There are two types of people in the world: those who fall into one of two categories, and those who don't.
Just a quick plug for Jonathan Stroud, whose book Buried Fire I am enjoying immensely this afternoon.
Rachelle and I both love his Bartimaeus Trilogy, in which a parallel modern world is ruled by magocracies whose arrogant magicians summon and contract with djinn to maintain fascist rule over the populace, and whom they employ as bodyguards, counselors, armed forces and assassins as they vie with one another for ever more power and influence. Bartimaeus, a sarcastic but charming 5000 year old djinni, is the star attraction in this imaginative and very well-written series.
The Bartimaeus Trilogy:
- The Amulet of Samarkand
- The Golem's Eye
- Ptolemy's Gate
Others:
- Buried Fire
- The Leap (haven't read this yet - put a hold on it at the library)
- The Last Siege
It's my Dad's birthday March 1st. What do you get for the man who doesn't like anything?
Well, I pried the iron lid off the Dread Portal With Express Elevator Service Straight To Hell, which we have in the basement (free install with low low payments of 29.95/mo.), and shuttled on down to make an appointment with the Grand High Really Evil Guy.
For some reason, when you wish to strike a serious supernatural deal, you must always go down. S'rules.
I found the Prince of Darkness smoking with his feet up on an overstuffed hassock, which on closer inspection turned out to be the Pope. "Your Holiness," I nodded. The hassock snorted.
The Devil waved his hand at a side table upon which lay a contract and a pen, then took a drag on his cigarette. Apparently he'd been expecting me. I read it over. It was diabolical.
But I signed it. Hey, I've entered into more Faustian bargains with my cell phone provider. You don't understand the impossibility of getting Dad something he's sure to like.
In the elevator on the way back up, I had time to wonder: "Does the Church of Satan get together every year for a satanic church picnic?"
I was recently catching up with my cousin-in-law's blog "The Bing Dynasty". He's a librarian-in-training in Ottawa. He expresses frustration over the one thing that comes out of people's mouths when you tell them you're in library school. Can you guess what it is? In his words...
BECOMING A LIBRARIAN INVOLVES FAR MORE THAN "LEARNING THE DEWEY DECIMAL SYSTEM". If I had a dollar for every time someone asked me something akin to "so you just have to learn the Dewey Decimal System?", I wouldn't bother getting this degree. I would instead retire and live off my earnings. Let's drop the ignorance folks. Do you think that it would be worth a Masters degree if it was just "learning the Dewey Decimal System?" And furthermore, would I have bothered travelling 3000 miles at great expense to myself and my lovely wife, financially and otherwise, to learn the Dewey Decimal System? Any chimp, should they desire, can familiarize themself with Dewey's system of classification. I wanna be a LIBRARIAN, dammit, and a librarian I SHALL BE.
I read this and was instantly transported back to that same sense of boiling annoyance. I did an MLIS at UBC. If I had a nickel for every time some git slapped their knee and asked me if I was learning the Dewey Decimal system, I would throw those nickels in a sock, swing it three times over my head, and HAI-YA! they would learn it is not so easy to slap your knee once your patella has been shattered.
"That's Weapons, Blackjacks DDC 399!!" I would yell. Because I am a stickler for cataloguing accuracy.
Have you ever been sitting on the toilet while the cat was drinking from the tap in the tub, and he let the water drip off his head so his head was soaked by the time he was done, and then when he got out he shook himself so violently the cold spray caused you to involuntarily spaz out and fling the wad of used toilet paper in your hand across the bathroom?
Oh.
Yeah, uh... me neither.
\Pun\, n. A play on words which have the same sound but different meanings; an expression in which two different applications of a word present an odd or ludicrous idea; a kind of quibble or equivocation.
Journalism is all about headlines. Journalism is nothing without the headline. The very word "headline" speaks its function as the first and most important piece of the piece. All journalists know this. On the first day of Journalism 101, the profs carefully select newspapers from key historical dates with headlines that rocked the world. They roll them up and stride down the rows of desks, smacking students on the back of the head with MAN WALKS ON MOON and VICTORY IN EUROPE and even sometimes HEADLESS BODY IN TOPLESS BAR. "These are headlines, dammit!" they shout, frothy spittle flying in beautiful ballistic arcs to the very back row: "headlines headlines HEADLINES!"
Thus even the most furiously stupid bimbon or bimbette bound for weather or fashion TV understands that a headline makes or breaks a story by the time he, she or it graduates, and that this principle holds true for magazines, radio and television as well as traditional newspapers.
Why then, wherefore, what, tell me please, is up with the constant and unrelenting use of crappy puns? You know what I mean. An article about the local birdwatching society might begin: Close Encounters of the Bird Kind. [Mighty eye roll.] Or Science Friction to describe an argument in the physics community. [Gag.] Actually, it's worst in radio or TV when the announcer introduces an upcoming piece with the patented "pun delivery": "Coming up next, a recent scientific study claims that fly fishing can lead to increased IQ scores. Stay tuned for Hooks, Lines, and... Thinkers?" [Stomach heave followed by immediate lunge for the off switch.]
I believe, and it's more a zealoto-religio-fervourous kind of *conviction* really, that all journalists should be required to register for remedial headline re-education. There they will learn that the original meaning of "pun" is:
\Pun\, v. t. [See {Pound} to beat.] To pound.
Yes. Which means it's back to rolled up newspapers, smacking heads with, plus equal measures of striding, shouting, and spraying. Nothing like a few flecks of aerosolized scholarly spittery combined with the edifying THWAP of the Sunday edition to instill a lasting and profound grasp of the true and meaningful use of the pun.
Recently I wondered what the other pxxeater.com sites were up to. Get to know your neighbours sort of thing. I really should have known as I was typing in the address, and actually, I expected a lot worse but simply couldn't stop my morbid curiosity. Now I cannot stop the morbid snorts of delighted laughter.
There's definitely some kind of moral lesson to be learned here. NEVER never EVER pose for someone that sells their work as stock photography. The people below are very sorry indeed.
Isn't the image so awesomely juxtaposed with the caption?
Ah me, the internet is a silly place and I'm glad to be a part of it.
"How big is an 11 by 17 piece of paper?"
-- Actual question posed by Mrs. R. Tyrrell, Teacher, Age 28
I had to look this up. Our mortgage company referred to me and Rachelle as MORTGAGORS, magical beasts which I initially thought might be related to the OWLBEAR, but which turn out instead to be a closer cousin to the frumious BANDERSNATCH. Who knew?
We are probably not the only mating pair of MORTGAGORS the bank has in captivity, upon reflection.
Do you remember the first time you sacked a town and put its inhabitants to fire and sword? Looted a church? Brought the abomination that causeth desolation? Chicken Soup for the Reaver's Soul is an uplifting collection of laugh-out-loud stories that will warm your heart. These touching tales of inspiring murder and humourous pillage will transform your life.
In order to explain what has happened to myself, I have had to resort to fish metaphor. So be it - we have spawned.
Right now the little flipper is at 10 weeks. Ontogeny recapitulating phylogeny, it's basically a newt at this point. Yes, shutup. Salmon don't generally spawn newts, I grant you, but this is a singular case.
I'm actually kind of hoping it doesn't develop any further, so we can keep it in a goldfish bowl like our own sea-monkey.
UPDATE: For those who cannot tell the difference between me telling a tale and telling the truth, this is it. Really. The latter one.
