Saturday, June 21, 2014
I Have Published My First Novel
The novel has been published! It is available for the Kindle at Amazon.
Tuesday, January 4, 2011
The Arrival
I threw caution to the wind.
Everyone told me that when the person-kitten arrived, I should observe from a distance. I was truly committed to this course of action, until I met him. They put him on the ground, in his little bed, and we all watched him together to see what he would do. I had to understand him, to get a sense of his smell and his motions. I walked right up to his bed like he was made of catnip. It must have been minutes before I came to my senses.
Now understand, I am ordinarily wise and canny. When the Goddess of Love and the man have people over, I observe from under a piece of furniture only rarely. Usually I hide in another room, under the blankets on the bed, just listening. People usually only smell of street-and-car, so I see little benefit in risking a close encounter. Only when they stay for hours and hours do I hazard a trip to my bowl or my box.
But the person-kitten was different. Completely, totally different. He smelled of street-and-car, of course, and he smelled like the Goddess of Love and the man. This I was prepared for. What I was not prepared for was how scrumptious he smelled.
And smells! And now the Goddess of Love smells that way too. How am I supposed to keep away from them when that scent is in the air? Of course everyone says, "The person-kitten will displace you from their laps forever; forget them. You will be consigned to your lonely bed forever."
Doomsayers and Chicken Littles, all of them. Of course, the person-kitten does occupy the Goddess of Love's lap a lot of the time, but then again she is sitting down a lot more than she used to. I can at least sit next to the two of them. Unlike the other cat I do not beg for milk, I am content to just let the heavenly scent wash over me.
Furthermore, the man often sits next to the two of them as well. His lap is not the equal of the Goddess of Love's lap, of course, but it will suffice. In the years that I have known him, the man has never once eaten me so I suppose he never will. The Goddess of Love trusts him so I trust him, and that is that.
The person-kitten sits a lot; he is not nearly so restless as a big person. Like everyone said, the big people carry him in their arms instead of their mouths. I knew the person-kitten would mew, like any kitten. The mewling sounds strange but everything about people is strange. What is particularly strange is that, when he doesn't mule he often howls, not quite like a canine, but enough to send me scurrying under the nearest bed. (The other cat, silly creature, just sits there with her ears flattened, and waits to be eaten.) Neither the Goddess of Love nor the man run and hide when he howls - instead the howling seems to draw them. Then they produce the heavenly milk-scent, and he becomes quiet.
I suppose he likes the milk-scent as much as I do. So I suppose not everything about people is strange.
Everyone told me that when the person-kitten arrived, I should observe from a distance. I was truly committed to this course of action, until I met him. They put him on the ground, in his little bed, and we all watched him together to see what he would do. I had to understand him, to get a sense of his smell and his motions. I walked right up to his bed like he was made of catnip. It must have been minutes before I came to my senses.
Now understand, I am ordinarily wise and canny. When the Goddess of Love and the man have people over, I observe from under a piece of furniture only rarely. Usually I hide in another room, under the blankets on the bed, just listening. People usually only smell of street-and-car, so I see little benefit in risking a close encounter. Only when they stay for hours and hours do I hazard a trip to my bowl or my box.
But the person-kitten was different. Completely, totally different. He smelled of street-and-car, of course, and he smelled like the Goddess of Love and the man. This I was prepared for. What I was not prepared for was how scrumptious he smelled.
And smells! And now the Goddess of Love smells that way too. How am I supposed to keep away from them when that scent is in the air? Of course everyone says, "The person-kitten will displace you from their laps forever; forget them. You will be consigned to your lonely bed forever."
Doomsayers and Chicken Littles, all of them. Of course, the person-kitten does occupy the Goddess of Love's lap a lot of the time, but then again she is sitting down a lot more than she used to. I can at least sit next to the two of them. Unlike the other cat I do not beg for milk, I am content to just let the heavenly scent wash over me.
Furthermore, the man often sits next to the two of them as well. His lap is not the equal of the Goddess of Love's lap, of course, but it will suffice. In the years that I have known him, the man has never once eaten me so I suppose he never will. The Goddess of Love trusts him so I trust him, and that is that.
The person-kitten sits a lot; he is not nearly so restless as a big person. Like everyone said, the big people carry him in their arms instead of their mouths. I knew the person-kitten would mew, like any kitten. The mewling sounds strange but everything about people is strange. What is particularly strange is that, when he doesn't mule he often howls, not quite like a canine, but enough to send me scurrying under the nearest bed. (The other cat, silly creature, just sits there with her ears flattened, and waits to be eaten.) Neither the Goddess of Love nor the man run and hide when he howls - instead the howling seems to draw them. Then they produce the heavenly milk-scent, and he becomes quiet.
I suppose he likes the milk-scent as much as I do. So I suppose not everything about people is strange.
Tuesday, August 24, 2010
Introns: A Fable
At one point in early 2011, a brand new island is discovered off the coast of Scotland, quite by accident. It is called Lumberia. The Royal Geography Bureau sends out a team in a boat. The team consists of an ethologist and a preacher. As they row out to the island, each of them surveys the island's inhabitants through a pair of powerful binoculars.
"The Lumberians are powerfully built, wearing flannel shirts, carrying hatchets, and living in robust wooden houses," says the preacher. "They all look very much alike."
"I agree," says the ethologist. "They look quite like Scotsmen. I think they are descended from Scotsmen."
"Nonsense!" says the preacher. "Scotsmen come in all shapes and sizes. The Lumberians look very similar to each other. They were clearly created by God to make lumber on the island. See how they are perfectly suited to logging, protecting themselves against the cold with their sensible flannel clothing. Obviously that didn't come about by chance! They are so similar to each other because, when God created the first Lumberian, He got it right, and decided not to fix what wasn't broken."
"I'm not saying the Lumberians are descended from all Scotsmen equally," says the ethologist. "Their geographic isolation would restrict their genetic diversity. They are merely descended from a few ... perhaps a single clan. I can't say for sure -"
"Ha!" shouts the preacher. "You admit you don't know!"
"True," says the ethologist. "But I may later. Right now I think that they may be descended from the McCheznicks of a wooded village on the Scottish coast near here. They look like McCheznicks, wear the same clothing, and excel at the traditional McCheznick trade of cutting timber. When the clan landed on the island, they thrived here for the same reasons they thrived in their similar home environment."
The preacher shakes his head. "You deny all the beauty of God's work with your preposterous theory of someone teleporting from the mainland to this island!"
"Actually, I think they used a boat, or several," says the ethologist, pulling at the oars.
"Ah ha! You just assumed a boat."
"Until we reach the island, this will all be necessarily hypothetical. There may have been a few strong swimmers, or a land bridge that has sunken out of sight. But assuming a boat is less a leap of faith than assuming a god."
At this point, each of them asserts his vehement belief that the burden of proof lies with the other. Each of them makes a few references to Okham's Razor. The argument continues until they reach the island.
After making landfall and greeting the inhabitants, each of the visitors sticks with his Theory of Lumberian Origins, despite the revelation that all the inhabitants of the island are named McCheznick.
"The Lumberians are powerfully built, wearing flannel shirts, carrying hatchets, and living in robust wooden houses," says the preacher. "They all look very much alike."
"I agree," says the ethologist. "They look quite like Scotsmen. I think they are descended from Scotsmen."
"Nonsense!" says the preacher. "Scotsmen come in all shapes and sizes. The Lumberians look very similar to each other. They were clearly created by God to make lumber on the island. See how they are perfectly suited to logging, protecting themselves against the cold with their sensible flannel clothing. Obviously that didn't come about by chance! They are so similar to each other because, when God created the first Lumberian, He got it right, and decided not to fix what wasn't broken."
"I'm not saying the Lumberians are descended from all Scotsmen equally," says the ethologist. "Their geographic isolation would restrict their genetic diversity. They are merely descended from a few ... perhaps a single clan. I can't say for sure -"
"Ha!" shouts the preacher. "You admit you don't know!"
"True," says the ethologist. "But I may later. Right now I think that they may be descended from the McCheznicks of a wooded village on the Scottish coast near here. They look like McCheznicks, wear the same clothing, and excel at the traditional McCheznick trade of cutting timber. When the clan landed on the island, they thrived here for the same reasons they thrived in their similar home environment."
The preacher shakes his head. "You deny all the beauty of God's work with your preposterous theory of someone teleporting from the mainland to this island!"
"Actually, I think they used a boat, or several," says the ethologist, pulling at the oars.
"Ah ha! You just assumed a boat."
"Until we reach the island, this will all be necessarily hypothetical. There may have been a few strong swimmers, or a land bridge that has sunken out of sight. But assuming a boat is less a leap of faith than assuming a god."
At this point, each of them asserts his vehement belief that the burden of proof lies with the other. Each of them makes a few references to Okham's Razor. The argument continues until they reach the island.
After making landfall and greeting the inhabitants, each of the visitors sticks with his Theory of Lumberian Origins, despite the revelation that all the inhabitants of the island are named McCheznick.
Thursday, August 12, 2010
A Grand Palace for the Lightning Bugs
Lightning bugs flatter me
They regard each of my branches as a grand palace
Just today I overheard one of them saying a single branch had
one hundred thirty-seven prime places to perch
(and over four hundred mediocre places)
His abdomen flashed blue-white, which is hardly surprising
Though of course he was doing it just for me
Because all lightning bugs are silly, and think I am here just for them.
Today a man saw lightning bugs superimposed
on a cloudy horizon decorated with lightning
That’s right, just regular old lightning
He was a short man, not more than three meters tall
(though Grandpa told me a man that size can do fiercesome things
with a bow-saw)
Yet the sky performed its background to the lightning bugs' dance
And he thought it was there just for him.
The lightning bugs never fly so high as when they want to reach my tops
(you can call them turrets, if you want, and imagine them made of stone)
They never fly as high as an airplane
looking down on me, thinking I’m short and forgetting me quickly
Nor do the squirrels, or the crows, or the pleasanter birds
No matter how many friends perch in my branches, it is no burden to bear
For a palace
of a few cubic meters
of softwood.
Saturday, August 7, 2010
If Magic Worked Like Insurance Underwriting
Zartok's mage sense reminded him of a task. To supply his staff with wool, he would need a sheep. He had left the project with his assistant, a move which seemed logical at the time but which left troubling thoughts as he tried to study. He stood up from his desk, donned his robe, left the candles burning, and headed down the winding stone staircase.
He entered the laboratory in the subbasement of his manse. Assistant Mage Klipthak sat on the floor with his grimoire open and an overturned vial next to him. A group of distracted sheep wandered about, sniffing various magic paraphernalia.
“Klipthak, didn’t I tell you to turn a single cow into a sheep?”
“Why yes, Senior Technical Mage, sir, but I did!" the lad blinked. "At least, I started with a single cow?”
“Oh, no no no, Klipthak. Don’t tell me you didn’t follow my exact instructions, down to each subitem? Verbatim?!” Zartok stroked his long white beard and furrowed his great brows. He couldn’t blast his assistant for this sort of error but wished he could.
Klipthak was apprehensive but not exactly contrite. “Well, Senior Technical, I followed them almost exactly -“.
“ENOUGH!” came the roared answer. Zartok paused for effect. Klipthak cowered behind his grimoire, waiting for the lightning bolts. Instead, his master continued. “Recite your spell in its entirety, with all the hand motions. Pray be exact.”
After three minutes of timid but exact recounting, Zartok sighed. “I see what you’ve done, boy. An easy mistake to make, but easily avoided if you had followed orders. First, when you referred to the target animal as four-legged creature, the universe thought you wanted four sheep. You don’t need to specify number of legs for a within-phylum transformation spell. So now we have four sheep.”
Klipthak mistook the pause for a chance to speak. “So we’ll eat mutton," he offered.
“SILENCE! We eat no mutton! You know how you added permancy to that spell, so your sheep wouldn’t change back to a cow at sundown?” Klipthak nodded. “Well, you added it to the spell’s object level. Permanency is a meta-level item if you only want the spell’s effects to be permanent. On the object level, it makes the object permanent. We shall never eat mutton because … you … have … made … me … FOUR ... IMMORTAL ... SHEEP!”
Klipthak turned pale and began to cry.
He entered the laboratory in the subbasement of his manse. Assistant Mage Klipthak sat on the floor with his grimoire open and an overturned vial next to him. A group of distracted sheep wandered about, sniffing various magic paraphernalia.
“Klipthak, didn’t I tell you to turn a single cow into a sheep?”
“Why yes, Senior Technical Mage, sir, but I did!" the lad blinked. "At least, I started with a single cow?”
“Oh, no no no, Klipthak. Don’t tell me you didn’t follow my exact instructions, down to each subitem? Verbatim?!” Zartok stroked his long white beard and furrowed his great brows. He couldn’t blast his assistant for this sort of error but wished he could.
Klipthak was apprehensive but not exactly contrite. “Well, Senior Technical, I followed them almost exactly -“.
“ENOUGH!” came the roared answer. Zartok paused for effect. Klipthak cowered behind his grimoire, waiting for the lightning bolts. Instead, his master continued. “Recite your spell in its entirety, with all the hand motions. Pray be exact.”
After three minutes of timid but exact recounting, Zartok sighed. “I see what you’ve done, boy. An easy mistake to make, but easily avoided if you had followed orders. First, when you referred to the target animal as four-legged creature, the universe thought you wanted four sheep. You don’t need to specify number of legs for a within-phylum transformation spell. So now we have four sheep.”
Klipthak mistook the pause for a chance to speak. “So we’ll eat mutton," he offered.
“SILENCE! We eat no mutton! You know how you added permancy to that spell, so your sheep wouldn’t change back to a cow at sundown?” Klipthak nodded. “Well, you added it to the spell’s object level. Permanency is a meta-level item if you only want the spell’s effects to be permanent. On the object level, it makes the object permanent. We shall never eat mutton because … you … have … made … me … FOUR ... IMMORTAL ... SHEEP!”
Klipthak turned pale and began to cry.
Thursday, July 22, 2010
The Gnospel of Slang
One day about four million years ago, the Monad looked upon the Universe He had created, and saw that it was okay. But not great. He was dissatisfied.
He gathered His aeons together. "It has come to My attention that creation is lacking. There are simply not enough slang words for marijuana!"
One of his aeons (not named) responded, "But, my liege, there are currently over six thousand slang terms for marijuana. Is that not enough?"
The Monad scoffed. "Zut alors! Of course it's not enough. We need more! Just make up another 40 trillion by Tuesday."
The aeons gasped. It seemed like a daunting task. They set to work until sweat glistened on their heavenly foreheads.
On Monday evening the Monad became restless, and started lurking around the office trying to see if any progress was made on His new plan. He happened upon the desk of Sophia, the aeon of wisdom. "Sophia," He said in His gravelly voice, "What progress have you made for me?"
Sophia blinked at him. "Umm ... 'doobage'?"
"Forty trillion!" the Monad roared.
"My lord, our task is to make 40 trillion new slang words for marijuana. Yet there are less than a billion words in all the extant languages combined! Are you certain this is a reasonable task?"
"Forty trillion!" the Monad repeated. "Back to work, Sophia!"
Sophia said nothing, but turned back to her work. She smoothed her raven-black hair with her pale fingers in a vaguely hot but very Goth sort of way. Once the Monad had wandered back to His office, she crept away from her desk to make a baby. She didn't inform her mate, a male aeon whose name is lost to history. This was probably not a great idea.
"'Probably not a great idea'?!" the aeons cried in unison. Okay, fine, it was probably the worst idea in history. After a long, arduous, yet easily-concealed pregnancy, Sophia gave birth to the Demiurge, and he went on to create the Cosmos, filling it with dirt, landfills, people, and all sorts of other dirty disgusting stuff.
And that, my children, is how the world was created.
He gathered His aeons together. "It has come to My attention that creation is lacking. There are simply not enough slang words for marijuana!"
One of his aeons (not named) responded, "But, my liege, there are currently over six thousand slang terms for marijuana. Is that not enough?"
The Monad scoffed. "Zut alors! Of course it's not enough. We need more! Just make up another 40 trillion by Tuesday."
The aeons gasped. It seemed like a daunting task. They set to work until sweat glistened on their heavenly foreheads.
On Monday evening the Monad became restless, and started lurking around the office trying to see if any progress was made on His new plan. He happened upon the desk of Sophia, the aeon of wisdom. "Sophia," He said in His gravelly voice, "What progress have you made for me?"
Sophia blinked at him. "Umm ... 'doobage'?"
"Forty trillion!" the Monad roared.
"My lord, our task is to make 40 trillion new slang words for marijuana. Yet there are less than a billion words in all the extant languages combined! Are you certain this is a reasonable task?"
"Forty trillion!" the Monad repeated. "Back to work, Sophia!"
Sophia said nothing, but turned back to her work. She smoothed her raven-black hair with her pale fingers in a vaguely hot but very Goth sort of way. Once the Monad had wandered back to His office, she crept away from her desk to make a baby. She didn't inform her mate, a male aeon whose name is lost to history. This was probably not a great idea.
"'Probably not a great idea'?!" the aeons cried in unison. Okay, fine, it was probably the worst idea in history. After a long, arduous, yet easily-concealed pregnancy, Sophia gave birth to the Demiurge, and he went on to create the Cosmos, filling it with dirt, landfills, people, and all sorts of other dirty disgusting stuff.
And that, my children, is how the world was created.
Monday, July 19, 2010
Denmark in a Nuthshell
Preface: Given the nature of the subject matter and the opacity of my writing, I have decided to help out the reader by marking with an asterisk those facts about Denmark which sound like jokes but aren't. (Those that the sound like a joke but are unmarked are actually jokes, usually made up by me. Since Danes like to laugh about themselves, and I am half-Danish, these jokes will be half-funny.)
I don't know what the Danish national beverage is, but it might be akvavit or aquavit or however it's spelled. Aquavit is a very Scandinavian sort of caraway-fennel vodka*. It is reported to taste like rocket fuel, which is strange since Denmark does not have a space program.
Denmark minus Greenland is half the size of Maine and a sixth the size of Oregon.* Some people say Greenland is not actually green, but if you look at a world map you can see that it actually is.
Denmark is spelled "Danmark" in Denmark. The D e n m a r k spelling was necessary because there is no A in English.
People from Denmark are called "Danes". If you call them "Dutch" I will go berzerk, brandish my battleaxe, and sunburn easily.
Denmark Vessey was an African-American slave who led a revolt. It failed.
The Little Mermaid is a story written by the most famous Dane of all time, Hans Christian Anderson. A copper statue of The Little Mermaid sits in Copenhagen harbor, sadly contemplating her native sea and delighting tourists with her grace and innocence. The statue has been decapitated twice and blown up once.*
In addition to H.C. Andersen, famous Danes include navigator Vitus Bering, astronomer Tycho Brahe, philosopher Soren Kierkegaard, comedian Victor Borge, and King Christian X, who led the peaceful resistance to Nazi violence against Jews. Other prominent Danes include several generations of extremely violent Vikings and a shamefully small number of death metal musicians.
Danish is a close relative of English, but it sounds rather like the sound Italian toddlers make when they have a mouthful of dishwashing liquid. The Danish alphabet has 29 characters*; the three extra ones are formally known as "A and E stuck together", "A with a dot over it", and "O crossed out so it looks like a zero on an old PC".
Danish wildlife includes wild boar, feral Great Danes, and Swedes who get on the ferry to take advantage of relatively low local excise taxes on liquor. The Danes have some of the best and worst food in the world. The former includes a variety of fresh fish, dark rye bread, butter, and salty licorice flavored with ammonium chloride*. The latter includes marzipan, tilsit, pickled herring, and some sort of horrendous concoction made from stale bread soaked in flat beer; its name translates to "beer bread". No, really - it is supposed to be made from soaking stale bread in flat beer.*
Out of guilt for tilsit, "beer bread", and those centuries of Vikings mistreating British peasants, the Danes have transformed themselves recently into nice people. "Recently" being around five hundred years ago. Basically, all the Danes went to see the a travelling production of Hamlet and realized that if they kept on like they were, they were all going to end up stabbed or poisoned. So they turned in their battleaxes, freed their thralls, and decided to only colonize uninhabited places.
Danish explorer: Wow, this whole island is covered with ice! It should be totally uninhabited!
Native Greendlander: "Should be", but isn't.
Danish explorer: Aww, nuts.
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