Project English Language

on (LEET, L337, 1337) and its followers

   I may be part of an breed unwelcome online, so the following may not be a common opinion. Then again, I hope I only attract an audience of the quality which would share this opinion (and yes, that is a biased statement). I hate weblogs run by dumb thirteen-year-old girls which overuse (read: “use even once”) any of the following “leet”-type words, phrases, and practices.

fren(s) lol ttfn rotfl nvm omg jk imho brb ttyl lmao lmfao atm g2g stfu wtf w/e   banned words: neenjaaaaar ppl grrl guestbook ne1 neways every1 cya rox rawks womyn da dat lyk u w/ 4 2 n o u y? r yur ur peeps wen gurl boi sry any1 thanx ya wel teh sk8 gr8 [any substitution of the number 8 for the letter sequence A T E] luv dat plz jus 2moro cuz enuff yu yr wut nuthin meen leet sux pwn[3d] skewl tho liek w00t!@# wateva hear/here no/know their/they're/there rite/right to/too/two your/you're waste/waist -ors -0R5 -orz -z ALL CAPS sTiCkY cApS [Capitalizing Every Single Word In A Title Sentence] !!!11!!111!! a/s/l <g> :) <3 31337 L337

   Just so perpetrators of this linguistic murder know, I automatically write off any infested web page, with whatever content contained, however otherwise-useful it may have been, as worthless. Yes, worthless, uneducated junk. Trash. Shmuts and shmattes*. Scraps of thoughtlessness not worth my time. I don’t care how smart and web-savvy you think you are, if you use “leet”, you are either stupid or fast becoming so.
   Which brings me to the irony of the very moniker the system (if you want to glorify babble by calling it a system) proudly bears. Derived from, or more accurately, a corruption of the word “elite”, “leet” marks it users as far from such. It would fit under the phrase “legends in their own eyes”, I think.
   Anything but elite, “leet” users are merely part of a growing, glassy-eyed herd of media thralls who, like James Whitcombe Riley’s “wee little worm”, imagine themselves as the rulers of all the world, because they know nothing outside their inconsequential hickory-nut:

A wee little worm in a hickory-nut
Sang out, as happy as he could be,
“Oh, I live in the heart of the whole, round world,
“And it all belongs to me!”

   Which brings me to the banner and link introducing this entry. Opposition to “leet” is important to anyone who values his language, and especially to teachers who I’ve heard tell of students daring to turn in papers written in this garbage. Project English Language maintains a blacklist of “leet” words, phrases, and typographic/grammatical practices which I highly recommend (the list, that is: not the words). Though not exhuastive, it comes close enough to make its point — and mine too!

   Oh, and if you use so much as a single word from the above unfortunate lexicon, I will assume, until shown otherwise, that you are a thirteen-year-old know-nothing (or are at least on a similar intellectual level). You probably also had to use a dictionary (do you know how to use a dictionary?) to read this post.

Crosspost: Scraps and Harbour in the Scramble

   Now, I can’t say I would recommend the weblog this came from as a general rule, but the irony of someone as liberal as the author making this suggestion just kills me. (I’m not going to provide a link, since many of the other posts are downright foul.)

Mothers let their wild little beasts roam free like giraffes on the Serengeti. They apparently believe that to control them will somehow stunt the growth of their self-esteem. In the radiology waiting room, there was one wild little beast, age approx. three who kept licking his mother's arm and laughing like Hannibal Lechter until she said, “Stop it, go away”, at which point he crawled over to me and started licking MY flip-flopped feet. I had a feeling that I couldn't gently kick him to get him to stop, so I just glared at the mother. She gave me a sheepish look like, “Well, what can you do, haha.” What can you do? Oh I don't know, you could yank your little [brat] up off the ground and edu-ma-cate him a little with the ol’ spankin’ hand. Conclusion: Parents today are . . . wimps that want to be “pals” with their kids instead of parents.

   An “edumacation” devoutly to be wished, in the case of many wild little beasts, no? “Spare the rod and spile the chile,” is some down-home wisdom which could make many parents better wild animal trainers — which our society has thrust aside to its own undoing.
   You know, that brat is going to grow up to be shocked when the world does not cater to him as does his misguided mother. How much better would it be for him to grow up strong and self-controlled than pampered? And as far as a healthy relationship goes, I know that well-disciplined children are much closer to their parents than free-roaming Serengeti wildlings. One British woman who had never much disciplined her children, soon after beginning a systematic, fair, and predictable order of discipline, was told by her now under-control and loving son, “Mummy? You do a very good job being a mummy.” (No Greater Joy, Jul/Aug 2004, pg. 20)
   It’s certainly not for no reason the Bible says, “He that spareth the rod hateth his son: but he that loveth him chasteneth him betimes.” (Proverbs 13:25)

Crosspost: Scraps, Harbour in the Scramble, Academic Musings

   Here’s a pull from the stale joke file. This just might be old enought to be funny now. Do you remember in 1999 the whole Y2K media-hyped “crisis”? Of course, for a variety of technical reasons, there never was any reason to despair, except for the fact that those frightened by the hype would undoubtably (and did, to a small degree) cause problems. Well, it turns out that the scare was just as bad when making the even-greater transition from three-digit dates to four-digit dates.

By Ashleigh Brilliant

Canterbury, England. A.D. 999

An atmosphere close to panic prevails today throughout Europe as the millennial year 1000 approaches, bringing with it the so-called “Y1K Bug” — a menace which, until recently, hardly anyone had ever heard of. Prophets of doom are warning that the entire fabric of Western Civilization, based as it now is upon monastic computations, could collapse, and that there is simply not enough time left to fix the problem.

Just how did this disaster-in-the-making ever arise? Why did no one anticipate that a change from a three-digit to a four-digit year would throw into total disarray all liturgical chants and all metrical verse in which any date is mentioned? Every formulaic hymn, prayer, ceremony and incantation dealing with dated events will have to be re-written to accommodate three extra syllables. All tabular chronologies with three-space year columns, maintained for generations by scribes using carefully hand-ruled lines on vellum sheets, will now have to be converted to four-space columns, at enormous cost. In the meantime, the validity of every official event, from baptisms to burials, from confirmations to coronations, may be called into question.

“We should have seen it coming,” says Brother Cedric of St. Michael’s Abbey, here in Canterbury. “What worries me most is that ‘thousand’ contains the word ‘Thou,’ which occurs in nearly all our prayers, and of course always refers to God. Using it now in the name of the year will seem almost blasphemous, and is bound to cause terrible confusion. Of course, we could always use Latin, but that might be even worse — The Latin word for ‘thousand’ is ‘mille’ — which is the same as the Latin for ‘mile’. We won’t know whether we’re talking about time or distance!”

Stonemasons are already reported threatening to demand a proportional pay increase for having to carve an extra numeral in all dates on tombstones, cornerstones and monuments. Together with its inevitable ripple effects, this alone could plunge the hitherto-stable medieval economy into chaos.

A conference of clerics has been called at Winchester to discuss the entire issue, but doomsayers are convinced that the matter is now one of personal survival. Many families, in expectation of the worst, are stocking up on holy water and indulgences.

   I hate those silly online quizzes. I really do. But this one is a bit different: it provides some framework for discussing my philosophies of honour and honesty. (Except for that typo right in the image text . . . aargh!)

You are a fencer. You fight honerably. You try not to kill your
opponents, but only disarm them, to force them
to surrender. In a duel you will go all
out and kill your oponent. You use a rapier.

What type of Swordsman are you?

My answers to some of the questions I consider more important to life in general, and explanations of them follow. What does honour truly entail, and what is mere foolishness?

When you find a women in distress, what do you do? Hide in the shadows until the time is right.
   It's foolish to charge in unprepared, make pointless, prideful shows of bravado, or attack before you can make a rational evaluation of the situation.

When your oponent drops their weapon, what do you do? Put my sword to his throat, and ask if he surrenders.
   Again, pointless shows of bravado are foolish, and taking full advantage of the situation by using the opportunity for a death-blow is dishonourable. In such a situation, the opponent ought to be given a chance to surrender. Otherwise, certain death.

When you finally confront your true enemy, what do you do? Stare him in the eye, draw my sword, and vow that I will kill him.
   No need to formalize it with a duel here. A duel is for a purpose: to settle a specific, usually social, dispute. (This is another of Hollywood’s misused standard scenes, merely for drama’s sake. Not every fight is a duel!) No skullduggery here, no foolish charges, but no non-required concessions: I am a capitalist above all.

When you defeat your enemy, he is on his knees, begging to be spared. What do you do? Say to him "We agreed to a duel. I shall not go aganst my word," and slit his throat.
   Honour once, honour always. A duel is a duel, a deal is a deal, and I am not one to go back on my word, much less to give up that which I have rightfully earned. No cruelty here, but no touchy-feely “he’s really not bad enough to kill” nonsense. Hollywood has had a decades-long field day with that whole idea — though it is rationally, morally, and philosophically bankrupt.

   Honour is really a part of how you live your life? How honourable are you? This quiz just might make you think, if you can take it out of its period context and seriously look at the philosophical underpinnings of your answers.

From a time less objective (Jason).

Later that day I went to Sara’s house to watch Ocean’s 11 for the first time. It was really stylized and witty, but I found it rather dry for deeper themes and ideas. The good guys are the ones who steal $160,000,000.00 of legitimately earned cash…it’s kind of sad in hindsight that American culture this desperate for entertainment ideas. It may relect some kind of Robin Hood theme, but one on a massive steroid overdose.

   And might I contrast my view with Jason’s implied approval of Robin Hood. While the original Robin Hood, I would argue, was a capitalist, stealing from the thieves (rich tax-collectors and extortioners) and giving to the robbed (poor tax-payers and extorted), he has in our present day been recast as a social (read: socialist, communist) “hero” — so much so in fact that ”steal from the rich and give to the poor” has become an idiomatic synonym for Robin Hood.
   The fact, then, that Ocean’s 11 can be viewed as having a “Robin Hood theme” is one more count against it, philosophically. Ayn Rand’s John Galt, in fact, vowed to slay Robin Hood (meaning the present misinterpretation of Robin Hood as an ideal), and never to rest until he did.
   Ocean’s 11, then, is just philosophically bankrupt in one more way. Not only does it glorify thievery, it flaunts socialism (and from there, humanism and relativism) in the face of capitalism (and hence the “Protestant work ethic” and the Law of Sowing and Reaping).

Crosspost: Scraps, Academic Musings, Harbour in the Scramble, and Ergle Street

The Gashlycrumb Tinies

or, After the Outing
by Edward Gorey

An Appalling Alphabet Which Introduces A Gallery Of Enchanting Tots And Produces A Gasp Of Involuntary Mirth When They Attain Their Dreadful Demise

A is for Amy who fell down the stairs,
B is for Basil assaulted by bears.
C is for Clara who wasted away,
D is for Desmond thrown out of the sleigh.
E is for Ernest who choked on a peach,
F is for Fanny, sucked dry by a leech.
G is for George, smothered under a rug,
H is for Hector, done in by a thug.
I is for Ida who drowned in the lake,
J is for James who took lye, by mistake.
K is for Kate who was struck with an axe,
L is for Leo who swallowed some tacks.
M is for Maud who was swept out to sea,
N is for Nevil who died of enui.
O is for Olive, run through with an awl,
P is for Prue, trampled flat in a brawl.
Q is for Quinton who sank in a mire,
R is for Rhoda, consumed by a fire.
S is for Susan who perished of fits,
T is for Titas who flew into bits.
U is for Una who slipped down a drain,
V is for Victor, squashed under a train.
W is for Winie, embedded in ice,
X is for Xerxes, devoured by mice.
Y is for Yoric whose head was bashed in,
Z is for Zilla who drank too much gin.

(The which is really much better with pictures. Also, see Susan Barnes’s wonderful new Tinies.)

   I don’t imagine it is possible to make better children’s poetry and illustrations than did our illustrious friend Mr. Gorey.

I am a poor wayfaring stranger,
While traveling through this world of woe.
Yet there’s no sickness, toil nor danger
In that bright world to which I go.
I’m going there to see my Father;
I’m going there no more to roam.

Refrain

I’m only going over Jordan,
I’m only going over home.

I know dark clouds will gather round me;
I know my way is rough and steep.
But golden fields lie out before me
Where God’s redeemed shall ever sleep.
I’m going there to see my mother,
She said she’d meet me when I come.

Refrain

I’ll soon be free from every trial,
My body sleep in the churchyard;
I’ll drop the cross of self denial
And enter on my great reward.
I’m going there to see my Savior,
To sing His praise forevermore.

Refrain

   Isn’t that a great song? It’s an old spiritual, I think. You’ll have to pardon my singing (that MP3 file of the music is me), though: I’m not especially good.

From Yahoo! News, via The Book of Confusion.

“‘My truth is that I am a gay American,’ McGreevey said.”

My Truth? Folks...there is no my truth or your truth. There is truth and falsehood. Now I admit that it can be difficult to tell the two apart sometimes, but we can’t go calling everything Truth. If everything is true…then NOTHING is true.

There are lot of ways he could have said that. That phrase more than anything shows his world view. It’s not one I can support. I honestly have more respect for someone who holds to a standard of absolute truth – even if it’s different than mine – than I do for those who think it’s all good.

   Relativism is definitely the scourge, intellectually of our age. I have had people, in very recent order, tell me that they “don’t believe in absolute truth,” in a scientific sense! If your disbelief in absolute truth goes so far as to encompass what you can see, measure, and repeat, God doesn’t really stand a chance, does he?

“Professing themselves to be wise, they became fools,” Romans 1:22

Crosspost: Scraps, Academic Musings, Harbour in the Scramble, Ergle Street

Voices from the Gambia

   The piercing voice breaks the stillness of the evening, disturbing the solitude. The noise was startling at first, then distracting, as other voices chime in.
   Is it an announcement? Some sort of singing? Chanting? The loudness of the P.A. system make it sound like it’s right next to our compound, but it is coming from the village mosque, over one kilometer away.
   The voices continue. Concentration is difficult.
   We ask: “What is happening?” “Oh, perhaps a ‘teaching’ for a special holy day; or maybe recitations for someone’s marriage or death. It’s in Arabic. Difficult to know what they are saying. Get used to it; happens often.”
   The voice returns. It’s still dark. It is 5:30 AM! “It’s a call to prayer:; the first of three over the next hour, each coming from a different mosque. We try to sleep; but we think . . . If they are praying, whay aren’t we? We who claim to know the Living God and call Him “Father”.

   It’s early Sunday morning: voices of children come drifting into the compound. They seem to be reciting verses and singing songs. What a beautiful sound! Is it a Sunday School class? “Yes, in a way. It’s the boys and girls attending classes at the nearby Koranic School going through their recitations and praises to Yallah.” We long to teach them about Jesus . . .
   A weekday afternoon: we hear the sound of singing. We go outside. A vanload of men passes by on the road, amplifying their songs as they drive through the town. “It’s a men’s retreat. A Muslim version of ‘Promise Keepers’.” We pray: “May it someday be a Christian group.”

   Evangelism and training go on almost daily in our village here. But we are not part of it. We are the “outsiders”, the “unbelievers”. How we wish this very religious atmosphere could be one of true worship — not only of God, but of His Son, the One Who came to be the Saviour of the world, the One they do not know.

   So wrote Missionary Jim Entner on October eighth, 2003. It raises an interesting question, does it not? Why are so many lost, dying, and yet more devout than we who have the truth? Have we no care for their souls?
   The Muslim has no Father God, since Islam teaches of an Allah who is a taskmaster: easily provoked and hardly appeased, capricious, even. We who know the true God, the one who loves and cares for the world, surely can be more devout worshippers of and witnesses for our God than they can theirs — don’t we have it infinitely better?

I read this prayer letter at Mission Prayer Band while at Pensacola Christian College
Crosspost: Scraps, Academic Musings, Harbour in the Scramble, Ergle Street

Bread and circuses!

   That's about all I can say: it's Shavian to the core. I've never had a movie shake the foundations of reality so severely as did this one. Of course, it being a Shaw play originally, so I should have expected it: something along the lines of Arms and the Man in philosophy. Shaw was a great playwright, but completely Communist (or at least Socialist) in belief.
   The general plot is “bad is good, good is bad“, leaving, of course the interpretation that it's better to be bad, and the good going bad is really becoming better, if you followed that. It breaks down like so:

• Rev. Anderson: inherently good
• Richard Dudgeon: inherently evil
• Mrs. Anderson (Judith): purposely, but precariously, good

   Though she is not presented as the main character, the story is really about Mrs. Anderson. She begins as a “good woman” (quoth Mr. Dudgeon). However, as the plot progresses, it becomes increasingly apparent that her goodness is not inherent, but something she is constantly working at, fighting against her nature the whole time. All well and good, except a sin nature is presented by Shaw as a felicitous thing.
   The ever-present “good in everyone” theme is so specially strong in this story that Dudgeon, an avowed Satanist (to be fair, it’s not clear whether he actually worships Satan or merely said so to needle the minister: either way, though, he’s not a nice fellow), is the hero (and not in the Paradise Lost sense) whose every action is condoned and who is designed to be strongly sympathized with by the audience.
   In the end, Anderson renounces the cloth and becomes a revolutionary (not to say at all that I oppose the American Revolution, historical event though it may be), while Dudgeon is revealed as a sympathetic and all-around nice guy (in a still “bad” character, of course).
   The crowning event of the story is Anderson’s “test” of his wife: he offers her as wife to Dudgeon, who accepts the offer. In a short scene of frantic glances from husband to lover, she runs crying out of the town and up into the hills. After some comradely back-slapping between the two men, Anderson mounts, heads out, and picks up his wife who is running still uphill towards the woods.
   In the manner of A Doll’s House by Henrik Ibsen, Shaw's attitudes of female liberty are even in his own writing shown as false. Like Nora, Judith’s striving for independence from her husband’s authority results in a less-than-satisfactory emotional state. However, while both Nora and Judith are patronized by their husbands, they are both inherently weak thinkers: characters naturally set up for patronization. The patronization of both women is less the fault of the men (though they are not entirely innocent) than of the women themselves, except for the fact that the men “married low” intellectually, and ended up with women they could not possibly respect.

Moral: Don’t marry outside your class (not social, but intellectual).

Literary Heroes (in the epic sense) are more protagonists than heroes in the modern sense. Lucifer (Satan) is the hero of Paradise Lost, in that much of the story is told from his point of view, even though his actions are not specifically condoned.

Crosspost: Scraps and Harbour in the Scramble

   Some things I can do without doing: I'm sure there are some things which are a genuine waste of time. However — and this list may reveal to you something of my temperament — there are certain things which I do not think, however untimely they may be, I could ever classify as true wastes of time.
   Reading a book is one. No time spent reading would I ever call a man into account for, even had much loss occurred because of it. Reading, and in a general sense, learning is in my view one of the truest acts in which a man can engage, since it makes use of the very faculty which separates him from the animals: reason. (My apologies to Aristotle.)
   Writing is kin next to reading, and provides for learning and improvement in much the same way. Writing not only fits when something as pragmatic as learning is to be shown, but as well it is an art, I would say, above all others. Though a painting can very nearly tell a story, no two people will see the same story. Though a piece of music may carry the heart on high emotion and low; be it never so well-played, two men will hear two different songs. I do not mean to say that by writing I can produce an identical impression on two different men, but certainly I may come closer to it than an artist of any other medium.
   Another thing which is no waste is time spent with nature, wheter in the roaming of woods and deserts or the watering of a garden. Again, like learning, the self-betterment which such provokes is worth, I think, more than anything which may be missed because of it, whether it be supper, or a train, or a thirty-thousand dollar bequest. (My apologies to a wise philosopher.)
   Time spent with a beloved I was going to say is no waste. However, that is neither strictly nor consistently true. Very many times, too much time spent with a loved one may destroy what time apart would build up; and too much doting may make for accidental bitterness towards the one doted upon. No, as cold as it may sound, time spent with one's beloved has a far greater danger of becoming a waste than does time spent alone with nature and nature's God, and even than time spent with Estella and Miss Havisham — as cruel as they are.
   There are certain needful things: things without which life, lived for its own sake, would not be worth the paper it would be printed on if a biography were to accidentally be written about such a life. There are certain things which are no waste, and if I don't hurry, I may miss them instead of dinner.

Crosspost: Scraps, Harbour in the Scramble, and Random Quill

or, A Lady Turns Three

     One of the families at church had a birthday party for their daughter, Lisa, who just turned three. It was held as a barbecue for the whole church and any of their family friends who wanted to come. Of course, the high concentration of adults made for a good pile of gifts for little Lisa, but I see another benefit to a child’s birthday party with adults.
     Since socialization is how children learn proper interpersonal skills and develop their interactive ability, oversocialization with their peers is actually damaging to their maturation and emotional development — contrary to widely-held psychiatric beliefs. Giving a child many chances to learn from those more experienced than they, especially in a non-threatening environment like a birthday party, is essential to their well-rounded development.
     Besides that, if you are raising a lady — which I think every parent of a daughter ought to strive to do — much hard work can be undone if appropriate examples are not constantly present to reaffirm “what a lady is”.
     And if you’re raising a lady, don’t forget the flowers. Royce, Lisa’s dad, bought her a bouquet — three pink roses. That little girl was carrying them around along with her new favorite toy, a plush stuffed dog she christened “Maggie”, after her “real” pet.
     Lisa is in for a good and proper life, the way she is going. Her daddy (and yes, you should let your little lady call you ”daddy” even when she is eighteen and twenty) is putting her well on her way to being a lady, and there is such a vast difference between a lady and a woman. That is a gift beyond all others — beyond the stuffed dog with which she made herself inseperable; and yes, even beyond the flowers.

Crosspost: Scraps and Harbour in the Scramble

     A visiting missionary, Tyrone Jackson, spoke at my church tonight. He brought up a couple of very interesting and poignant illustrations, one of which I’ll share below.

     A new pastor at a church gave his first sermon in his new pulpit one Sunday morning. After the service, he was roundly complimented for his “touching” sermon. The next week, then, he got to the pulpit and delivered the exact same message.
     Again, he was complimented by many of the members for the new viewpoint on several issues he presented. The third Sunday, the same thing happened.
     This time, many in the congregation started wondering why he was re-preaching his previous sermon, rather than starting on a new one. In fact, so many people were talking about it that one of the deacons approached the pastor after the service.
     “You know, pastor, we all love your sermon. I mean, it’s a great sermon and all, but . . . don’t you think it’s time to preach a new sermon? I don’t want you to think that we don’t like it, of course. It’s a great sermon. It’s just . . . odd . . . to have the same sermon week after week.”
     “I’ll know it’s a good sermon,” the preacher said, “when you start changing.”

     Ouch! How many times do we need to hear the same think from God, before we finally start obeying it — acting on it?

Many people would sooner die than think. In fact they do.

— Bertrand Russell

     My thoughts exactly, Mr. Russell. Thank you for putting it so succinctly.

     James Oglethorpe gazes south from his permanent residence in Chippewa Square. Daniel Chester French placed the Spanish Invasion there forever in his eyes. You see, Oglethorpe is weathered bronze, French is long dead, and the Spanish are only in the statue's cold bronze memory.
     To the General's right is the First Baptist Church of Savannah. During the Civil war, while every other church in the city was being used for hosptial duty, First Baptist saw itself become the only house of worship available to “Savannians” of any creed. “Baptists, Catholics, Presbyterians, Blacks, Whites,” as Harry put it. I suppose race was very nearly a religion in that place at that time, though, wasn't it . . .
     “Are you Catholic or Protestant?”
     “Protestant,” I said. Baptists are not actually an historical Protestant denomination, having never been affiliated with or part of the Roman Catholic Church; but I decided that particular history lesson had little place there, and let it be.
     “You probably sing a lot of hymns, then?” As I affirmed, he went on, “Lowell Mason wrote his five hundred hymns from that church.” That was something I did not know. A prolific and beloved hymnwriter (q.v. “When I Survey the Wondrous Cross” and “My Faith Looks Up to Thee”), was actually a member (in fact, the chorister and organist) of Independent Presbyterian, rather than First Baptist (this I found on further study). I had no idea he was even an American. That shows how little of even the history which should matter to me I know.
     Next on the slate was North. Independent Presbyterian stands there, stone and imposing as ever it has been. Actually, that is one of the interesting points of its story. It has not always been stone. In 1889 (Harry thought it was around 1870 or ‘80), the original church burned. Its replacement was erected in stone, really precluding (in my opinion) the possibility of a second trial by fire.
     A second point of interest is the marriage of President Woodrow Wilson, a devoted Presbyterian. Actually, that is a first point of interest, since his marriage to Ellen Louise Axson took place in 1885, four years before the fire.
     Moving around the square to the east, you'll see the Savannah Theatre, the oldest continuously-operating theatre in the United States. True, during a dark time (artistically speaking . . .) in its history it was a movie theatre. However, it is now a live theatre hosting true performing arts on a regular basis. (Sorry about the little rant there: I feel rather strongly about art.) Now, in the grand tradition of giving a story for each location, let me tell you about Charles Coburn.
     It's not exactly “rags to riches”, but have you ever had a friend tell you they work in the film industry, only to find that they are ushering or sweeping at the local theatre? The actor Coburn got his start that way. Beginning as an usher at the Savannah Theatre, Coburn eventually rose to become its manager. Once managing the company tidily, he decided to open his own play on his premises — you get to do that if you own the theatre. Moral: If you can't act, buy a theatre so you can cast yourself for any rôle you please.

     There you have Harry and what he told me, beer on his breath. (How does one come to have beer on one's breath at ten in the morning, anyway?)

Crosspost: Scraps and Random Quill

“Home Schooling Gets More Students”
     That was the quite pleasant subtitle of an article in my local newspaper (The Ventura County Star) today. It was subtitled with a statistic which has been long and opposed in its coming: since 1999, home-schooled students are up 29% nationwide, to nearly 1.1 million students (Education Department, National Center for Education Statistics). The article is from the AP wire; here is a shorter version I found online at the Indianapolis Star.
     Ian Slatter, of the Home School Legal Defense Association’s National Center for Home Education, says,

Home schooling is just getting started. We’ve gotten through the barriers of questioning the academic abilities of home schools, now that we have a sizable number of graduates who are not socially isolated or awkward — they are good, high-quality citizens. We’re getting that mainstream recognition and challenging the way education has been done.

     The two cannons usually leveled at home education are its alleged lower quality of education and a lack of socialization. Since nearly every year the National Spelling Bee is won by a home schooler, home schoolers have SAT scores consitently in the top five and ten percent, and home schoolers (contrary to popular belief) can usually take their pick of colleges — all of which are more than happy to accept someone with such high standardized test scores — this first charge doesn’t worry me to terribly.
     As far as socialization, I think that over-, rather than under-socialization is detrimental to a child’s maturity and emotional well-being, I would level the “socialization” cannon at public schools. I realize that this position is not one usually taken, so I shall attempt to explain.
     When I play chess, I try to seek out opponents who are more skilled than I — better players. It is only from a better player that a less-skilled player can learn, improving his game. In the same way, it is only from those more skilled at life, more skilled with interpersonal relationships and etiquette, that a child can learn how to function in society.
     As evidence, I offer up myself. I never cared for the company of my peers, since it was not thrust upon me. My parents never forced me into situations where my only socialization outlet was my peers, and in the presence of adults, I usually ignored my peers — and this is from three years old and up. There are few who would call me socially maladjusted, introverted, or out of touch with the world. Growing up around grown-ups did in no way damage my current gregariousness and self-confidence.
     I’m not sure it would be exactly politic to propose this on a wide-reaching medium, or even here on my weblog, but may I submit to you that it is public schools which have a lower standard of education, and that it is public schools which are damaging to children’s social lives. I, for one (and one of many millions of satisfied home school graduates) would never trade my education for a public education: I would feel cheated.

Crosspost: Scraps, Harbour in the Scramble, Academic Musings

Not that this is a tip of any great value — I would hope you could even figure it out on your own — but this may jump-start your efforts. If you, for some reason, need to change the user name associated with a weblog, whether because of giving up the address, "clearing" a profile of weblogs for personal and/or “political” reasons, there is no Google-supported mechanism (i.e. button) that would do such a thing.

However, since anyone who is an admin member of a weblog can boot anyone else (including other admin!), this will be our avenue of attack. First, on an existing weblog, "invite" the recipient of the weblog under the "members". Then, once that other member has accepted the invitation, you may make him an administrator. Good. Now all you must do is go into his account (or have him do it) and remove you as a member.

And now, congratulations! You now have one less material possession in this world. Don't you feel good? Now, quick, while you're motivated to succeed, start another weblog!

   Chippewa Square, Savannah, Georgia. A statue of James Oglethorpe, founder both of the Colony of Georgia and the City of Savannah. I was, inveterate (I do so love that word.) writer and self-proclaimed artist that I am, putting on paper the entire inscription from the four sides of the pedestal, even though it consisted mainly of the Charter of the Colony of Georgia, which I could have downloaded in two clicks. There was just a pressing need, an artistic necessity, to copying it down myself. After volunteering answers to several questions by a troupe of girl scouts, I was declared “smart”: upon hearing the words, “I'm a writer” in response to the inquiries as to my reasons for standing in front of the statue and very obviously copying verbatim the inscription, "That explains it." Hmmmm . . .
   Enter Harry. He's a freelance tour guide who really knows the history of the area. After trying unsuccessfully to convince me I would be better to go to the visitor's centre (I hate visitor's centres) and find the inscription I was so diligently (dutifully?) transcribing in a convenient printed brochure, he volunteered a complimentary “tour” of Chippewa Square and environs. (The notes from this impromptu stockstill tour will be used in another travelogue entry, so I'll leave out the historical details here.)
   A European accent, he said. He asked me where I was from, and when I confirmed California (which I had already named as my final destination), he asked, "No, originally. You're from Europe, right?" i demurred, and he explained, "You have a little bit of an accent. It sounds European." I think I've decided to be flattered by such.

[I have really delved into a beloved persona of mine today: the sophisticat, the artist. I even dressed my part, with a “sophisticated casual”, nearly Santa Barbarian look. If I didn't have moral predilections against it, I would say I probably would have looked at home at a wine tasting.]

FREE SPEECH IN MY WORLD

   “Everyone has the right to his own opinion.”  Bah!
   If you believe that, I have an opinion for you, piping hot, fresh out of the oven, and ready to serve. I believe that thinking people have a right to opinions, and those who do not think about their opinions, but merely “have” them have no business presuming to come to the same forums and expect equal credence as intelligent, self-informed individuals.
   Now, I don't have any problem with someone disagreeing with me. Au contraire, I would rather a thoughtful person disagree with me, and that openly, than have a majority on my side, but that majority be made up of “stupid people”.    For instance, I believe in Creation (yes, the literal, six-day Creation of all things by one personal God); and I have some friends who believe in Evolution, and some who believe in Creation. The fact that certain of my friends disagree with me does not cause me to discount their opinion. Conversely, the fact that others of the do agree with me does not cause me to validate their opinion.    To opine is a right which must be earned, not by the opinion, but by the process through which the opinion was decided. I know some who believe XYZ because some person told them to believe it. That is as much a problem in the Evolutionist camp as it is in the Christian camp; even though Christians are more often accused thereof. I know others who, whether in agreement or disagreement with their upbringing and major outside influences, have arrived at their opinion deliberately. These I respect, whatever their view; and the other, despise, whatever their view.
   I will give an example from my recent experience. I have a friend, A___, who is a Christian, but also believes in Evolution. For him and his opinions I have no respect. I have another friend, K___, who is an atheist, and predictably believes in Evolution. For her and her opinions I have the utmost respect. One rejects his upbringing and embraces the same view another has been raised to hold. What is the difference?
   A___'s opinion on the matter changed when he went to school. His whole life he had not held an opinion of his own because that was too much work. He fed off of the opinions of his parents, peers, and others. When his professors began instilling in him that one could not seriously consider oneself a man of science and not believe in Evolution, he decided to believe in Evolution, with no thought involved — nary a synapse fired.
   K___, on the other hand, sought out knowledge on which to base her opinion. Though she ended up remaining with the opinion handed to her, through her process of discovery it became her own. She honestly and sincerely evaluted the other options (well, in this case there really are only two options, unless you follow the schools of philosophy which say we really aren't here anyway . . .) and then decided — as did A___ — what she wanted to believe.

  There you have a double portrait. You can see the stupid person on the right with his owlish glasses, gawky build, scraggly black beard, and unsure demeanor. To your left is the smart person — the “thinker”, if you will. See her confident attitude, her poise. I'd almost be afraid to ask her a question; with her, there's too strong a possibility she already thought of that question, and decided what she would answer if ever asked it. It would be a fitting answer, too. Just look at her. Look at the difference between the two.

Benjamin Franklin, or Thomas Jefferson, or Thomas Paine, or one of the other great patriots of the American Revolution — I don't remember who, and it isn't that important who anyway — said to a man with whom he disagreed about the necessity of war, “I do not agree with what you say, sir, but I would defend to the death your right to say it.”

Of course, Dogbert, of Dilbert fame, said, “Out! Out, demons of stupidity!"

Stupid People . . .

. . . are, quite simply, those who will not think. I'm not talking about those who cannot think here. They have my sympathy and goodwill. Those people are stupid, truly stupid, who have the capacity to think — their full intact mental faculties — but are too lazy to utilize it. Face it. Thinking is work, and hard work at that (which is why thinkers have my full respect, regardless of their opinions), but those who do not engage in it as more than a dabbled-in pastime or hobby are more than lazy: they are shirkers of their duty to mankind.    I am the last one to claim on less than supernatural ground any type of duty apart from self, but a standard must be set somewhere! If there is no requirement or prerequesite of thought, then from what avenue must one approach an understanding of the supernatural?