Friday Morning Latin Lesson, Vol LVI

So, my blog, she remains a broken.

I've tinkered with the HTML of the layout, but...*sigh*...as you can see, it's to little or, to be 100% truthful, no avail.

I must offer up many apologies for the state of affairs around here. I'm sorry that things won't load all the way, and if that slows your computer down, then I take no blame at all. I'm diverting all the blame to the Chinese and Indian spambots who forced me to constantly switch back and forth between word verification and no word verification. I'm sure they've given my little slice o' the internet the blogospheric version of gonorrhea.

In that light, I'm working on a fix that I should, hopefully, have in place by Monday. Come back then and keep your fingers crossed and maybe--just maybe--I'll have something tidied up around here for everyone.

This is where I'd normally try and stretch the current subject material to correlate and align with some facet of Roman life or Roman history. However, as you might have surmised, the Romans didn't have a lot of computers laying around. In fact, the Romans, while gifted architecturally, weren't so good at math, especially multiplication. Statements such as L x X = D were probably a touch confusing to young Romans (and the Roman version of Barbie). Imagine how long it would take to figure out XXIV x LVII = ?

That's enough to bring me to tears, and I'm the one who wrote it.

The answer is MCCCLXVIII, in case you were wondering.

Yes, I used a calculator to do that.

Despite the lack of computers in Ancient Rome, some people have been able to hammer on the Latin language and make it work for our modern way of life. This is typically termed "dog Latin", and, for some reason, some people look down their noses at it. Apparently, if it didn't come from Pliny the Elder, it's not real Latin in these people's opinions. Bunch of podeces, if you ask me.

Dog Latin or no, let me offer you this phrase, which I've been muttering at my monitor for the past 72 hours or so:

Assume plicam damnatam, o tu moles muscaria muscerdarum!
Pronounced: Ah-soo-may plee-cahm dahn-nah-tahm, oh too moh-lays moo-skah-ree-ah moo-skair-dah-room!

Smithers, what is this 'hovertext' on my monitor mean?

Have a nice weekend, everyone. Except for you, Pat Robertson. What the hell, man?

Son of a...

What the hell, people. I broke my blog somehow. I'm not sure. I mean, I usually know when I break something. Like, if I'm trying to work on it or fix it, I usually hear a snap and a tinkle as some piece falls irretrievably to the bottom of whatever I'm tinkering with. That usually involves me saying bad words and hitting something. Which is a perfect segue into the second way I know I've broken something, when I smash it out of anger and lots of little pieces fly everywhere and/or there's a dent in the wall. And then there's the third type of "I've broken something" that happens at work, and usually that involves a lot of gas being generated, possibly a gout of yellow liquid spraying everywhere, and me whistling innocently as I casually, yet in a hurried fashion, make for the exit to "go to lunch".

But, my blog, she's a broken, and I don't know to fix her.

I noticed yesterday that things weren't loading quite right on my work computer, but when I got home, everything on my home computer was fine. Now, even at home, things are eff to the you to the sea to the kay fucked.

I mean, I could go and find the layout--again--and then reinstall everything, and then I'd have to go around and find all the wonderful blogs I read and put those back in here and...fuck. That's a lot of shit. And, inevitably, I'd forget someone, and then they'd be all pissy and smearing my name in YOUR comments section, and I just can't have that. The only person who gets to smear my name is ME.

Plus, I've got a lot of writing to avoid--I mean, to do. Yes, a lot of writing to do. *shifty-eyed*

Anyway, did you guys hear that it's been cold? I've heard that some places got down to -50 something wind chills. That's enough to make your nipples stand up. Here in North By God Carolina, it's been pretty chilly, too. In fact, it came to the point where I had to bust out my coat that I wore when I was still at Notre Dame. I don't usually get that out unless it's 25 degrees or colder. I learned my lesson the first year I was married and we came down to Charlotte to visit her parents around Christmas time, and I about died of heat exhaustion wearing my heavy coat. Sweating outside in January is something you should only do if you're playing football, and while South Park Mall is a battle zone sometimes, it's not exactly the grid iron.

But, I don't mind the cold. Once I've acclimated, I'm okay with it. What, it's chilly? Oh darn, I guess I'll have to brew some coffee and lay around under my favorite afghans while watching Dirty Jobs. What a terrible fate. Oh, do cry for me, Argentina. In short, I'm a fan of the cold.

You know who's not a fan of the cold? My toes. This is rather unfortunate because my toes, apparently, take the brunt of the cold air. Seriously, my right foot has felt cold for about six weeks straight. Sure, some of that might be do to my, ahem, avoirdupois causing some poor circulation, but I think the bigger part is that I've worn my socks down to what can, at best, be described as "threadbare".

So, I've had to take desperate measures. That's right, I'm doubling up my socks, folks. Now, instead of the standard one pair, I'm soiling two pairs a day. And still, I'm feeling a bit chilly down in the wine cellar of my soul. I've even got on my slippers--ah, wait, I'm sorry. My house shoes. I am in the South, after all.

Still, while I'm looking at this weekend's forecast and thinking "highs in the 50s? Fuck a duck", I've got ten little piddies who are practically jumping for joy. Oh look, right now, they're dancing! Oh, how happy they must be for warmer temperatures.

It's either that, or they've been exposed to some kind of neurotoxin in the lab.

Totally Blowing Stuff Up Tuesdays: Desperately Seeking Sponsorship

Don't run away, this isn't what it, at first, appears to be. It's not a sports post, I swear. It's a sports-related post. The fine hairs have been split. I admit it. Run away if you must, but know that you're missing one helluvan explosion later.

Fine, you can skip to the explosion. Just know that you're missing some decent back story.

I lied, the back story isn't that decent.

So, this was the first season for the Dallas Cowboys in their new stadium. You know the Cowboys, right? America's team, except everyone I know hates the Cowboys, and those people who don't hate the Cowboys that I know, well, I'd rather say that I didn't know them. Unless you're one of them, Bored Neo-Classical Eric, and then I'd say you're the exception to the rule. And I think that we can all agree that you are a rather exceptional individual.

The Cowboys moved into a $1.15 Billion Temple of Hedonism this past fall, which seats 80,000 comfortably, with the ability for another 31,000 people to mill about and stand and watch the game. The stadium is replete with Blue Stars, an enormous high-definition video screen stretching from one 20-yard line to its opposite, hundreds of high-definition television screens littered throughout the expanse, so that you don't have to actually watch the game on the field, and cage dancers dressed as Dallas Cowboy Cheerleaders.

With the Cowboys moving into the new Cowboys Stadium, the city of Dallas had to do something with the old Texas Stadium, where the Cowboys used to play (you know the place with the hole in the roof so that God could look down and watch?). The most obvious solution is to blow that fucker up...which is exactly what the plan is.

Ah, but here's where the story takes a bit of a twist. Because it's the Cowboys and they are, after all, America's team, someone had the bright idea to get a sponsor to sign on to help defray the costs of the destruction. Sounds insane, especially during a period in our economic history that can best be described as "woeful", right?

Enter Kraft foods. They have decided to pony up $150,000 to have their name on as sponsors for the destruction of Texas Stadium.

Of course, the destruction of Texas Stadium (and the clean up afterwards) is going to cost the city of Irving, TX about $6 million. Oh, and the money Kraft is donating is to be split evenly, with $75,000 going to various charities in the area, as chosen by the city of Irving, and $75,000 worth of its products are being distributed to area food banks and homeless shelters and such. So, while Kraft is officially sponsoring the event, most of the money being traded is actually going to help people in the area. You can read about it all here.

And that got me to thinking: I could totally use a sponsor for totally blowing shit up Tuesdays. And while I would willingly distribute money to area charities, I think I could do without $75,000 worth of Kraft macaroni and cheese. See, when I was doing that whole "work in the bookstore" thing between undergrad and grad school, I ate a lot of Kraft macaroni and cheese at the bookstore. A lot.

Look, I was living cheaply, trying to pay off my student loans, and then I bought an engagement ring. So, I had to cut back, and macaroni and cheese was cheap. So I ate a lot of it. Like, I ate so much that I can't really cook it now without getting a little sick to my stomach. Just thinking about it has kind of caused me to get queasy here at my seat. So, perhaps it's best that these foodstuffs are headed toward Texas.

Anyway, that's a nice story and all, but we're here to see shit go boom, so I found another video compilation of buildings being imploded. Enjoy the art of explosive entropy:

Yes, I know that was Yanni playing in the background. The buildings falling on themselves and the relative close-ups of the explosions should offset any unmanliness inherently brought on by the mustachioed and well-coiffed Greek.

Plus, admit it: when that large part of the bridge dropped straight down into the river below, you got a little aroused. It's okay; you're among friends.

Happy Carmentalia!

Today is the first day of Carmentalia, which was an Ancient Roman festival celebrating the oracle Carmenta. The prophetess was the mother of Evander, who founded Rome...er...sorta. Evander built the city Pallantium near the Capitoline Hill, which was later incorporated into Rome after Romulus clubbed his brother in the head with a shovel. You remember that back story, right?

Anyway, Evander was there to welcome Aeneas to the peninsula when Aeneas got done fighting that pesky little dust up called the "Trojan War", and the subsequent unassing of the place once the Greeks did that whole "surprise, is us inside horse!" trick. Oh, yeah, and Aeneas went to Carthage for a while to bone Dido. "Thank You", indeed.

Sorry, I've gotten a bit off track. I'm still weeping over the fucking Packers shitting the bed choking on their successes from the week before. Say, is there room for one more on that Vikings' bandwagon? As a wise man once said, "Football makes strange bed fellows." A sage, that one, I tell you.

Have I digressed further? Shame on me.

Anyway, Carmenta was originally named Nicostrate, but since she was so damned good at her job (which was prophecy), she had her name changed to "Carmenta", because "carmen" in Latin means "a song, a poem, an oracle" and can also be defined as "a magical spell", and it is from where we pick up the word "charm". When Carmenta died, she was deified and became the goddess of prophecy and also childbirth.

However, her most important and famous gift to humanity was in creating the Latin alphabet, supposedly by changing 15 of the Greek letters to their Roman counterparts. The Romans only used 24 letters (remember, no W, no J), so they had to pick up nine other letters from elsewhere. Most of them came from the Etruscans in the early days when the Romans were trying to assert their authority over the other tribes in the area. Carmenta made the Roman alphabet, which she gave to Evander. Evander, in turn, showed the letters to the Latins, who in turn used it to write down their language, which eventually begat a certain Friday series. So, we should be thankful, otherwise this blog would just be Greek to me...

Sorry about the bad pun. I had a much better joke there, but apparently Blogger doesn't allow you to cut and paste in Greek letters. Harumph. Kind of killed the momentum.

Anyway, since she was the Roman Goddess of childbirth, her festival days (January 11 and January 15) were celebrated mainly by women. Not much is known about the celebration other than the fairer sex were the chief celebrators. From the extensive study I've put into what women do when they are together with one another, I can only assume that the women of Rome would gather at Carmenta's temple, strip to their panties, garter belts and stockings, (bras optional) and have a pillow fight. A sexy pillow fight!

With that in mind...ladies...I suggest that we reinitiate the celebration of Carmentalia in all it's pillow-fight glory. Just, uh, conveniently leave a ladder outside the temple, okay?

Okay...Really?

Last night, as I was working on the current manuscript, I needed to relate a story about Athena between my characters. Athena, of course, was a war goddess (among other things) in Ancient Greece, and, as such, she was typically shown garbed in the dress of a warrior. This usually involves holding a spear or a shield or a helmet or any combination thereof.

Since, of course, Athena is female, I was going to use the term "warrioress" as an epithet for her. Unfortunately, I wasn't sure if "warrioress" was a word or not, so I turned to the online dictionaries that I often frequent when I'm unsure of a word's true existence or not. Turns out, warrioress is in a dictionary and it is defined, as you might guess, as a female warrior. I then decided that I didn't actually like the word "warrioress" and just went with "warrior goddess", figuring that that covered both bases when it comes to epithets for Athena.

I couldn't leave well enough alone, however. I decided to check out images and pictures that would come up if one searched for "warrioress". I almost immediately wished that I hadn't.

My cursory study of female warriors reveals that, when a woman becomes a warrior, she no longer has need for armor. Or, any clothing at all, for that matter. Her breasts grow as big as or bigger than her head. Her hips flare, her waist shrinks, and--naturally!--she pulls on a pair of high-heeled boots or sandals in order to go running off into battle. All of this seems rather impractical--especially in the costuming department--but perhaps I'm just misguided. To my eye, it seems as though a woman's flesh would be pierced by an arrow or a sword since there is absolutely nothing there to slow the weapon's progress. Silly me, I guess, assuming armor was for protection.

Also, the Amazons, a famed tribe of warrioresses, cut one of their breasts off so that they wouldn't be hindered in drawing a bow. It does seem to be a bit of a hindrance for a female warrior's big, floppy breasts to be in the way when in the middle of battle--especially when she opts for either no bra, or one that really doesn't do anything for support. But, hey, what do I know?

Apparently, not enough about female combatants...

This is something that I have vowed never to do. Though I have no objections to scantily-clad women, writing a female character into a story simply to have her strip and/or run around naked for long periods of time for no apparent reason is something I refuse to do. Female fighters in my stories tend to follow the path initiated by Eowyn (she of Lord of the Rings fame); that is, they dress for battle just like men, they fight just as hard as men, they die just as easily as men. I might be writing stories that can be classified as "fantasies", but they certainly aren't going to be sword-and-shield erotica.

Not that it really matters for my current work, since there isn't much in the way of women on the battlefield anyway. The closest thing I have is appearances by Athena, and she's wearing a chiton whenever she shows up, anyway.

I'll end my rant now.

I'm nearly finished with the sixth chapter of the manuscript, and the main arc of the story is finally shaping up. When I finish this chapter, it will be as the hero of the story is embarking upon his quest. He just got the information for the quest...though he doesn't know it yet...and is about to do his big impulsive, hot-headed act of braggadocio that will see him on his way and the quest undertaken. Fortunately, I have the subsequent chapters already mapped out, so I don't need to pour a lot of extra research into what happens.

While I was researching ancient Greek funerary practices this week (turns out, they're not that different from our own...though we don't typically sacrifice rams on top of the fresh graves of our dead family members...much...these days), I came across one of my favorite words, and I thought I'd share it here. It is Sunday, after all (at least where I am).

threnody: n. a poem or song of mourning or lamentation.

It comes from the Greek word threnos which means "lament" or "dirge" and oide which means "song" (such as in "melody" or "ode"). A threnos was a song of lamentation sung at during the period of mourning during a funeral. The Greeks, afraid that they would offend their dead relatives, really put their all into mourning them by wailing and beating their breasts and clawing at their faces and even hiring professional singers to come and sing the songs of lament. A professionally-sung song was called a threnos.

After digging through my rant about the dress code for women on the battle field and the boring ancient Greek lesson, here's the writing updates:

6883 / 50000 words. 14% done!

25915 / 100000 words. 26% done!