Saturday, June 24. 2006
Rackham (1886-1939) is considered the greatest illustrator of all time, illustrating Alice in Wonderland, Grimm's Fairy Tales, Peter Pan, and much more. This is Siegfried and Brunhilde from his Das Rheingold illustrations. 
Friday, June 23. 2006
Just stopped by the neighbors while doing yard work in the twilight and lamplight. They are having a teen party. I said: "If you don't turn that music UP, I am going to call the cops." The Mom said: "We are lucky to have you as a neighbor." Call me Mr. Rogers (who I did love - how could you not?).
 Professional boxing used to be a sport. I guess it's become an exhibition of sorts now, like The Harlem Globetrotters or wrestling. But it used to matter. It doesn't anymore.
We like violence just fine, that's not the problem. Children playing Grand Theft Auto by the forty hour weekload wouldn't wince at gloved hands and open cuts. It's simply collapsed under its own weight. The spectacle itself became subordinate to the machinations of the promoters. The urge to look at your fellow man and declare: "I can lick you," or to choose a champion in your stead smolders unabated. It is an elemental male imperative. And such urges do not long go unsated. If boxers won't do it anymore, we'll do it ourselves, many young males say. Anyone that has listened to their children in a garage band knows we'll do it ourselves is a two edged sword. But it points to something missing, something essential; a need unmet. Here's the last time professional boxing really mattered; please, do not tell me about Mike Tyson: A Tribute to Muhammad Ali. (video and music) And don't misunderstand; it was Joe Frazier that had the heart.
Thursday, June 22. 2006
 Stolen from Mr. Free Market:
A successful rancher died and left everything to his devoted wife. She was a very good-looking woman and determined to keep the ranch, but knew very little about ranching, so she decided to place an ad in the newspaper for a ranch hand. Two cowboys applied for the job. One was gay and the other a drunk. She thought long and hard about it, and when no one else applied she decided to hire the gay guy, figuring it would be safer to have him around the house than the drunk. He proved to be a hard worker who put in long hours every day and knew a lot about ranching. For weeks, the two of them worked, and the ranch was doing very well. Then one day, the rancher's widow said to the hired hand, "You have done a really good job, and the ranch looks great. You should go into town and kick up your heels." The hired hand readily agreed and went into town one Saturday night. One o'clock came, however, and he didn't return. Two o'clock, and no hired hand. He returned around two-thirty, and upon entering the room, he found the rancher's widow sitting by the fireplace with a glass of wine, waiting for him. She quietly called him over to her. "Unbutton my blouse and take it off," she said. Trembling, he did as she directed. "Now take off my boots." He did as she asked, ever so slowly. "Now take off my socks." He removed each gently and placed them neatly by her boots. "Now take off my skirt." He slowly unbuttoned it, constantly watching her eyes in the fire light. "Now take off my bra." Again, with trembling hands, he did as he was told and dropped it to the floor. Then she looked at him and said, "If you ever wear my clothes into town again, you're fired."
Wednesday, June 21. 2006
This is my final Larry Summers post, and I wish him the best: Grievance-collecting, as we shrinks term it, is a personality trait which commonly serves the purpose of self-interest or self-aggrandizement. It is rarely, in normal life, a rational or justifiable mode of operating. While it is typically associated with paranoid personality traits, our society has taught people that it can be useful as a ploy or manipulation, and that people can actually benefit from having grievances, rather than being pitied and getting plain old-fashioned attention. In our topsy-turvy, politically-correct, hypersensitive world, having grievances becomes a badge of honor. This is psychologically perverse. And it is perverse to claim "offense", in my opinion. Who said YOU shouldn't be offended, anyway? Surely we all deserve to be offended, and all will be whether we deserve to be, or not. But those who seek offense and collect it will surely find the most - and will invent or imagine it when they cannot find it. Every psychiatrist has seen a woman who had a notebook, or a mental notebook, of every insenstive act or word of their husband since the day they met. What those women (yes, it's always women) never realize is that, if he wanted to, the husband could have the same notebook, but he doesn't focus on it. What's that problem? That problem is imagining, or wishing, that the world would pander to our every little neurotic hypersensitive feeling. There is the infantile narcissism, which tends to be much more concealed or disguised where it appears in men. And in the political and academic worlds, this seeming-weakness is exploited, converted into power to control and manipulate through guilt, and to gain a free pass for one's own aggression or destructiveness. In America today, that conscious and deliberate exploitation of this format is a dominant force, which few are brave enough to confront. Yet it must be confronted, not only because it is nuts, but because it damages the person who does it, in the long run. In psychiatric practice, we confront victimization daily, and refuse to permit patients to use it as a cop-out and an excuse for avoiding performance, achievement, earned, positive attention, and building good relationships. There is no human dignity, and no self-respect, and no future, in a career of bitching. Every human has tough things to deal with, whatever color, religion, nationality, sexual interest, etc. they are stuck with. Get over it, as the Eagles say, and grow up. And growing up means giving up the baby methods of power and attention...and accepting our best, small, humble contributions to life. I have felt that those sniveling gals at Harvard who sunk Larry Summers really took the cake in this game, and I am ashamed of my association because of that ridiculous episode. But they showed their power, didn't they? The power of sniveling bitching. That does women no good whatsoever - they need to be the best in their class in Physical Chem II, Linear Algebra, and Discrete Probability, if they even want to do graduate work. Tears and hystrionic self-pity won't do it in the big world, where performance and mastery count. Make a rocket land on Mars or circle Saturn - that means something. Some women can do that - most cannot. But neither can most men. But we can all do something useful in this world, and destroying others isn't it.
Tuesday, June 20. 2006
A reader showed us Librivox - free downloads of readings of literature in the public domain, read by volunteers. This is the real use of ipods. Their catalog is not long, yet.
Sunday, June 18. 2006
When I get older, losing my hair, many years from now ,
Will you still be sending me a Valentine,birthday greetings, bottle of wine?
If I'd been out 'till quarter to three,would you lock the door?
Will you still need me, will you still feed me,
When I'm sixty-four? McCartney update here at BBC. The full lyrics here.
Saturday, June 17. 2006
Everybody has been at the golf Open at Winged Foot this week. No-one in New England or New York has been working. Boring, if you ask me, but it's not my game. But the Newport-Bermuda Race began yesterday. Your editor Bird Dog has always wanted to be asked to crew, but has never been asked, doubtless for good reason. He is blessed with a good feel for the sea, including a certain kind of comfort, or even joy, with very nasty and scary seas, but is cursed with some sort of ineptitude when it comes to practical mechanisms and instant decision-making. And a race in which things do not break is a bore - but something always does break on boats. You can follow the race here. I only know one skipper in the race this year. Is it highly physical? You bet, unless it is one of those dull races with no wind from start to glorious finish, with drinks and abundant hot showers, at the Royal Bermuda Yacht Club in wonderful Bermuda. This 635 mile race is so long that a good start doesn't matter, but you have to keep your crew focused, energized, and on the ball. Why not try for a good start? Photo from just before the starting gun in Newport, RI, below: 
 Sometimes I wonder whether Gaghdad Bob is just putting us on, or crazy, or (which I usually think), a good translator of logos-centered metaphysics for the metaphysically-impaired masses (such as me).
So before we can even say anything else whatsoever about the cosmos, we have to concede that it is the kind of cosmos in which some things can symbolize and stand for other things--almost as if the cosmos were having some kind of complex conversation with itself even before we got here. When they study creation, scientific Adams are simply eavesdropping on the conversation. If that weren’t true, there would be nothing we could say or know about the cosmos.
Normally, when we think of information, we think of communication. The purpose of language, for example, is to communicate. But the cosmos was full of information before there were any sentient beings to unpack the message. Now that we’re here, we can do that.
If you want to read a short essay I very much enjoyed, with those paragraphs in it, here it is. Image: Why the photo of Dr. Bliss waking up on a sunny morning? The photo is a mere symbol, plus a good, succinct piece of communication from the cosmos, plus I owe a photo to our reader Santay.
Metaphysics? Can we please discuss something useful, like waterfowl ammo in the post-lead era? This is supposed to be a "grounding" blog. Re this cartoon: ducks see color. Deer cannot. This cartoonist never hunted ducks, or the guy wouldn't be wearing a blaze orange hat: 
Take a look at these two scenarios quoted from work by the experimental philosopher Knobe, from a piece by Chris at Mixing Memory, and see whether you can figure out why people respond as they do: Scenario 1: The vice-president of a company went to the chairman of the board and said, 'We are thinking of starting a new program. It will help us increase profits, but it will also harm the environment.' The chairman of the board answered, 'I don't care at all about harming the environment. I just want to make as much profit as I can. Let's start the new program.' They started the new program. Sure enough, the environment was harmed. Scenario 2: The vice-president of a company went to the chairman of the board and said, 'We are thinking of starting a new program. It will help us increase profits, and it will also help the environment.' The chairman of the board answered, 'I don't care at all about helping the environment. I just want to make as much profit as I can. Let's start the new program.' They started the new program. Sure enough, the environment was helped.
Chris begins his comments thus: Most participants who read the first scenario, the vast majority of participants say that the chairman intentionally harmed the environment (a morally bad outcome), whereas when they read the second scenario, very few participants say that the chairman intentionally helped the environment (a morally good outcome). Why is this? I haven't the slightest idea...
It's an interesting question about the ways people intuitively assign intention, and thus guilt. Clearly you lose points in life for indifference to harm, but get no points for doing good with indifference - as in doing the right thing for the wrong reason, or arriving at a correct answer despite faulty logic. The discussion here.
Tuesday, June 13. 2006
What Bird Dog wants for Father's Day is a good Pogo collection. Much as we love Calvin and Hobbes at Maggie's Farm (with well-worn collections all over the house, and with frequent apt uses of quotes from them), the gentle irony and the humble, loving satire of Pogo cannot be beat. Not a marauding marsupial, Pogo was a kind, rationalist, wry possum. "I Go Pogo" was Pogo's campaign theme when he ran for president. Bridgeport, CT's Walt Kelly was the cartoonist's cartoonist. Like poets, cartoonists can capture big chunks of life in a few words and images - and we verbose normal people must envy that skill. Sadly, good collections of Pogo are not easy to find these days. Got any ideas? Email us with 'em. This is all we could find. Since this is angleworm week at the blog, here's a sample: 
Sunday, June 11. 2006
I only have a minute to post, but I 
was amused both by a comment,
and by Bird Dog's response. He should have asked me to do it for him, but he would never bother me on a beautiful weekend. Mr. Anonymous, our critical blog friend and a sporadic reader of Maggie's, seems to feel offended by Maggie's "misogyny" for referring to female's desire to breed. Misogyny? Two out of our five regulars are women, with 7 kids between us two. Breeding is our thing, and semiotics comes second! (joke) I know Bird Dog would be happy to take on another one, too, but counting genitalia is not his thing (as far as I know, but I know him well enough to know that he would not be that wierd). Our blog is not totally into genitalia - mostly into ideas, but we do like humor and irony (despite being a no-irony zone). And we cheerfully defy any PC bull. But let me inform Mr. Anonymous about something his daddy never told him: men are sex objects for women. We spend a heck of a lot of time and money and energy looking for good breeding partners with decent genes and morals, and when we find them, we do not give them a vacation from their manly task: we put them to work and expect that they will give us their all. I wonder what asexual world he grew up in, or what lesbian college orthodoxy he was indoctrinated into, but it is not the real world. Maybe he went to Swarthmore? True, occasionally we enjoy getting one over on you guys with our "boo-hoo-hoo," but it's just a game we play. We do not appreciate males who do not respond to our sexual, feminine selves. In fact, we are painfully hurt and offended if you do not. Truth. (My 16 year-old daughter concurs with this statement.) If we flirt with you, you had damn well better flirt back with interest and some snappy repartee. We lovely, charmin' women women are breeders. We are designed for it - read our hips - and you fellows know you cannot resist our charms. No doubt about it. Sometimes we take an evil delight in toying with you, using our magical, witchy powers. Almost anything else we do is for fun or money - and this is not the time to get into the life of the spirit. Got it? Enough said? Now I have a tennis match - and my pal and I are gonna crush our hubbies. David - now there is a real man and a fine hunk, and I'd love to fantasize about trying to "receive his serve". Rock-hard, I am sure. Nude tennis - there is an idea for the club: nude mixed doubles. A good thing. No distraction whatsoever! Haha - we are not a libido-free zone at Maggie's Farm!
Thursday, June 8. 2006
A plane was taking off from Kennedy Airport. After it reached a
comfortable cruising altitude, the captain made an announcement over
the intercom, "Ladies and gentlemen, this is your captain speaking.
Welcome to Flight Number 293, nonstop from New York to Los Angeles.
The weather ahead is good and, therefore, we should have a smooth and
uneventful flight. Now sit back and relax... OH, MY GOD!" Silence
followed, and after a few minutes, the captain came back on the
intercom and said, "Ladies and Gentlemen, I am so sorry if I scared
you earlier. While I was talking to you, the flight attendant accidentally
spilled a cup of hot coffee in my lap. You should see the front of my
pants!" A passenger in Coach yelled, "That's nothing. You should see
the back of mine!"
Sunday, June 4. 2006
In the late 1800s, yacht clubs were established along the northeast coast of the US with a dual purpose in mind: yacht-racing, and making sure there were enough sea-wise people to fill the ranks of naval officers in the event of need. Thus these old yacht clubs functioned as an informal naval auxiliary, as does the excellent US Power Squadron. That is the reason that these clubs are commissioned each spring, and de-commissioned each fall; that is the reason for the para-military uniforms worn by yacht club officers on formal occasions; that is the reason such clubs always have a "Ship's Surgeon" and a "Fleet Captain," and that is the reason the chairmen of yacht clubs are titled "Commodore" - the lowest rank of Admiral in many navies. My club, which was my parent's and grandparent's club, founded in 1880 in Westchester County, NY, held its commissioning last Monday. It's always a stirring event (for the non-terminally cynical), and always the same, complete with dressed ships, cannon fire, the national anthem, the first raising of the flags for the year, state and local dignitaries (no Hillary), representative officers from other Long Island Sound yacht clubs within drinking-and-driving distance, a long prayer, recognition of members who died over the past year, recognition and appreciation of the devoted club staff, speeches, etc. Then dinner. It's an unspoken rule that every member shows up in blazer, tie, and good cheer - or have a good excuse not to ... plus the pre-ceremony cocktail hour is "free." Image: That's the fashionable north shore of Long Island in the far distance, where the anorectic women with their fancy horses, and their tall, elegant, seemingly-diffident husbands all speak Locust Valley Lockjaw - aka Connecticut Lockjaw - about 6-7 miles across Long Island Sound. The green spot just offshore is just some little island with a huge egret colony - but of no military significance! 
 All of us at Maggie's accept this honor with great pleasure, which has been bestowed upon us via email by noted Canadian journalist "Ted".
In his electrifying words, which have shaken the entire blogosphere, he says: "You have the most interesting blog in the world, well, maybe except for a few other really good ones that I also check daily." Alas, our friend Ted is neither an influential blogger, nor a blogger at all, but he had some college and rebuilds truck carburetors. You'd be surprised how many trucks there are in Winnipeg: the town is one giant truck stop with a fine S.I.R store just down the road from the MacDonald's, next to the tittie bar and the incredibly busy WalMart. Ted writes a bit of poetry on the side (you may have read his "blue-collar modernist" gem in The New Yorker, a deeply spiritual piece which begins: When my girl is on the nag / should I sleep in my car / or go to the bar?) along with the occasional feature piece on local color for the Winnipeg Free Press. Sad to say, local color is a scarce commodity in Winnipeg other than at Pop's Topless Lounge and Pizza. Ted has been known to shoot a Snow Goose or twenty, or more, on a slow day at work - but, in Canada, every day is a slow day at work unless you live in the US suburb called Toronto. Thank you, Ted, for the honor. We will treasure it always.
Saturday, June 3. 2006
For Sale: A lightly-used 2003 36' Hinckley Picnic Boat for sale in Marion, MA. You know you want her: you know you need her. Details, more photos, price, and specs here. The water-jet drive is the second-best part: her lines are the best part. The perfect week-end powerboat. Not cheap. 
 A Glock with a drum magazine. Perfect for popping rats at the dump, or for protecting your Hinckley Picnic Boat from pirates. Video.
Image: A Glock 18, 9 mm, alas without drum! Not a powerful person-stopper, but intimidating enough for many routine purposes.
Friday, June 2. 2006
It is probably a measure of the comfort - or decadence - of our soft, safe, self-worshipping and easy civilization that the above question could even be asked.  Esolen at Touchstone has written a wonderful piece on the risk that is involved in manliness - the willingness to take risks unto death to do what is needed. One quote:
The humility of risk is perfected in Christ and is, even when marred or hidden by the swagger, essential to natural manhood. The men of all really thriving cultures know that their lives, if truly lived, are not their own. The samurai was taught to relish each day as one won from death, an unexpected boon: For the moment he swears allegiance to his lord, he must consider his life as already forfeit. Thus, he can lay that life down at a nod, whenever the sacrifice should be required. Men who went down to the sea in ships, Viking marauders or Nantucket whalers, knew well they might never return, yet they did go; and the man on the mizzen in the midst of a storm knew that his life literally hung by a thread, and that many of his fellows in just his situation never saw land again, but without him and his obedience there could be no voyage beyond the calm of a bay. The crewmen on the Titanic held it as their duty, once the iceberg’s devastation had been reckoned, to assume that their lives were lost. Only so could they tax their muscles and their broken hearts to the last stretched fiber, to save as many other souls as they could, particularly women and children. The lad who carried the flag in the old fields of war was unarmed and most conspicuous, but most necessary for the rallying and ordering of his comrades. He was indispensable in his choosing the honor of being the single man least likely to survive the battle. The man first up the ladder to scale the walls of a besieged city would likely also be the first man dead beneath; but if he does not go, no one goes. The Spartans at Thermopylae knew they could not hold that pass forever against a Persian army many times their strength, but they held long enough for the Athenians to prepare for the onslaught. And you hold a pass by understanding that your life is not your life. You block the opening. The foe must break through over your dead body.
Read the whole inspiring, true thing. And let me know what you think: Should a man be willing to risk his life in defense of home, hearth, tribe or nation? Image: Missing Man formation of Air Force F-15s
Not a good place to fall off your water skis. They got some hungry gators there, and they'll really make a mess outta you. 
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