N70FijpsEDnpadBXDyb_XRreeq0pM5dk1Si0LQJ5NMFLASjhW8Yz-sCZxrg-JQVZcRl1gX6kNSEoKObn63jsuviaOa899_YT34ojsKI6zBabx5XHTl8hL3d/s1600/icecream.jpg" height="132" title="I don't know who you are, but I will hunt you down and kill you." width="320" /></a></div>
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Of course, the sooner I get the last of these things out of the my house, the better. The most efficient way I know of ridding myself of the Girl Scout cookie menace is to shove entire sleeves of thin mints down my gullet. Chewing? That shit's for sissies. Savoring the Samoa that I just threw into the back of my throat means there's less time for me to start eating the NEXT Samoa in the package. Or Caramel Delight. Or whatever the fuck happy sappy slappy name they've hung on the cookies this year.<br />
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Eventually, I'll pick the cookie embargo back up, but it won't be until I am without Girl Scout cookies. Fortunately, the sales are done. Now we just have finish off the stockpiled wafers of deliciousness and I can get back to life without these sweet, little treats.<br />
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Just, let me have one more before we go...MJenkshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12761003604210840898noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6457515953341334959.post-17802849658406789692014-02-26T07:04:00.000-05:002014-02-26T10:56:59.105-05:00I Give Up<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiTNUXInjpdSGlz_2k6lpHBXjXf6MmkU5SXaiYake6o67_fjJ9cIisZol3OeTIyd0t72_FvDjiELgzGj6GJ12LkrOt5-YQEkXfYUVMOtQXNK2KBxVtMdT63SMnRPOy61G_RzFAp8HYn/s1600/dennings.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img alt="" border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiTNUXInjpdSGlz_2k6lpHBXjXf6MmkU5SXaiYake6o67_fjJ9cIisZol3OeTIyd0t72_FvDjiELgzGj6GJ12LkrOt5-YQEkXfYUVMOtQXNK2KBxVtMdT63SMnRPOy61G_RzFAp8HYn/s1600/dennings.jpg" height="198" title="Boobs and food go wonderfully together." width="200" /></a>There are a few things in this life that I really like. Boobs is one of them...or two of them, since they <i>usually</i> travel in pairs. Unless you're on Mars. Wait, did the lady with three boobs make it into the remake of Total Recall? Damn, she made me wish I had three hands.<br />
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I might have digressed, but given the subject material, you probably understand. I mean, it's boobs. They're GREAT! I'm getting off-track again, aren't I?<br />
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I also like food. I mean, who doesn't like food? Well, I had a room mate in college who, I suspect, didn't like food. He didn't like what food did to him; his body did strange things with various foods. They were not exactly allergic reactions, but he would develop nodes on his vocal chords or have gastric issues and such depending on how his diet varied. He didn't like food. I kind of understand. Okay, I lied. You're talking to someone who drinks beer, even though his throat tightens up when the sweet, delicious nectar of the hops oils hits his adenoids. I totally don't get not liking food.<br />
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My former room mate was forced to give up various foods so that they did not wreak havoc with his innards. We used to joke that he would eventually just filter feed from the air and wash it down with water. Drunk, nerdy college kids come up with stuff like filter-feeding as a solution to your problems. It's a wonder I didn't get laid more in college...<br />
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At the beginning of the year, when most people were resolving to lose weight or quit smoking or stop cruising high schools in black vans with ether-soaked rags, I decided to give up ice cream. Just give it up. Drop it completely. No more. Cold turkey. <br />
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*crickets*<br />
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Okay, that may have been a bad pun. <br />
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A couple of years ago, I was pushing 1/6 of a ton (kind of puts it in perspective, doesn't it, when you do the fractional math) and I was miserable. Everything hurt, I couldn't sleep, really bad apnea, so I took up hobbies that got me more active, lowered my caloric intake, and amazingly I lost around 50 to 60 pounds. I made it back down to my college weight. Well...the weight I was when I graduated college. I was still in college; therefore, it was my college weight. I've mostly held steady since, though I'd like to drop another thirty pounds or so. And no, motherfuckers, I'm not cutting bacon out of my diet. I will cut a bitch if you suggest that. <br />
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In order to help achieve this goal, I'm trying to cut back on the calories again, hoping that, when the weather improves, I can get more active outdoors and help make the final push for my high school weight. But, man, it's hard. I love ice cream. I love ice cream almost as much as I love blow jobs (but still below boobs--you people know how awesome boobs are, right?), so giving ice cream up was a real sacrifice. Sure, I gave it up in January, when it's cold, and ice cream doesn't sound that appealing.<br />
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Well, I would never turn down a blow job in January. So there. Sacrifice. No matter how you slice it.<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgdwYYU-ajExy0gKWl-0yhJjNIO_CYtyn5Y8dqauNlYrCmEP3enmnz7MNKwsp1wgsUaaQHipth-M8kPmi-dvlImv2MijMwo1ucv8MWBLafvCcB721lDCci4M1egrhnpIcOVL_ESMy95/s1600/ice-cream_gossip_girls.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img alt="" border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgdwYYU-ajExy0gKWl-0yhJjNIO_CYtyn5Y8dqauNlYrCmEP3enmnz7MNKwsp1wgsUaaQHipth-M8kPmi-dvlImv2MijMwo1ucv8MWBLafvCcB721lDCci4M1egrhnpIcOVL_ESMy95/s1600/ice-cream_gossip_girls.jpg" height="200" title="Eye contact is important..." width="163" /></a>The thing that I found, though, was that I was substituting something else for ice cream. Oh, here, let's have a cookie or a cupcake, it's fine, you're not eating ice cream. Have half a pizza! Those slices are small. Better yet, here's a tub of Crisco with some chocolate shavings in it. Have at it, Blubbo. So, I've given up cookies, too. I reserve the right to enjoy a canoli from time to time.<br />
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What? Who doesn't love a delicious tube filled with white cream?<br />
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The problem is, cookies rank right below ice cream and blowjobs. So far, I've been pretty good--I've been cookie-free for, like, a week. Despite the fact that I have been doing Girl Scout cookie booths and selling those sweet, delicious little bastards (and the cookies, too), I have yet to succumb to the pressing cookie urges. Our friends at McDonald's remembered that it's spring, so they've trotted the Shamrock Shakes back out, just to smear that shit in my face. Fuckers.<br />
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So far, I've been able to withstand the siren song of both the GS cookies <i>and</i> the Shamrock Shakes, but, Lord Jesus, it's hard. It's so hard. So. Damned. Hard.<br />
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Maybe next I'll work on giving up sexual puns.MJenkshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12761003604210840898noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6457515953341334959.post-47276393445590068762014-02-21T09:34:00.000-05:002014-02-21T09:34:27.111-05:00Friday. I'm in Love.I do realize that I promised a blog on Monday giving you a rundown of the fun I've been having for the past year or so. Monday came and went, and nobody was surprised that nothing popped up in their RSS feeds from me. Admit it. I wasn't surprised, either.<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh4eCHZM3QxC4wNFr9zSQd4gpbvET6yz9jxrZOkWzjuvF41VAhQht0b4tHxCpBdYptN3L60EA0fVksa89PscVoy9RCYHmj0KBFgFatqmUfdjNXOgwiFlCK83475GTAh3LnUulE4ofWF/s1600/Pestilence.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img alt="" border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh4eCHZM3QxC4wNFr9zSQd4gpbvET6yz9jxrZOkWzjuvF41VAhQht0b4tHxCpBdYptN3L60EA0fVksa89PscVoy9RCYHmj0KBFgFatqmUfdjNXOgwiFlCK83475GTAh3LnUulE4ofWF/s1600/Pestilence.jpg" height="200" title="Like this, but with more vomiting. I grabbed this from a DeviantARTist known as CandyLandSniper" width="130" /></a>Mostly, I wasn't shocked because I spent the weekend riding out a torrent of vomit and diarrhea around the house. The Pale Rider, the Grim Specter of Death, whose poisonous touch brings about a pestilence and who leaves gasping, retching, heaving broken, disease-ridden bodies in its wake, took a turn through the house. I realize that I'm now thirty-eight, and though my <i>mind</i> likes to think that I'm still in my twenties and that I'm flushed with the hale and hearty glow of youth, my body likes to say "Whoa, there, fella. You might need to take a rest or two before commencing with grabbing life by the horns."<br />
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Plus, Monday was President's Day, and no one was at work anyway, right? I mean, <i>I</i> wasn't at work, so you shouldn't have been at work, either. Yeah, we'll go with that <strike>excuse</strike>. <br />
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Anyway, I'm feeling much better. I've been rescued from the lingering, lasting feeling of nausea that had settled into the pit of my stomach over the weekend, and the boneweariness of the fatigue that had suffused itself deep into my being has mostly gone. One could say I've been cured of the illness from which I had been ailing.<br />
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And, it's Friday! See, there's a certain synergy to the title.<br />
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So, now that I've taken up half a blog with explaining why there wasn't a blog (I went how long between posts? I shouldn't have to explain myself, but, guilt works like that. You're welcome. And, I'm sorry. Again. Wanna make out? Again?), I feel I should at least give a little run-down on that which I had teased in this space a week ago.<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjBnAeWNIkTPfFddBLP0nseHDKyIWqPuprdBVGZ3_PEj6ECz3b7JKXHNUu173zfTOoH8CkXhp3u1f5I6MEJpgbqcmN-M76y7-nxKCPGrVRR-fO1tqPuD73UkN6laKttkuB3YOkx2TTg/s1600/valkyrie.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img alt="" border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjBnAeWNIkTPfFddBLP0nseHDKyIWqPuprdBVGZ3_PEj6ECz3b7JKXHNUu173zfTOoH8CkXhp3u1f5I6MEJpgbqcmN-M76y7-nxKCPGrVRR-fO1tqPuD73UkN6laKttkuB3YOkx2TTg/s1600/valkyrie.jpg" height="200" title="At least the Valkyries will be released, as well. Huzzah! Boobs!" width="130" /></a>But then, what's the point? Remember a few years ago when some Biblically-minded chap went through and calculated when Jesus was supposed to return in glory to judge the living and the dead, Homer-style? But the guy forgot to mail Jesus the invite, and so the Son of God never showed up? Rude. On the guy's part. Not on Jesus' side. He can't RSVP if he never got the Save-the-Date card.<br />
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Oh, and remember when the world was supposed to end on my birthday a couple of years ago, with hellfire and brimstone and the sky falling and all that rot? Well, yeah, it didn't, and the loans I took out of my 401K in order to <i>really</i> celebrate my birthday--think android wang, Russian prostitutes and monkey waiters, complete with the mini tuxedos--are demanding to be repaid. Fuck.<br />
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Anyway, we're in one of those end times again. Tomorrow, in case you didn't realize it, is the scheduled date of Ragnarok, which is the Norse version of Armageddon (that bears quite the uncanny resemblance to Armageddon, if you've read Revelation or had it shoved down your throat throughout your childhood). I can see I just ruined the closing ceremonies of the Winter Olympics for you. Many regrets.<br />
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If you're unfamiliar with Ragnarok (aside from the kickass sword from Final Fantasy III/VI), there will be a clash among the gods the likes of which we've never seen before (I wonder why...) and probably won't see again. Because we'll be dead. All of us. Including most of the gods.<br />
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Everything starts because Loki busts out of his prison and rallies an army of the dead in Helheim, which is the realm of the dead. The overseer of Helheim is Hel, who is, coincidentally, Loki's daughter. As is Jorgmandr, the world serpent that will rise from the depths of the ocean and who will eventually poison Thor during the battle. The Dark Elves, the Fire Giants, the Frost Giants and the Dwarves will all be involved, along with Odin's army of warriors that have been feasting, fighting, fucking and generally getting rowdy up in Valhalla for all these centuries. It will be quite the throw down, to be sure. Get your popcorn, kids.<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEivJLPIug2zdr5gdU4jgkhkT1KAZgUHFCiiR4IB3Izq7qEmx9xWwwHpAGtIp-x-yzxewhKwM8AOMrlNf7mTb4NDGyJC8KwsTdGW882bxEYMazI4LW5GWi3q-zmM49dJ4OzuuJ5mTJ6s/s1600/Hel.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img alt="" border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEivJLPIug2zdr5gdU4jgkhkT1KAZgUHFCiiR4IB3Izq7qEmx9xWwwHpAGtIp-x-yzxewhKwM8AOMrlNf7mTb4NDGyJC8KwsTdGW882bxEYMazI4LW5GWi3q-zmM49dJ4OzuuJ5mTJ6s/s1600/Hel.jpg" height="200" title="Whoa. Hel is hot! " width="150" /></a>Just don't plan on sitting through all of it. Humanity is wiped out during the course of the fighting. I guess epic battles between all-powerful celestial beings will do that to a species. Curse these weak and spongy bags of flesh we call bodies!!! Only when the world is reborn after all the fighting and Magni and Modi--Thor's sons--are walking through a field of green will they find two sleeping humans--a man and a woman--who will repopulate the Earth. The rest of us? Compost.<br />
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If there's anything that will help to calm your end-of-the-world fears, it's that Ragnarok was supposed to be preceded by the Fimbulwinter, which was a terrible winter that would bury much of the world in snow, ice and cold and would last for three years. And, as everyone knows, we've all had a terrifically mild winter this year, so there's <i>nothing</i> to worry about (if you're reading this from Europe, just play along).<br />
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So, bust the seal out of a box of wine tonight, sit back, turn on the news, and watch as the cameras roll while one-handed Tyr and the giant Fenrir wolf duke it out. You've been fairly warned; if it seems like the sun and the moon have been devoured by giant, celestial wolves, don't come crying to me. I'll just tell you that I told you so.MJenkshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12761003604210840898noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6457515953341334959.post-83993168606841668452014-02-14T12:06:00.001-05:002014-02-14T12:06:32.790-05:00Friday Morning Latin Lesson: Vol. CIXSalvete, omnes! How the hell are you this fine day? <br /><br />In case you were worried, Winter Storm Pax (*eyeroll*) blew through and dumped a lot of snow on us, followed by some sleet, some freezing rain and then more snow. Since the state was essentially shut down on Thursday, I had to take a sick day because I refused to skate in to work on the ice rink roads; on Wednesday, driving home with my kids, I took a lovely three-hour-tour to make the normal thirty minute drive. I love living in the South. Schools and most rational companies were closed or opened late today. <br />
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It's Friday now, and the area is still digging out of from the big snowfall. Myself, I never lost power, but some people did. I also did not wreck on the way home, but there were times when I got disturbingly close to a guard rail and another time when my car seemed hellbent on diving into a ditch. Neither happened, for which I am thankful. It is here that I should add that snow falling and sticking to the pines down here in North By God Carolina? Fucking. Beautiful.<br />
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Not only is it Friday, but it's Valentine's Day, that day in the liturgical calendar set aside to celebrate the Roman priest who refused to set aside his belief system so that he could continue to marry couples under the Christian Rite of Marriage. Eventually, Emperor Claudius Gothicus (Claudius Dos) got fed up with Valentine's antics, and Valentine was forced to set aside his head after the executioner's axe fell.<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiCFgw_AfrgpQOZouZBzB5YXHspsdxSKFZWPr_nDpAP3niV5FcurF55Baxh7OnBO5GhR77jnrYbLTUoB76mKUSGJunhJBGcdTvmvSlwBSu5zL_-NlpxvltkaW6CkV47nE1j_O4-xdSB/s1600/Cupido.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img alt="" border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiCFgw_AfrgpQOZouZBzB5YXHspsdxSKFZWPr_nDpAP3niV5FcurF55Baxh7OnBO5GhR77jnrYbLTUoB76mKUSGJunhJBGcdTvmvSlwBSu5zL_-NlpxvltkaW6CkV47nE1j_O4-xdSB/s1600/Cupido.jpg" height="200" title="I don't know about you, but I just fell in love." width="150" /></a>There are other Roman ties to the holiday. First and foremost among those ties is the use of the pagan god Cupid in association with the holiday. Cupid's name comes from the Latin verb "cupido," which means "I fall in love." He was an adopted, re-envisioned version of Eros, the Greek God of erotic love and lust; since Venus/Aphrodite was the goddess of love and desire, Cupid/Eros is often associated as being her son. Most of the time, there is no mention of a father, though logic would state that Vulcan/Hephaestus was Cupid's father as he was married to Venus. Venus, however, enjoyed fucking Mars, and so there is an association of Mars as Cupid's father. Poets like this idea because then it incorporates the "love" and "war" aspect of so many epics; symbolism is everything.,<br />
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However, there were actually THREE Cupids recognized in Roman religion: Love returned (counter-love), impetuous love or infatuation, and the desire and longing feeling associated with missing someone--like parrots pining for the fjords. These three aspects also appeared in Greek religion and, again, were associated with Aphrodite. <br />
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Originally, Cupid was a slender youth, much like the idea of Puck or any other lithe, fairy-like creature that arose in the northern mythologies. Eventually, all three of the aspects of love morphed into one, and Cupid became a chubby little spanker with a penchant for shooting people in the ass with his love arrows. Cupid actually carried two kinds of arrows: those tipped with gold that would cause the recipient to fall madly and wildly in love and ones tipped with lead that would cause a person to want to flee, sort of the opposite of love. He also sometimes is shown with a blindfold, because love is blind...but lust sure depends on the size of her tits. Er, something.<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgOvt0qYhG92hasvbCT_mSXgFp69hbwuY3vxPrgw7OEXjiif46THl7dAsf7X66oBEDLFgdm0wGLOVf5NheUWVN6p4HbpsnWukiWoAc0oyEZuFOoU2nzXVmjOwpHJGK4PcT3vrOoP3XS/s1600/cupidboy.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img alt="" border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgOvt0qYhG92hasvbCT_mSXgFp69hbwuY3vxPrgw7OEXjiif46THl7dAsf7X66oBEDLFgdm0wGLOVf5NheUWVN6p4HbpsnWukiWoAc0oyEZuFOoU2nzXVmjOwpHJGK4PcT3vrOoP3XS/s1600/cupidboy.jpg" height="200" title="You'll shoot your eye out, kid." width="160" /></a>Cupid himself never had any dedicated temples, but he often was seen in works of art cavorting with other gods, especially his mother. He also was used often in shrines erected in the home; Roman families often built little shrines to the gods in their homes in order to gain their blessings and protections over the families, the crops, the guards and all other associated materials and people.<br />
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Though Cupid was adopted into the Roman mythology from the Greeks, Saint Valentine was a Roman and Cupid was the Roman representation of all things loving, lusting and sexalicious. With that in mind, I thought I'd give you all some advice for tonight, Roman style, so that you may best get your sexy on in a proper celebration of Valentine's beheading. Don't forget the candles--just set them far enough away from the bed so that they won't get knocked over! Sprinkle some rose petals on the sheets to help cover that funky musk you've been emitting during your nocturnal adventures. It wouldn't be a Roman celebration without wine, so be sure to stock up on an amphora or twelve.<br />
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And don't forget to put on a toga--bitches LOVE togas. Plus, togas allow for all sorts of easy access to the best parts of the human body (the eyes--I'm totally talking about the eyes...big, round, beautiful brown eyes...). Togas are particularly helpful when your hands go Roman all over your partner's body.<br />
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And then, lay this one on your significant other when they come busting into the bedroom:<br />
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<i>Romani quidem artem amatoriam invenerunt!</i></center>
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Pronounced: "Roh-mah-nee kwee-daim ar-taim ah-mah-toh-ree-ahm in-way-nay-roont!"</div>
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That's all, folks. Have yourselves a safe and happy holiday. Enjoy the weekend, too. If you've just been smacked by a great pile of snow, be careful. More importantly, get out in it and have fun. I, myself, forget how much fun it is to play in the snow; it's even better if you have kids. It's even better if you kids can't hit the broadside of a barn with a snowball. Myself? I'm the Legolas of snowball fighting--I rarely ever miss! It's a practice I honed for years in the Midwest. Indiana's winters ARE good for something.</div>
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On Monday, I'll tell you what I've been up to for the past year or so. </div>
MJenkshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12761003604210840898noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6457515953341334959.post-88461077273112212392014-02-12T09:17:00.000-05:002014-02-12T09:17:04.944-05:00Wednesday Morning Latin Lesson?I was planning on re-emerging from my bloggery hibernation period on Friday, which just so happens to coincide St. Valentine's Day with Friday, which is the traditional date of all things Latin Lesson-y. However, a wrench has been thrown into my plans, so I decided to go ahead and post something today. You're welcome. My sudden popping out of the slumbering hole can be linked to the impending doom heralded by the slow, yet ferociously fierce arrival of Winter Storm Pax.<br />
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Wait just a minute. Winter Storm...Pax?<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg_f8Y3LwyAr6j-TG7KtqsEck4kzFn342aLTQSMzpOmQ0qujFAm5ndTPg0LZdudIPq97wX_tcyrFGKbmzeQug84JRR4SZY-WYyzT4CtG_a8St6IN5akexuuDJJ-euehEakMAnnY3dwh/s1600/snowbikinis.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img alt="" border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg_f8Y3LwyAr6j-TG7KtqsEck4kzFn342aLTQSMzpOmQ0qujFAm5ndTPg0LZdudIPq97wX_tcyrFGKbmzeQug84JRR4SZY-WYyzT4CtG_a8St6IN5akexuuDJJ-euehEakMAnnY3dwh/s1600/snowbikinis.jpg" height="156" title="I salute you ladies. No. Seriously. I'm standing at attention." width="200" /></a>A large, fierce system of moisture and air just cold enough to freeze water is moving across the southern plains of the United States right now, as we speak. Er, type. Er, read. Whatever, you get the picture. With said wintery system--which has been deemed to have the potential to be 'catastrophic' by CNN, among other major news outlets--forecasters have predicted dangerous conditions for travel as well as large swaths of the American Southeast to go dark from power outages. There will be deaths on the roads from auto accidents and there will be deaths in peoples homes from carbon monoxide poisoning brought on by improper ventilation while running their generators. There will be people getting frostbite and suffering from exposure, there will be people who are chilled in their homes without power, and there may even be heart attacks and strain injuries from shoveling snow. <br />
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All of this paints anything but a peaceful picture.<br />
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However, the braintrust over at the Weather Channel has dubbed this particular weather system "Pax." In case you're unfamiliar with the fuckwittery that goes on at the Weather Channel, a couple of years ago they came up with the notion to name "winter storms" in the same way that we name hurricanes. Granted, there was no rhyme or reason behind the method to their <strike>idiocy</strike> madness; anything that spits snow is a winter storm now. Also, for some strange reason, they decided to pull a mixture of historic names and obscure mythological entities for their list of names; all of this had a heavy Greco-Roman bias to it--except for Orko. We all know that Orko comes from He-Man and Eternia lore, not from some obscure Iberian weather deity that barely has a registry in the Encyclopedia of Mythology. <br />
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All this aside, for 'p' this year, they chose "Pax."<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg5nGSWSeNtcGGZ6GF51adN6ur61pbiiLSAdwe4CPSbScrY7vZOnMr0nnFanIiFE2W5ZIqLXEPe4r1TIiJHSBmMhYOZ2hu5DZ2eJUGoZeUsxW2vgT0XetxQ8LSGa-0ATbYer6Y2B7-a/s1600/roman-goddess-costume.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img alt="" border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg5nGSWSeNtcGGZ6GF51adN6ur61pbiiLSAdwe4CPSbScrY7vZOnMr0nnFanIiFE2W5ZIqLXEPe4r1TIiJHSBmMhYOZ2hu5DZ2eJUGoZeUsxW2vgT0XetxQ8LSGa-0ATbYer6Y2B7-a/s1600/roman-goddess-costume.jpg" height="200" title="Wrong kind of "Roman piece"...or maybe the right kind?" width="98" /></a>Pax, as you may have guessed from the title of the this blog entry (you're so clever, you), comes to us by way of Latin. <i>Pax</i> is a third declension noun (you can tell by the -x on the end of the word), which means that it probably entered into Latin via Greek. If you've attended a Catholic Mass, or you're familiar with hymns, you've come across <i>pax</i> or one of its other forms in the line <i>dona nobis pacem</i>, which means "grant us peace." <br />
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There are two other flavors of <i>pax</i> that have appeared in English over the years. One of them is the phrase <i>Pax Romana</i>, which describes the roughly two hundred year period of peace within the Roman Empire after our boy Augustus took power and thus ended the Roman Republic. <i>Pax Romana</i> brought peace and prosperity to the people of Rome, and for those two centuries--minus the end of Nero's reign which led to the Year of Four Emperors--Rome was basically without internal strife. No civil wars, no great rebellions by conquered people, no piracy along the coasts or across the Mediterranean, just wonderful, blissful, ever-loving Roman peace. Yes, there were still foreign wars, but the Empire had ceased its indefatigable expansion and now focused on protecting their borders and their people. For a couple hundred years, it was good to be Roman.<br />
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The other flavor of <i>pax</i> that you might have encountered is <i>Pax Christi</i>, which means "the peace of Christ" and it has its origins in <i>Pax Romana</i>...er...sorta. <i>Pax Christi</i> was an attempt in 1945 to help normalize relations between France and Germany after WWII. The notion was that the two largely Christian nations should try to emulate the teachings of Christ so that they could work together moving forward and avoid these types of conflagrations again. You know, war, invasion, death...those kind of things that Jesus was pretty much <i>against</i>. From there, the notion that people live a peaceful life based on the teachings of Christ really took hold in the churches--both Catholic and Protestant--and so <i>Pax Christi</i> has become a thing where Christians attempt to better emulate the lessons Jesus passed along to his followers. Novel concept, I know.<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhIPzDIX7PJwyLayR_jyk-kxV2P-rSO5Upuba9H8JVyV4ei-5BLnPx2O0u8hesFyw6shXv1WLUysh_m2yb1mCj-kKwCmUYaJSKQGUU3t8wB-twRq6MVTHr50pTIMxrUJtyYBwmGz7sS/s1600/Notre_Dame_Cheerleaders_03.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img alt="" border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhIPzDIX7PJwyLayR_jyk-kxV2P-rSO5Upuba9H8JVyV4ei-5BLnPx2O0u8hesFyw6shXv1WLUysh_m2yb1mCj-kKwCmUYaJSKQGUU3t8wB-twRq6MVTHr50pTIMxrUJtyYBwmGz7sS/s1600/Notre_Dame_Cheerleaders_03.jpg" height="200" title="Get it? Pugnax? Fighting? Fighting Irish? Whatever; she's hot" width="140" /></a>So, clearly, it makes sense that a dangerous, potentially 'catastrophic' winter storm would garner the name "Pax" as it leaves frozen roads, closed schools and businesses, wrecked cars, and dead bodies in its wake. Way to pick 'em, Weather Channel!<br />
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For reference, other weather outlets such as NOAA have largely dismissed the notion of naming winter storms, describing the practice as silly and potentially dangerous. This is pretty much just a Weather Channel thing, though the supplicants at Time Warner Cable (another group of people renowned for their brilliance) have thrown their support in with the Weather Channel. I guess this means the practice won't go away anytime soon, no matter how many people make fun of them. If so, I hope they think a couple of moments before grabbing any old Latin word out of the lexicon in order to name their storm. Next time, might I suggest "Pugnax."MJenkshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12761003604210840898noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6457515953341334959.post-58300111181853065912013-12-02T07:20:00.000-05:002013-12-02T08:06:33.778-05:00TMI Cyber Monday Morning Latin LessonWhen the call came in to party central that we were going to try and kickstart ye olde Blogosphere with a Cyber Monday special, my mind immediately went to a different meaning of the word <a href="http://exuimus.blogspot.com/2010/03/tmi-thursday-this-shit-has-got-to-stop.html" target="_blank">cyber</a>. The relationship I had with the Ex- was a special one, and since it was a long-distance thing, we did a lot of talking online and over the phone. In case you don't remember, the Ex- is my pseudonym to protect the identity of my former fiancee, with whom I had many a sexual (mis)adventure. Our relationship, such as it was, suffered from being a long-distance thing. Fortunately, we had phones and computers with which to chat, converse, and flirt.<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj80KpAc2uIajkeS3sYEr2eeAj54pRUojN2sjlGRztgWT2Fyno25HRmcXx4u5zWWIijQFpnc4wmujKTxSk84Ji-IhlzfF2rG2QJ4HWUfM3dKxMT1MKUxbIHkjYeQSBxrpnMdeVNHfG_/s1600/Laptop.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img alt="" border="0" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj80KpAc2uIajkeS3sYEr2eeAj54pRUojN2sjlGRztgWT2Fyno25HRmcXx4u5zWWIijQFpnc4wmujKTxSk84Ji-IhlzfF2rG2QJ4HWUfM3dKxMT1MKUxbIHkjYeQSBxrpnMdeVNHfG_/s200/Laptop.jpg" title="I'm sure it was like this every. damned. time." width="171" /></a>As our relationship progressed and turned more sexual, we did a whole lot of sexing over the interwebs, more commonly known as "cybersex." While I spent many a night with the phone held in the crook of my neck between my ear and my shoulder or doing some serious one-handed typing, there came a point where I needed to describe what it was I was going to do to her. In graphic detail. Because she liked the dirty talk. A lot. However, I was not sure of what term she preferred for her "lady parts."<br />
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This has always been an awkward and delicate situation for me. Anytime that I was faced with a new girlfriend or a new lover, someone with whom I may, one day, be getting intimate, I would always stumble when trying to discover what term she used when discussing her Holy of Holies. Most of the time, I would broach the subject tenderly, by inserting a cleverly-placed "*ahem*" into the spot where the questionable euphemism would or should be supplied. It was after the third or fourth *ahem* that the Ex- finally revealed to me that her preferred term for her lady parts was the <a href="http://theoatmeal.com/comics/c_word" target="_blank">Terrible C-Word</a> (or cunt, if you're not twelve years old).<br />
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I've already touched upon the derivation of said euphemism and how it is related to rabbits. A <i>cuniculus</i> makes a tunnel; an *ahem* has a tunnel. See? Brilliant.<br />
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A few weeks ago, I came across an amusing cat picture on the internet. No, really. Guys, I know you might not believe this, but there are <i>a lot</i> of cat pictures on the internet. Well, this one was somewhat clever: it featured a long-haired feline sitting between a woman's ankles and the cat was looking up. Naughty, naughty, kitty.<br />
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That got me to thinking, though: Where <i>did</i> the association between a woman's genitalia and a friendly kitteh begin? So, I did some research on the subject. I also looked into the etymology of the word "pussy." See what I did there? I am the master of the bait and switch.<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhXXgGd4gD_22xlHeVuwRxHB26R9Zj2pEL0Zm0dgaPs3zG9ozMHEpeW1kkMy6DpKcSv_LUJqGH9ji5yu7v_44BFe0OxE-zmoIi9M4ohKYancYEwBKYTfcGGB12q-2VqRhdTSszfzSir/s1600/Resemblance.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="219" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhXXgGd4gD_22xlHeVuwRxHB26R9Zj2pEL0Zm0dgaPs3zG9ozMHEpeW1kkMy6DpKcSv_LUJqGH9ji5yu7v_44BFe0OxE-zmoIi9M4ohKYancYEwBKYTfcGGB12q-2VqRhdTSszfzSir/s320/Resemblance.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
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Anyway, the term pussy, when applied to a cat, comes to us (probably) from German, where the term "puss" is used as a familiar form for cat, kind of like how we use kitty nowadays. The word puss (and, by extension, pussy) was used not only for cats, but also for rabbits and bunnies (connecting us back to the above euphemisms!) and an ironic sort of name for tigers. It seems as though the word "puss" was used lovingly for anything that it warm, covered in hair, and is easy to stroke.<br />
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I know what you're thinking, but let's not go there just yet, because we have other connections to make here.<br />
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Puss and Pussy were also old school affectionate names for girls, kind of like we use Sugar, Dear or Honey today. Despite all this, however, it seems that the warm, hairy, lovable parts of a female's anatomy are <i>not</i> the straightforward connection you might naturally assume. However, there was probably some trading back and forth of terms in various languages in Europe, whether it was the Germanic tongues that the Angles and Saxons brought to the British Isles or the Romance languages derived from and adopted by various barbarian tribes that took up homes in Western Europe as the Roman Empire slowly crumbled into history. <br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgiiL3_bjvFxWrZoIFPBFxr_Bsj0l2eyOgcJ7WdeudsXdg1EUp_usvqtF5jVmkY-dmddrtt4RXemy4gty5qkGz6AnPqqCYoKADKWa-mEw4RqTlMWeMGKthgp5b_7JppW59wfRHxdqJA/s1600/Leelee19.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img alt="" border="0" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgiiL3_bjvFxWrZoIFPBFxr_Bsj0l2eyOgcJ7WdeudsXdg1EUp_usvqtF5jVmkY-dmddrtt4RXemy4gty5qkGz6AnPqqCYoKADKWa-mEw4RqTlMWeMGKthgp5b_7JppW59wfRHxdqJA/s200/Leelee19.jpg" title="See, because she's a girl and she's French! Perfect!" width="136" /></a>With that said, pussy, as it pertains to female genitalia, probably did enter into the language as a slang term for girls. However, in this case, it probably came from the French word <i>la pucelle</i>, which means "young woman," which is ultimately derived from the Latin term <i>puella</i>, girl. It probably began to be used as a euphemism for vagina in English and then spread out from there. Both French and German have back translated words meaning "cat" to use as slang words for female genitalia, such as <i>la chatte</i> in French--notice the gender of the noun! This is probably an instance where the similarities in pronunciation of the two words blended the meanings of the word together--puss and pussy meaning something soft and furry <i>as well as</i> a term for a young woman. From there, despite having different definitions, the similar pronunciations of two words eventually led them to be connected, though cats and vaginae really don't have that much in common...other than having lots of pictures of each on the internet.<br />
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The connotation between a slang term for a woman's reproductive organs and someone who is weak, I thought, was an obvious one: if you're a man who either won't stand and fight or who appears weak and effeminate, you might have female reproductive organs and are therefore a pussy. It's a schoolyard taunt that many of us have made without thinking about it.<br />
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However, I learned that it most likely has nothing to do with girls, cats or soft, furry, touchable things. Instead, a pussy of a man is one who is weak in spirit, and the term pussy, in this case, comes from the word "pusillanimous," which has descended into English from Latin and means "having a very small soul or spirit." Pusillanimous, in English, means "lacking courage." Rather than throw out the sesquipedalian word, it got shortened to it's first two syllables: pussy, and though the /u/ sound in pusillanimous is slightly different from the /u/ in pussy, the similar spellings came to be pronounced the same way. <br />
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Offended yet? No? Good. Disgusted? No? Well, get ready.<br />
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One more meaning for the word pussy to hit you with: if you change the pronunciation of the the /u/ in the word to sound more like that in the word "bus," you get a whole different meaning. And I think we can all agree that a pussy should never be pussy.<br />
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That does remind me of a time in an undergraduate scientific Latin and Greek class where the professor translated <i>pyoma</i> (I think) as "a pussy tumor." I was writing that down, when suddenly I was hit with a spelling question. I turned to my friend Amanda and whispered "How do you spell 'pussy?'" Then we giggled like the twelve-year-olds we were (I was a senior, she was a sophomore, so totally appropriate).<br />
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Alright, let's see here: REM lyric worked into the text. Check. TMI post about how I used to cyberfuck my Ex-Fiancee? Check. Useless Latin trivia? Check. Picture of LeeLee Sobieski? Check. Hovertext? Got it! Pictures of scantily-clad women? You betcha. Several puns and double entendre? All over the place! A really long post that no one will read? Double check! Alright, that about wraps it up here. See you again in two years!MJenkshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12761003604210840898noreply@blogger.com8tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6457515953341334959.post-4896481050344428562013-04-26T07:28:00.000-04:002013-04-26T08:28:00.987-04:00Friday Morning Latin Lesson, Vol. CVIIIApril was an exciting month in the life of Emperor Caracalla. Oh, you weren't familiar with Caracalla? He was Roman Emperor from 198 to 217, part of the Severine dynasty. To give you the short history of Caracalla, he was a dick. Don't believe me? Just ask his brother, Geta, with whom he co-ruled the Empire after their father, Septimius Severus <strike>Snape</strike> died. That is, until Caracalla had Geta murdered in 211.<br />
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Caracalla was born on April 4, 188, in Lugdunum (which we call "Lyon" nowadays) and was saddled with the name Lucius Septimius Bassianus. There we go with the names ending in "-anus" once again. Understandably, ol' Low Asshole (rough translation) changed his name to Marcus Aurelius Antoninus Caesar to better connect with former, greater emperors, Marcus Aurelius and a couple of the Caesars.<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEifn88WJr-d6wNvriqvFOy4IEb8cRu136eLv0zMLiba7xUgVzZb2cnxnszPAqVjH5qHJn93JdLkPMGiCT5oIP7Xp1WUBLqEbnVpZUDB-0-z_pr-3dfFfq61AE0yjZIvhSo089bYxe6f/s1600/redridinghood.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img alt="" border="0" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEifn88WJr-d6wNvriqvFOy4IEb8cRu136eLv0zMLiba7xUgVzZb2cnxnszPAqVjH5qHJn93JdLkPMGiCT5oIP7Xp1WUBLqEbnVpZUDB-0-z_pr-3dfFfq61AE0yjZIvhSo089bYxe6f/s200/redridinghood.jpg" title="This would be a "caracalla rubra venusta", a sexy red riding hood." width="140" /></a>The name Caracalla? Oh, I'm glad you asked. He earned it because he went everywhere wearing a cloak with a hood. It was a bit of local fashion among the Gauls, and when Caracalla became Emperor, the fashion really took off. Kind of like a Ronald Reagan jelly bean theme or a Bill Clinton saxophone motif. <br />
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Caracalla was a military man, which was important for two reasons: one, commanding the army (and having their support) went far when trying to stake a claim to the throne in Rome. Just ask Geta. You know, if he wasn't murdered by his brother's goons. The second reason it was important was that it helped him <i>keep</i> the throne after he won it. It also was nice that his soldiers decided that they would also wear <i>caracallae</i>, thus helping make the garment popular.<br />
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Caracalla gave a finger to the traditional look of an Emperor, wearing his hair and beard in traditional short, military fashion. Also, most of his depictions showed him scowling; Caracalla wasn't going to take your shit. He was one of the first Emperors who didn't try to beautify his image, and it showed. Oh boy, did it show. Diocletian is usually the first name on list of megalomaniacal asshole Emperors, but Caracalla was near the top. Thousands died in the persecutions under Caracalla, mostly for supporting his brother Geta's claim to the throne. Or for just pissing him off.<br />
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The boys had been sparring on-and-off for years about co-rulership of the Empire, so their mother, Julia Domna, arranged to have her sons get together, sit down, and work things out. Caracalla did, sort of. He ordered those members of the Praetorian Guard loyal to him to kill his brother. Geta ended up dying in Julia Domna's arms. Classy, Caracalla. He then ordered the military to slaughter anyone who supported his brother's claim to the throne, pretty much ending all threat to his rule.<br />
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Caracalla then claimed that he killed Geta in self-defense, the old "he's coming right at me!" defense. The people of Alexandria did not quite believe the Emperor, and thus produced a satirical play about the subject. Caracalla, who didn't have time for your shit, was unamused and, when 20,000 citizens of Alexandria came out to welcome him to the city, Caracalla had them slaughtered. <br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjsyJasGPCGH-0OxVDYTZh83nTjMRiZ5VBrHvlEef6RK-8EyFzWR5EmAVhiSH99bfoM110JTgWecgBgQf_vbbdSrrllLvf_xW0CnSyjo04KqjbsKLq3YVocMVVxPK2FA465TgqiusA6/s1600/SlaveLeia.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img alt="" border="0" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjsyJasGPCGH-0OxVDYTZh83nTjMRiZ5VBrHvlEef6RK-8EyFzWR5EmAVhiSH99bfoM110JTgWecgBgQf_vbbdSrrllLvf_xW0CnSyjo04KqjbsKLq3YVocMVVxPK2FA465TgqiusA6/s200/SlaveLeia.jpg" title="Sorry, miss. The slave class were still not considered citizens." width="132" /></a>For all that, Caracalla also did some good things. His big thing, the thing that he might best be remembered for, the thing that almost absolves him of the boorish dickishness was known as the Edict of Caracalla. In it, he extended the rights of citizenship to every free man and woman (this was a big deal) in the Empire. Previously, citizenship had been granted only to those who lived in Rome and was extended out to cover the Italian peninsula. Caracalla thumbed his nose once more at tradition and extended citizenship to anyone living within the borders of the Roman Empire.<br />
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Caracalla is also known for construction of one of the last major public works in Rome: the Baths of Caracalla. Covering a sprawling 33 acres, the baths were one of the few to also include a public library with rooms for reading in both Greek and Latin; two <i>palaestrae</i> or gyms for practicing boxing and wrestling; a row of shops; a dedicated swimming pool open to the sky and featuring bronze mirrors to warm the water; and several large gardens for bathers to stroll in after they finished splashing about in the heated waters of the baths. It was all open to the public; an estimated 1600 bathers could be accommodated at one time at the Baths.<br />
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Though this might seem like an exceedingly generous thing to do, it was one of the ways that Caracalla kept his enemies at bay. He taxed the rich families heavily in order to provide for these public works. After killing Geta, Caracalla took the army and began moving around the northern and eastern provinces of the Empire, demanding more money from the rich families to support his army's movements. He also levied heavy taxes in order to pay for meaningless temples, palaces, baths and other such constructs in these outlying provinces.<br />
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However, the Baths were his most famous and lasting works. They are still a popular tourist attraction in Rome today, and there is written evidence that the Baths were used well into the 19th century in Rome, though they had to be rebuilt a few times thanks to the ravages of time, earthquakes and the odd band of savages moving through the area.<br />
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Seems fitting that we should honor Caracalla with today's Latin phrase:<br />
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<i>Balineo utimur!</i></center>
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Pronounced: "Ba-lynn-aye-oh oo-tee-myur!"<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhXsnzHuT1oTNhGqhjn6kAUN9EJra8QBmB0DwqGvTjJLVsl0LOMFRqiNmWF96d3aq9L0_hLVDg2UV-Jck_oJ028N9vUY3RxMDZMd9-6Pm5bIhe4LHWPt3kWoAa3_O2pUCpTItmfMhgj/s1600/bathingpicture.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img alt="" border="0" height="298" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhXsnzHuT1oTNhGqhjn6kAUN9EJra8QBmB0DwqGvTjJLVsl0LOMFRqiNmWF96d3aq9L0_hLVDg2UV-Jck_oJ028N9vUY3RxMDZMd9-6Pm5bIhe4LHWPt3kWoAa3_O2pUCpTItmfMhgj/s400/bathingpicture.jpg" title="Let's take a bath." width="400" /></a></div>
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<i>Um...yeah. Hovertext.</i></center>
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I mentioned April being a big month for Caracalla. Well, the always-friendly and terribly-tactful Caracalla had been offered a marriage proposal with a Parthian bride that would bring about peace between Rome and neighboring Parthia. In true Caracalla fashion, he went through with the sham of a wedding and then had the bride and all the guests put to death. <br />
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Damn. Red Wedding, anyone? <br />
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The Parthians, none too pleased about this, threatened and then attacked Roman lands and so continued the Parthian War of Caracalla. Satisfied with his handiwork, Caracalla mustered his soldiers and headed east, hellbent on finishing off the Parthian threat once and for all. Many had thought or hoped that Caracalla's daddy, Septimius Severus <strike>Snape</strike> had ended the Parthian threat, but it turned out only he could keep the Parthians at bay.<br />
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On April 8, 217, while on the way toward the enemy capitol of Ctesiphon, Caracalla called a halt to the march and headed off to the side of the road to toss a whiz. A man named Julius Martialis, pissed because Caracalla had killed his brother, went Inigo Montoya on the Emperor and killed him with a single sword-stroke while the Emperor was pissing. There's a good chance that Caracalla died with his dick in his hand, the attack was so fast and so decisive. The assassin was then shot through with an arrow ending his fifteen minutes of fame right then and there.<br />
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Conveniently, the chief of Caracalla's Praetorians was a man named Macrinius who, amazingly, succeeded Caracalla as Emperor. Macrinius was Emperor for about a year before he, too, was assassinated. No word on where his dick was when he died.MJenkshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12761003604210840898noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6457515953341334959.post-80517968212296803262013-03-22T07:34:00.000-04:002013-03-22T07:34:00.489-04:00Friday Morning Latin Lesson: Vol. CVII<i>Salvete, amici!</i> Here we are again at the end of another week, and what a week it's been, eh? Is your bracket already busted? Are you asshole deep in snow yet? How about that new Pope, eh? That covers pretty much the sum total of all the news that was this past week, doesn't it? <br />
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This is, of course, the greatest time of the year for me, being that the NCAA men's and women's basketball tournaments are going right now. The men's tournament, of course, tipped off on Tuesday with the "first four", the four in this case being the first four games, otherwise known as the "play-in" games. However, "purists" don't count these first four games (because purists are dumb) and you probably have to look long and hard to find someone who actually <i>counts</i> these games in their office pool brackets. I guess it's understandable; only the truly sick and depraved would watch these games and hold an actual interest in them. I don't have a problem. I swear!<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhkFXvIbgzbwbriAkULiBuNIBaY6GK06CZpuhIGeJuFjVYzlgaeHdpDd21GNqfG1yZ9BsUPLnI7cOUfwgIixN-0Ovon7DrPZVGPNqaHCmROKbZjf2UNbYSvXkifSkH6rlR60JGPud0j/s1600/WebbSplash.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img alt="" border="0" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhkFXvIbgzbwbriAkULiBuNIBaY6GK06CZpuhIGeJuFjVYzlgaeHdpDd21GNqfG1yZ9BsUPLnI7cOUfwgIixN-0Ovon7DrPZVGPNqaHCmROKbZjf2UNbYSvXkifSkH6rlR60JGPud0j/s200/WebbSplash.jpg" title="This was the only good thing to come out of the National Championship game..." width="133" /></a>The tournament itself has picked up the moniker "March Madness" (even though half of it this year will be played in April...) which stems, somewhat, from the phrase "mad as a March hare". March is the month in which rabbits get it on, which would be one reason for those hares to be acting all harebrained; sweet, sweet <i>cunnus cuniculi</i> is on the line! March Madness originally was the nickname for the Illinois state high school tournament--a Land of Lincoln version of Hoosier Hysteria (so much alliteration...). It was lifted by noted national sportscasting perv and Webb-family hero, Brent Musburger, who probably thought it his own creation when he spewed it forth in a drunken broadcast during 1982. We thank you for that, Brent, as well as the gift of Katherine Webb in a bikini um, diving, or whatever shit she's doing in that television show. Shut up and close the blinds--I'm watching here!<br />
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The term "Sweet Sixteen" showed up sometime in the 90s, and was once again lifted from a high school tournament. Several lawsuits with much legalese being bandied about came from the state of Kentucky, where Sweet Sixteen was used for many, many years to describe the final sixteen teams playing in their state high school tournament. Final Four, also, was stolen from a high school tournament, this time going back to the hotbed of high school hoops, the great state of Indiana, where "final four" was used to describe the last quartet of teams that survived the semistate rounds of the tournament before class basketball ruined Indiana high school athletics forever. Someone claimed that "final four" was used in the late 70s to describe when Marquette was one of the final four schools left in the tournament, but Marquette can go fuck themselves for all I care.<br /><br />Oh, thanks for Tom Crean, by the way.<br />
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March, of course, gets its name from the Roman God of war, Mars. <i>Martius</i> was the first month of the Roman Calendar, and it was ruled over by Mars--the embodiment of bloodlust and battle of warfare, as opposed to Minerva who was the strategist--because <i>Martius</i> was the time for planting crops and for making war. Mars was originally an agrarian god, one who looked over the soil, the crops and the land. The connection between the soil and battle was made glaringly clear in the movie Gladiator, where Maximus is constantly rubbing the soil on his face and fingers before battle.<br />
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Mars also gave us the name for Tuesday (in a round-about way). The Romans thought that Mars, the planet in the sky, commanded the second day of the week, and so they named it <i>dies Martis</i> or "day of Mars". When the Romans came in contact with some of the Germanic folk, the Germans liked this idea and so they began calling the second day of the week after <i>their</i> God of War, Tyr. Thus, the name of the second day of the week became "Tyr's day" which eventually morphed into Tuesday. And with the first four tipping off on Tuesdays, we've brought this bitch full circle. All praise Mars!<br />
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<i>Tempus est Furori Martis!</i></div>
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Pronounced: "Tem-poose est fyoo-roar-ee Mar-teese!"</div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjd0BwsQFwkvdBcDemY1hlqa2xxdKyA-a1RWE5DFBbm7KhCd8KaAazLlBg-SZ7It1NAD0FJqiCatgv22w4OFlp9e2xI1lqFuDEO4SCP5b2rEw_GTCVBXOMpdvyTCzEda9qTgCzvJKsX/s1600/marsbasketball.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img alt="" border="0" height="243" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjd0BwsQFwkvdBcDemY1hlqa2xxdKyA-a1RWE5DFBbm7KhCd8KaAazLlBg-SZ7It1NAD0FJqiCatgv22w4OFlp9e2xI1lqFuDEO4SCP5b2rEw_GTCVBXOMpdvyTCzEda9qTgCzvJKsX/s400/marsbasketball.jpg" title="It's time for March Madness!" width="400" /></a></div>
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<i>There's some serious meta stuff going on in this picture. Also, hovertext!</i></div>
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March, of course, has the reputation of "coming in like a lion" and going "out like a lamb." We're three weeks into March, with the first full day of Spring being yesterday. This weekend, most of the country is bracing for another major snowstorm. Yep. Totally going out like a lamb! I thought maybe this other phrase would be helpful while you're shoveling your car out of yet another bank of snow left in the wake of the plows.</div>
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<i>Te pedicabo, Philippe...</i></div>
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Pronounced: "Tay pay-dee-cah-boh, Phil-lee-pay"</div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjAxfwOp0frsw7y-JA0_fbV6c3vdnOGysm0TO-S_iWkXsYMd0deh9T0fHRfqyV8kZlUPKiEDsrKLHAlV703I-CM1DV-A0SMeJnSZ9ezWBjSlNLpx-jT6qNU4GtqHQbExWmVBMZLK0Tj/s1600/PunxPhil.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img alt="" border="0" height="284" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjAxfwOp0frsw7y-JA0_fbV6c3vdnOGysm0TO-S_iWkXsYMd0deh9T0fHRfqyV8kZlUPKiEDsrKLHAlV703I-CM1DV-A0SMeJnSZ9ezWBjSlNLpx-jT6qNU4GtqHQbExWmVBMZLK0Tj/s320/PunxPhil.jpg" title="Fuck you, Phil." width="320" /></a></div>
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<i>A translation more accurate that weather prognosticating rodents in the hovertext</i> <br />
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Lay in some alcohol and have the pizza man on speed dial: it's going to be a long weekend. Might as well get drunk, watch some basketball, and have cholesterol-laden regret coursing through your veins on Monday morning! <i>Valete, omnes!</i></div>
MJenkshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12761003604210840898noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6457515953341334959.post-91574400665163013472013-03-20T07:38:00.000-04:002013-03-20T07:38:00.937-04:00Let's Talk Library EtiquetteMy kids changed schools this year (again). They now attend a school which is maybe two miles from my main place of employment. It's also a charter school, so it does not have any busing routes, which means that suddenly daddy becomes the bus driver. Which means I totally get to smoke pot, wiggle my fingers and think about how amazing they are. Like, mind-blowingly amazing. Whoa. <br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjjwYb9ySkZNb7AKgl665RxgpRa0zhZXIfluRKTquOgs_BN_K5vtPOk4USWnW1UeTiRQEMkLaeZGM5wiS7BnH8A8k3fPuhyCs1a7xvDrTJPrTA8pKYPgM-QRhjHwIaX8S0EikKycIGx/s1600/Otto.png" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img alt="" border="0" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjjwYb9ySkZNb7AKgl665RxgpRa0zhZXIfluRKTquOgs_BN_K5vtPOk4USWnW1UeTiRQEMkLaeZGM5wiS7BnH8A8k3fPuhyCs1a7xvDrTJPrTA8pKYPgM-QRhjHwIaX8S0EikKycIGx/s200/Otto.png" title="You know, they call 'em fingers, but I've never seen them fing." width="158" /></a>Anyway, since radio around here sucks (the frigid, empty expanse of space holds not a candle to the vast wasteland of corporate playlists or morning- and evening-drive time deejay drivel that is foisted upon the innocent listeners of the Triangle area), my children and I have been rocking the audio books for most of the year now. And we've all really enjoyed them. I've introduced them to a few of my childhood favorite characters (Bunnicula) and we've found some new gems along the way (Bartimaeus. kicks. ASS!). They say that it's supposed to be a good thing for kids to listen to audio books as a way of expanding their minds and increasing their vocabulary and blahblahblahblah. I just know that I don't want to put a fist through the front face of my radio because Klinger has some other badass witticism to thrust upon us about how awesome ice-cold Budweiser is. Yeah, man.<br />
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I almost punched my screen just imagining that scenario.<br />
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The only problem has been moving from one series to the next. The aforementioned Bartimaeus trilogy was the first audio book we picked up, and it was a hit right away. Everything else has kind of paled in comparison--mostly because the story for Bartimaeus was so awesome, and the narrator, Simon Jones, gave the titular demon a personality that popped right out of the speakers (and off the page of the book, since I bought all three of them in various paper and electronic formats). As I mentioned, we've been through several, and some have not been as good as the others, but overall we've been pretty happy with the experience.<br />
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Currently, we're listening to the Dark is Rising series by Susan Cooper. The fourth book of the series, <i>The Grey King</i>, was a Newbery Award winner, though I don't think that it's any better than the other books in the series. Perhaps because it involved more questing, the second book, <i>The Dark is Rising</i>, was my favorite. Overall, they've been a good listen. On Monday morning, on the ride to school, we finished <i>The Grey King</i>, and so while I was out on my lunch break, I thought I would swing by the library and pick up the final book in the series.<br />
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Not so fast, my friend.<br />
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Everything was fine, initially. I walked in the door, dropped off the finished audiobook and then went over to the section of the library where the kids audiobooks were featured. This is where things began to go pear-shaped.<br />
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And, I mean that almost literally.<br />
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As I approached, a large, unfriendly-looking woman, festooned in steak fries dipped in ranch sauce--okay, I'm making this last part up. She was wearing a sweatshirt. With kittens on it. Silhouetted. Kittens.<br /><br />I probably should have given up then.<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj1wZ-LPeyA3stPFQpTkvF73a4xyfQ8BcPp-HSFqJiktE101XlENFpGbT56K3tLoi__GlirsFuhKhhtAoJPmL7mwuWS7Voml_TBs9Tj-HdnOm3KdR5b58a54ek_1Fce5hGV0bDwGgXD/s1600/librarian.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img alt="" border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj1wZ-LPeyA3stPFQpTkvF73a4xyfQ8BcPp-HSFqJiktE101XlENFpGbT56K3tLoi__GlirsFuhKhhtAoJPmL7mwuWS7Voml_TBs9Tj-HdnOm3KdR5b58a54ek_1Fce5hGV0bDwGgXD/s320/librarian.jpg" title="If I show you my card catalogue, will you show me your Dewey Decimal system?" width="212" /></a><i>However</i>, I persisted because I <i>knew</i> where the book was that I needed, and I <i>knew</i> that this library had a copy of the book. As I approached the <i>three</i> shelving units of audiobooks, she settled her dead, yellowish eyes on me, picked up her purse and set it on the shelf next to a stack of books she was going to check out. The purse <i>and</i> the books were stacked up right in front of the book I needed.<br />
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So, I decided not to make a big deal out of it. I would just wait my turn patiently, like a mature, calm, cool-headed adult. And that's what I did. I waited.<br />
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And waited.<br />
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And waited.<br />
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And waited.<br />
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After five minutes, she shuffled down to the <i>next</i> bay of audiobooks. Before she slithered away, she looked at me, not once, but <i>twice</i>. Most normal human beings would have excused themselves and asked if I needed in to the area that she was guarding. However, ranch-infused, kitten-sweater wearing embodiments of Dolores Umbridge don't ask such nice things. They simply look you over, dismiss you as a functioning member of society, and then dig through the audiobooks with their pudgy, beringed fingers.<br />
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So, I waited. And waited some more.<br />
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At this point, my childhood spent being raised in the Great Lakes region was beginning to show through, and I hit this woman with some of my finest Passive-Aggressivism. I leaned toward the books. I folded my arms. I paced back and forth, all the while looking at her nasty little pink purse, looking through that insult to humanity, to the place where the book was for which I so yearned.<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiW2kj1KCzGA5f3fW-zDjYaqVUsep5cZeEI0XfptIP13gXy_6L5tuDF96Qmd5hJxsx9Xp0A6SUVYSHpX5F2usmKQTZBmO2C1tUlsqE6WVbmpm6jSXrvMHYgZy1f5HW2hJMBP91u102J/s1600/Umbridge.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img alt="" border="0" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiW2kj1KCzGA5f3fW-zDjYaqVUsep5cZeEI0XfptIP13gXy_6L5tuDF96Qmd5hJxsx9Xp0A6SUVYSHpX5F2usmKQTZBmO2C1tUlsqE6WVbmpm6jSXrvMHYgZy1f5HW2hJMBP91u102J/s200/Umbridge.jpg" title="I still say it's a shame we never saw Umbridge killed." width="113" /></a>Unfazed by a world going on around her gravity well, she continued slumping toward the third bookshelf, pawing at the titles neatly ordered there. I continued to pace, by now having waited fifteen minutes simply to get my book. Finally, she slouched back toward her purse and books, but then decided to have another go at the first bay of audiobooks, taking another two minutes to go through the titles before, with a heavy sigh signifying how put out she was that she had to take her stuff and go, she finally heaved that atrocity of a purse onto her shoulders, picked up the stack of books and, not without one final look at all the titles on the shelves, waddled away toward the check out area.<br />
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I stepped forward, took the book that I needed, and was gone.<br />
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Five seconds. That's all it took. Five. Fucking. Seconds.<br />
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I walked straight to the check out line, beating her by a good thirty yards. I scanned my card, scanned the book, printed the receipt and was gone in thirty seconds. Quick as a wink, I was out with my book.<br />
<br />
That is, if the wink took 25 minutes. Twenty-four and a half were spent waiting on silly Sally Kittenlover to move her prodigiously pink handbag out of the way. <br />
<br />
The lesson: if someone is standing in line trying to get to the same area where your shit is stacked up, kindly ask them if they need in there. More than likely, they will politely say yes, take what they need, and thank you up one side and down the other for your altruistic sacrifice.<br />
<br />
Otherwise, you end up the subject of a public-shaming in the blogosphere.MJenkshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12761003604210840898noreply@blogger.com6