"SFWA is not a professional organization, but a sort of fluffer’s club for people who wish to kiss up to publishers."
That would be the Science Fiction Writers of America, for those of you who haven't been following the saga of Left Vs. Right in the SF/F world.
Showing posts with label writing. Show all posts
Showing posts with label writing. Show all posts
Tuesday, June 24, 2014
Friday, April 25, 2014
One Thing That the Recent Hugo Nominations Have Done...
...is point me in the direction of particular authors I might not else have read, e.g., Vox Day. So many leftist heads exploded in outrage when Day was nominated for a Hugo - - John Scalzi, for example - - that it woke the contrarian in me and inspired me to check out Day's work.
So thanks, leftist assholes!
So thanks, leftist assholes!
Wednesday, May 22, 2013
Writing Laughs
Have you ever pondered all of the synonyms for the word laugh, and how writers mimic the sound of each particular laugh on the page? Here's a handy little guide I've decided to put together, as far as I'm able:
Laugh: Ha ha!
Giggle: Hee hee!
Chuckle: Heh heh!
Chortle: Ho ho ho!
Snicker: (I'm baffled by this one. It's the sound the old Hanna/Barbera dog "Muttley" makes. I can't recall a snicker sound ever represented on a page.)
If you know of any others, feel free to add them in comments.
Laugh: Ha ha!
Giggle: Hee hee!
Chuckle: Heh heh!
Chortle: Ho ho ho!
Snicker: (I'm baffled by this one. It's the sound the old Hanna/Barbera dog "Muttley" makes. I can't recall a snicker sound ever represented on a page.)
If you know of any others, feel free to add them in comments.
Saturday, March 23, 2013
Lost Lamb
It was the evening of the fourth of May, and the old shepherd Andrej was looking forward to an evening at the village inn. It was still cold here in the Carpathians, and a warm hearthfire, a jug of wine and a dish of bryndzové halušky, made from the milk of Andrej's own ewes (Andrej bartered milk, wool and rarely mutton with various innkeepers and merchants throughout the area) would be welcome. Andrej's rheumatism was flaring up, and he welcomed the opportunity to sleep in a bed instead of the ground under the stars.
Especially tonight, the fourth of May.
As Andrej herded his sheep into one of the pens near the edge of the village, he counted them, using his rosary beads to keep track of how many had entered. Since it was spring there were numerous lambs to keep track of. He finished his tally, frowning to himself. Eighty-four, he thought to himself. There should be eighty-five. He started his count again. He knew exactly how many rams, ewes and lambs he owned. At the end of the recount, he still came up one short. A lamb had gone missing.
He pondered, thinking of the road he had taken to the village. Several miles back the road skirted a forest, and some of the sheep had been out of his sight around a curve for part of the journey past it. He would have to go back and find the lamb. It was about an hour before sunset, and he probably had time, if the lamb hadn't strayed too far.
It was, however, the fourth of May. People here in the mountains would not willingly go out after dark on the fourth of May. Some would call them superstitious - - they themselves did not, referring to it instead as piety. You didn't go outside on the eve of St. George's Day, nor on other days throughout the year - - the eve of All Hallows or the feast day of St. Walpurga, which had passed several days before. Andrej had stayed the night in another village some twenty miles back on that day.
He called to Štefan, the peasant charged with watching over the animal pens, and told him that he was going in search of a lamb, back toward the forest. Štefan glanced at the sun, now westering, casting long shadows, and said, "You know what evening this is, yes?" Andrej nodded. Štefan went into his hut, returned with several heads of garlic. "Go with God, Andrej. Try to be back before dusk, yes?" Andrej nodded again, taking the garlic and stuffing them into a pocket. He also took out his rosary and draped it around his neck, outside of his lambskin tunic, pausing to kiss the crucifix reverently. Taking up his valaška he set off down the road, Štefan watching silently until the cold drove him into his hut.
It had been a clear, sunny day, but with not much warmth in the air, because of the elevation here in the mountain foothills. Now, with the sun nearly on the horizon and obscured here and there by trees, evening brought a chill. The steel axehead of Andrej's valaška was cold in his hand, even through the fingerless gloves that he wore. The valaška was the ethnic weapon of the Slovak: a cane-length staff with an axehead at one end and a spike at the other end to assist in walking. Andrej's valaška had an axe blade on one side and a hammering head on the other. Some valaškas, instead of a hammer, had a spike for digging in the ground. Andrej preferred the hammering head; it was useful when he made camp in the evenings. Some effete town Slovaks carried valaška-like objects with ornamental brass or wooden heads, useless for any serious work, and he had heard stories that in the largest cities Slovaks were forbidden by law to carry a valaška at all. He snorted. The proper Slovak response to such a demand is to bash the stupid whoreson over the head with it!
He had walked about two miles along the road, seeing no sign of the lamb. He was now in the forested area where he suspected that the little animal went astray. He heard no howls that would indicate wolves in the area, but foxes abound in the wilderness and happily eat lamb when the opportunity offers. The sun was down now behind the horizon, but the glow of evening was still bright enough to see by. Andrej's breath steamed a bit as he walked.
Suddenly, off the road in the forest he heard the bleating of a lamb, hungry and calling for its mother. Andrej muttered "I'm coming!" under his breath, and plunged into the forest. As he ventured further he paused to leave blaze-marks on trees he passed, not wishing to become lost in the darkness. The bleating of the lamb continued, now a little more faintly, as if the lamb was moving further into the forest. Andrej followed, hoping he could get the lamb and be back on the road before it was fully dark; it was, after all, the fourth of May. That thought caused him to shiver, as if someone had stepped on his grave, as the old saying goes. He began murmuring prayers under his breath as he strode on, the spike of his valaška sinking into the forest floor and helping him to recover when he stumbled. He said a Pater Noster, then an Ave Maria, the last line of which he hoped wasn't a premonition: now and at the hour of our death. He next said a Gloria Patri and this reassured him, so he repeated it as he walked, listening for the lamb and striking passing trees with the axehead of his valaška, scoring the bark off and exposing the white wood underneath, a blaze to help him find his way back to the road.
The bleating of the lamb then became frenzied, and much closer; and, peering through the gloom of the trees, he saw the lamb ahead of him, with a figure in white crouching over it. A large oak tree overspread the ground beside the lamb and the crouching figure. Andrej plunged forward with a cry. The figure in white turned sharply, hearing the noise; a white face shown pale, with red eyes and the heavy mustachios of a Slovak: hatless, the lambskin tunic filthy, the wide belt stained as if with water damage; the breeks torn as by thorns; no shoes or stockings on the dirty feet. Andrej felt a chill run down his spine. Upir, he thought to himself. Vampire.
"Vade retro, Satana!" shouted Andrej, his voice trembling. The words recalled the rest of the incantation against evil things, and Andrej shouted them at the upir:
Crux sancta mihi lux,
Non draco mihi dux,
Vade retro, Satana!
Numquam suade mihi vana;
Sunt mala quae libas.
Ipse venena bibas!
(Let the Holy Cross be my light,
Let not the Dragon be my guide,
Step back, Satan!
Never tempt me with vain things;
What you offer me is evil.
Drink the poison yourself!)
The upir shrieked, as if the words burned it; then, with arms outstretched and claws grasping, it rushed at Andrej. Andrej, stepping back himself, caught his ankle in a root and fell backwards, grasping convulsively at his valaška as he did so, and as the upir fell upon him, he raised it so the spike projected outward. The upir's spring met the spike and it pierced his chest, transfixing his heart. Screaming, the upir clawed at Andrej, who held tightly to the valaška so that the upir would not pull it out. As the upir struggled with Andrej its claws touched Anrej's rosary beads, which burned his undead flesh.
Andrej finally managed to kick and punch himself loose from the upir, not without receiving some scratches from the creature's claws on his arms and face. Andrej rolled onto his hands and knees beside the upir, which was convulsing on the ground beside him, the valaška still embedded in its chest. Andrej got shakily to his feet and grasped the valaška by its head, using it to turn the upir onto its back. He leaned his weight on the valaška, driving it deeper into the monster's body and finally through it, fastening the vampire to the ground. The upir screamed and screamed, its long fangs cutting its lips, its Slovak tunic a blanket of black heart's blood. Andrej held it there, pinioned, while its struggles became feebler, and its screams died down to inarticulate hisses. Finally, it was still. The lamb continued its bleating a few yards away.
It was now fully dark. Andrej stood shakily on his feet, panting. I am getting too old for this, he thought to himself. He crossed himself and said a quick Gloria Patri, then a sort of mini-Litany that he made up on the spot, thanking the Father, Jesus the Son, the Holy Ghost, the Virgin and St. Andrew (his patron) for preserving his life. Nearby the lamb still bleated.
Andrej looked at the dead upir, with Andrej's valaška still sticking out of its chest. Andrej knew that, to be sure of a vampire's destruction, that it was advisable to cut off the head. He thought for a minute or so, then figured a solution. He went over to the dead upir and grasped the axehead of the valaška, then shook it slightly, making sure the undead was truly dead. It remained still. Andrej, grasping the valaška, turned the dead upir onto its side; then, placing his booted foot on the shaft of the valaška halfway down its length, he hauled up sharply on the head, breaking it off so that the lower half was still embedded in the upir's dead body, while the upper half now gave him a stubby hatchet. He used this to chop off the upir's head; it took about a dozen strokes, and revolted Andrej so much that he grunted with each swing: Ugh! Ugh! Ugh! Finally the head separated from the body, which at that point sagged and seemed to slacken. Andrej, remembering the garlic that Štefan had given him, pulled it out of his pocket, and stuffed the garlic into the upir's dead mouth, using the stub of the valaška's handle to push it in. The dead upir's eyes stared unseeing. The lamb continued its pitiable bleating.
Andrej looked around. It was fully dark and time to leave. No use tempting Satan further. He slid the remains of his valaška under his wide, nail-studded Slovak belt and went over to the lamb. Picking it up, he looked around one last time, then began his return to the road, looking for the blazes he had left on the trees. He found them, and soon was back to the road. He began his trip back to the village, the lamb in his arms.
Not long before he left the forested area, off to the right, he suddenly saw a blue light out of the corner of his eye, just off the road, near the beginning of the trees. Remembering the old legends, he quickly put the lamb down and ran over to the ground where a blue flame danced. He took the remains of his valaška from his belt, and stuck it into the ground where the flame showed; then he backed away to the road, squinting to make sure that the shiny axe-head was visible from the road. It was. He again picked up the lamb, and walked the miles back to the village. When he arrived, of course the superstitious peasants would not let him into the inn; even Štefan at the animal pens had his door bolted firmly shut and would not answer his calls. Andrej, resigned, placed the lamb into the animal pen, watching until it found its mother and began suckling, then made his way over to the church, which he knew would be open: churches in Slovakia remain open the year around; evil things will not enter, and honest men fear to steal from the House of God. Andrej entered the church and, asking forgiveness from God, drank some of the Holy Water, and used more of it to clean the scratches that the upir left on his face and arms. The water felt clean and wholesome on his skin. After his ablutions he went to the communion rail and knelt, and thanked God for his deliverance. A devout man, he said the Publican's Prayer: Lord, have mercy on me, a poor sinner. He said this again and again, hoping that God heard. Finally, he crossed himself, and crept into a corner to sleep, his stomach grumbling at a missed supper, but he sternly told his stomach to be quiet.
He slept through until dawn the next morning, when he was awakened by the priest, who came to say his daily Mass. Andrej asked the priest to hear his confession, which shocked and horrified the old man, then stayed for Mass; he took Communion, again thanking God for His mercy.
After Mass he went to the inn for a proper bath and a huge breakfast. The innkeeper apologized for not admitting him the night before; Andrej shrugged it off, knowing the custom of the country as well as any man. He'd have done the same himself, if he had a house of his own. After breakfast he made his way to the animal pens and talked to Štefan of the previous night's events; not going into much detail. He borrowed a spade and a sack from Štefan and, promising to be back in a couple of hours, strode off down the road yet again.
He soon found himself in the forest, next to the huge oak tree where the body of the upir still remained. Using the spade he quickly dug two shallow graves; into one he dragged the upir's dead body; into the other he placed the head. He covered them over with dirt and leaves, said a quick prayer for the upir's soul, and departed.
He made his way back toward the village; along the way he looked for his valaška along the side of the road, where he had spiked it into the ground; eventually he found it. Pulling it out of the ground, he dug in that spot with the spade; about a foot down the spade struck something which scraped at the edge of the blade. Stooping down to the hole he scraped carefully until he revealed a terra-cotta pot, such as one might cook food in. Dragging it out of the hole he laid it on its side, looked at it carefully for a few moments, then struck it with the hammering head of his valaška, shattering it. Hundreds of coins spilled out; most of them the black of old silver, but more than a few shiny golden coins, as well. Picking one of these up he saw that it was Roman, and the emperor shown on the face was Marcus Aurelius. Most of the coins in the pile were Roman, as well, but some were from the Germanic tribes of the period, or so he guessed. He gathered all of them into the bag and, thanking God for his good fortune, returned to the village.
Epilogue: Slovak By the Sea
Andrej gifted a tenth of his hoard to the priest at the village church, to be used for the good of the community. He gifted Štefan his herd of sheep, purchased a horse, and vanished. He made his way to the sea, which he had never seen: the Adriatic, where he made his way to one of the islands off the Balkan coast, where he had a stone cottage built and where he lived in sunny quiet the rest of his days. He dressed as the other locals did, save for his fierce Slovak mustache, and the strange axe-headed cane he always carried. Occasionally after drinking too much wine he'd hint about his adventurous past, and pat the cane affectionately; you never know, he'd say, when you'll need a good valaška by your side!
© 23 March 2013 by Robert G. Evans. All Rights Reserved.
Especially tonight, the fourth of May.
As Andrej herded his sheep into one of the pens near the edge of the village, he counted them, using his rosary beads to keep track of how many had entered. Since it was spring there were numerous lambs to keep track of. He finished his tally, frowning to himself. Eighty-four, he thought to himself. There should be eighty-five. He started his count again. He knew exactly how many rams, ewes and lambs he owned. At the end of the recount, he still came up one short. A lamb had gone missing.
He pondered, thinking of the road he had taken to the village. Several miles back the road skirted a forest, and some of the sheep had been out of his sight around a curve for part of the journey past it. He would have to go back and find the lamb. It was about an hour before sunset, and he probably had time, if the lamb hadn't strayed too far.
It was, however, the fourth of May. People here in the mountains would not willingly go out after dark on the fourth of May. Some would call them superstitious - - they themselves did not, referring to it instead as piety. You didn't go outside on the eve of St. George's Day, nor on other days throughout the year - - the eve of All Hallows or the feast day of St. Walpurga, which had passed several days before. Andrej had stayed the night in another village some twenty miles back on that day.
He called to Štefan, the peasant charged with watching over the animal pens, and told him that he was going in search of a lamb, back toward the forest. Štefan glanced at the sun, now westering, casting long shadows, and said, "You know what evening this is, yes?" Andrej nodded. Štefan went into his hut, returned with several heads of garlic. "Go with God, Andrej. Try to be back before dusk, yes?" Andrej nodded again, taking the garlic and stuffing them into a pocket. He also took out his rosary and draped it around his neck, outside of his lambskin tunic, pausing to kiss the crucifix reverently. Taking up his valaška he set off down the road, Štefan watching silently until the cold drove him into his hut.
It had been a clear, sunny day, but with not much warmth in the air, because of the elevation here in the mountain foothills. Now, with the sun nearly on the horizon and obscured here and there by trees, evening brought a chill. The steel axehead of Andrej's valaška was cold in his hand, even through the fingerless gloves that he wore. The valaška was the ethnic weapon of the Slovak: a cane-length staff with an axehead at one end and a spike at the other end to assist in walking. Andrej's valaška had an axe blade on one side and a hammering head on the other. Some valaškas, instead of a hammer, had a spike for digging in the ground. Andrej preferred the hammering head; it was useful when he made camp in the evenings. Some effete town Slovaks carried valaška-like objects with ornamental brass or wooden heads, useless for any serious work, and he had heard stories that in the largest cities Slovaks were forbidden by law to carry a valaška at all. He snorted. The proper Slovak response to such a demand is to bash the stupid whoreson over the head with it!
He had walked about two miles along the road, seeing no sign of the lamb. He was now in the forested area where he suspected that the little animal went astray. He heard no howls that would indicate wolves in the area, but foxes abound in the wilderness and happily eat lamb when the opportunity offers. The sun was down now behind the horizon, but the glow of evening was still bright enough to see by. Andrej's breath steamed a bit as he walked.
Suddenly, off the road in the forest he heard the bleating of a lamb, hungry and calling for its mother. Andrej muttered "I'm coming!" under his breath, and plunged into the forest. As he ventured further he paused to leave blaze-marks on trees he passed, not wishing to become lost in the darkness. The bleating of the lamb continued, now a little more faintly, as if the lamb was moving further into the forest. Andrej followed, hoping he could get the lamb and be back on the road before it was fully dark; it was, after all, the fourth of May. That thought caused him to shiver, as if someone had stepped on his grave, as the old saying goes. He began murmuring prayers under his breath as he strode on, the spike of his valaška sinking into the forest floor and helping him to recover when he stumbled. He said a Pater Noster, then an Ave Maria, the last line of which he hoped wasn't a premonition: now and at the hour of our death. He next said a Gloria Patri and this reassured him, so he repeated it as he walked, listening for the lamb and striking passing trees with the axehead of his valaška, scoring the bark off and exposing the white wood underneath, a blaze to help him find his way back to the road.
The bleating of the lamb then became frenzied, and much closer; and, peering through the gloom of the trees, he saw the lamb ahead of him, with a figure in white crouching over it. A large oak tree overspread the ground beside the lamb and the crouching figure. Andrej plunged forward with a cry. The figure in white turned sharply, hearing the noise; a white face shown pale, with red eyes and the heavy mustachios of a Slovak: hatless, the lambskin tunic filthy, the wide belt stained as if with water damage; the breeks torn as by thorns; no shoes or stockings on the dirty feet. Andrej felt a chill run down his spine. Upir, he thought to himself. Vampire.
"Vade retro, Satana!" shouted Andrej, his voice trembling. The words recalled the rest of the incantation against evil things, and Andrej shouted them at the upir:
Crux sancta mihi lux,
Non draco mihi dux,
Vade retro, Satana!
Numquam suade mihi vana;
Sunt mala quae libas.
Ipse venena bibas!
(Let the Holy Cross be my light,
Let not the Dragon be my guide,
Step back, Satan!
Never tempt me with vain things;
What you offer me is evil.
Drink the poison yourself!)
The upir shrieked, as if the words burned it; then, with arms outstretched and claws grasping, it rushed at Andrej. Andrej, stepping back himself, caught his ankle in a root and fell backwards, grasping convulsively at his valaška as he did so, and as the upir fell upon him, he raised it so the spike projected outward. The upir's spring met the spike and it pierced his chest, transfixing his heart. Screaming, the upir clawed at Andrej, who held tightly to the valaška so that the upir would not pull it out. As the upir struggled with Andrej its claws touched Anrej's rosary beads, which burned his undead flesh.
Andrej finally managed to kick and punch himself loose from the upir, not without receiving some scratches from the creature's claws on his arms and face. Andrej rolled onto his hands and knees beside the upir, which was convulsing on the ground beside him, the valaška still embedded in its chest. Andrej got shakily to his feet and grasped the valaška by its head, using it to turn the upir onto its back. He leaned his weight on the valaška, driving it deeper into the monster's body and finally through it, fastening the vampire to the ground. The upir screamed and screamed, its long fangs cutting its lips, its Slovak tunic a blanket of black heart's blood. Andrej held it there, pinioned, while its struggles became feebler, and its screams died down to inarticulate hisses. Finally, it was still. The lamb continued its bleating a few yards away.
It was now fully dark. Andrej stood shakily on his feet, panting. I am getting too old for this, he thought to himself. He crossed himself and said a quick Gloria Patri, then a sort of mini-Litany that he made up on the spot, thanking the Father, Jesus the Son, the Holy Ghost, the Virgin and St. Andrew (his patron) for preserving his life. Nearby the lamb still bleated.
Andrej looked at the dead upir, with Andrej's valaška still sticking out of its chest. Andrej knew that, to be sure of a vampire's destruction, that it was advisable to cut off the head. He thought for a minute or so, then figured a solution. He went over to the dead upir and grasped the axehead of the valaška, then shook it slightly, making sure the undead was truly dead. It remained still. Andrej, grasping the valaška, turned the dead upir onto its side; then, placing his booted foot on the shaft of the valaška halfway down its length, he hauled up sharply on the head, breaking it off so that the lower half was still embedded in the upir's dead body, while the upper half now gave him a stubby hatchet. He used this to chop off the upir's head; it took about a dozen strokes, and revolted Andrej so much that he grunted with each swing: Ugh! Ugh! Ugh! Finally the head separated from the body, which at that point sagged and seemed to slacken. Andrej, remembering the garlic that Štefan had given him, pulled it out of his pocket, and stuffed the garlic into the upir's dead mouth, using the stub of the valaška's handle to push it in. The dead upir's eyes stared unseeing. The lamb continued its pitiable bleating.
Andrej looked around. It was fully dark and time to leave. No use tempting Satan further. He slid the remains of his valaška under his wide, nail-studded Slovak belt and went over to the lamb. Picking it up, he looked around one last time, then began his return to the road, looking for the blazes he had left on the trees. He found them, and soon was back to the road. He began his trip back to the village, the lamb in his arms.
Not long before he left the forested area, off to the right, he suddenly saw a blue light out of the corner of his eye, just off the road, near the beginning of the trees. Remembering the old legends, he quickly put the lamb down and ran over to the ground where a blue flame danced. He took the remains of his valaška from his belt, and stuck it into the ground where the flame showed; then he backed away to the road, squinting to make sure that the shiny axe-head was visible from the road. It was. He again picked up the lamb, and walked the miles back to the village. When he arrived, of course the superstitious peasants would not let him into the inn; even Štefan at the animal pens had his door bolted firmly shut and would not answer his calls. Andrej, resigned, placed the lamb into the animal pen, watching until it found its mother and began suckling, then made his way over to the church, which he knew would be open: churches in Slovakia remain open the year around; evil things will not enter, and honest men fear to steal from the House of God. Andrej entered the church and, asking forgiveness from God, drank some of the Holy Water, and used more of it to clean the scratches that the upir left on his face and arms. The water felt clean and wholesome on his skin. After his ablutions he went to the communion rail and knelt, and thanked God for his deliverance. A devout man, he said the Publican's Prayer: Lord, have mercy on me, a poor sinner. He said this again and again, hoping that God heard. Finally, he crossed himself, and crept into a corner to sleep, his stomach grumbling at a missed supper, but he sternly told his stomach to be quiet.
He slept through until dawn the next morning, when he was awakened by the priest, who came to say his daily Mass. Andrej asked the priest to hear his confession, which shocked and horrified the old man, then stayed for Mass; he took Communion, again thanking God for His mercy.
After Mass he went to the inn for a proper bath and a huge breakfast. The innkeeper apologized for not admitting him the night before; Andrej shrugged it off, knowing the custom of the country as well as any man. He'd have done the same himself, if he had a house of his own. After breakfast he made his way to the animal pens and talked to Štefan of the previous night's events; not going into much detail. He borrowed a spade and a sack from Štefan and, promising to be back in a couple of hours, strode off down the road yet again.
He soon found himself in the forest, next to the huge oak tree where the body of the upir still remained. Using the spade he quickly dug two shallow graves; into one he dragged the upir's dead body; into the other he placed the head. He covered them over with dirt and leaves, said a quick prayer for the upir's soul, and departed.
He made his way back toward the village; along the way he looked for his valaška along the side of the road, where he had spiked it into the ground; eventually he found it. Pulling it out of the ground, he dug in that spot with the spade; about a foot down the spade struck something which scraped at the edge of the blade. Stooping down to the hole he scraped carefully until he revealed a terra-cotta pot, such as one might cook food in. Dragging it out of the hole he laid it on its side, looked at it carefully for a few moments, then struck it with the hammering head of his valaška, shattering it. Hundreds of coins spilled out; most of them the black of old silver, but more than a few shiny golden coins, as well. Picking one of these up he saw that it was Roman, and the emperor shown on the face was Marcus Aurelius. Most of the coins in the pile were Roman, as well, but some were from the Germanic tribes of the period, or so he guessed. He gathered all of them into the bag and, thanking God for his good fortune, returned to the village.
Epilogue: Slovak By the Sea
Andrej gifted a tenth of his hoard to the priest at the village church, to be used for the good of the community. He gifted Štefan his herd of sheep, purchased a horse, and vanished. He made his way to the sea, which he had never seen: the Adriatic, where he made his way to one of the islands off the Balkan coast, where he had a stone cottage built and where he lived in sunny quiet the rest of his days. He dressed as the other locals did, save for his fierce Slovak mustache, and the strange axe-headed cane he always carried. Occasionally after drinking too much wine he'd hint about his adventurous past, and pat the cane affectionately; you never know, he'd say, when you'll need a good valaška by your side!
© 23 March 2013 by Robert G. Evans. All Rights Reserved.
Monday, February 25, 2013
To Keep Cursive Alive
"Bill Would Require N.C. Schools To Teach Cursive Handwriting."
In the age of texting, tweeting and other technological ways of communicating, North Carolina’s elementary school students could soon have to master a more old-fashioned craft: writing in cursive.
A bill introduced in the state House this week would once again make cursive handwriting a part of the curriculum in state elementary schools. The “Back to Basics” bill also would require elementary students to memorize multiplication tables, though state education officials say that’s already part of the curriculum.
North Carolina’s move to bring back cursive comes at a time when other states from California to Massachusetts also are trying to revive what’s become a lost skill.
We're in a transitional stage at which we can either let cursive die, or make a determination to keep it alive. Why would you want to? Well, our founding documents - - The Declaration of Independence, the Constitution and the Bill of Rights are written in cursive. Certainly you can find printed versions on the internet, but what if you were standing in front of one of the documents itself? You'd be lost without cursive. Say that you found an old diary in the attic, written in cursive - - you cannot read it; are you willing to trust it to a stranger to read for you? Anything that was written down before the advent of computers was probably written in cursive, and that is still a lot of material. Are we simply losing our capacity as humans to absorb lots of skills? Must we admit that we're less capable than our parents and grandparents? I'd hate to think so.
In the age of texting, tweeting and other technological ways of communicating, North Carolina’s elementary school students could soon have to master a more old-fashioned craft: writing in cursive.
A bill introduced in the state House this week would once again make cursive handwriting a part of the curriculum in state elementary schools. The “Back to Basics” bill also would require elementary students to memorize multiplication tables, though state education officials say that’s already part of the curriculum.
North Carolina’s move to bring back cursive comes at a time when other states from California to Massachusetts also are trying to revive what’s become a lost skill.
We're in a transitional stage at which we can either let cursive die, or make a determination to keep it alive. Why would you want to? Well, our founding documents - - The Declaration of Independence, the Constitution and the Bill of Rights are written in cursive. Certainly you can find printed versions on the internet, but what if you were standing in front of one of the documents itself? You'd be lost without cursive. Say that you found an old diary in the attic, written in cursive - - you cannot read it; are you willing to trust it to a stranger to read for you? Anything that was written down before the advent of computers was probably written in cursive, and that is still a lot of material. Are we simply losing our capacity as humans to absorb lots of skills? Must we admit that we're less capable than our parents and grandparents? I'd hate to think so.
Saturday, July 28, 2012
The Cripping and Blooding of America, 2050
It's the year 2050 in the Divided States of America. The country's motto, for so many years "e pluribus unum," is now de unum, duo. The country, although still nominally a single entity, is in fact divided in two along ideological grounds. Like the Yangs and Comms in the old "Star Trek" episode "Omega Glory," the Left and the Right are no longer on speaking terms, unless it is to hurl epithets, to browbeat and bullyrag.
Businesses and restaurants are prominently marked in one of two colors, blue for the Left and red for the Right. Inside Blue businesses you'll find the vidscreens turned to leftist media channels, the descendants of MSNBC although the letter designations have changed. In Red businesses the vidscreens are turned to Fox News, which has kept its name for all these years, tradition being important to the Right. If you step into a Blue business you had best not be wearing any clothing colored red; likewise it's best not to enter a Red business wearing blue clothing.
Historians tend to agree that restaurants began to cater to either Red or Blue around 2012, when the Christian business Chik-Fil-A was the target of Blue outrage and boycotts. Several Chik-Fil-A restaurants were in fact burned during mob violence on a so-called "Chik-Fil-A Appreciation Day," in which right-leaning people were encourage to eat at Chik-Fil-A out of solidarity for its corporate views. Violence broke out between Right and Left on this day, resulting in several deaths and three Chik-Fil-A restaurants being firebombed by Leftist agitators.
America began self-segregating in earnest not long afterwards. It had been years since right-wing politicians could reasonably expect to win office in places like California, Massachusetts or New York, so they stopped even bothering, and moved to the Old South or the West where their views were welcome. By the same token, after decades of gerrymandering it became obvious that Leftists could not compete politically in the "flyover states" as they sneeringly called them. The widespread deportations of illegal immigrants from the flyover states changed the demographics of those areas drastically, as did the race riots that occurred in the Old South as a result of the black "Flash Mob" phenomenon (this was black violence perpetrated upon whites, usually with the encouragement of black politicians and church leaders. The left-leaning media outlets of the time refused to report on the racial aspects of the flash mobs, and thus came to be seen as collaborators in the flash mob violence, and were eventually targeted by outraged whites during the so-called "MSM Purge" of 2021).
Well, that's a good start, I think. You can probably tell I've read my share of Tom Kratman and Oh John Ringo No! novels in the recent past. *grins*
Businesses and restaurants are prominently marked in one of two colors, blue for the Left and red for the Right. Inside Blue businesses you'll find the vidscreens turned to leftist media channels, the descendants of MSNBC although the letter designations have changed. In Red businesses the vidscreens are turned to Fox News, which has kept its name for all these years, tradition being important to the Right. If you step into a Blue business you had best not be wearing any clothing colored red; likewise it's best not to enter a Red business wearing blue clothing.
Historians tend to agree that restaurants began to cater to either Red or Blue around 2012, when the Christian business Chik-Fil-A was the target of Blue outrage and boycotts. Several Chik-Fil-A restaurants were in fact burned during mob violence on a so-called "Chik-Fil-A Appreciation Day," in which right-leaning people were encourage to eat at Chik-Fil-A out of solidarity for its corporate views. Violence broke out between Right and Left on this day, resulting in several deaths and three Chik-Fil-A restaurants being firebombed by Leftist agitators.
America began self-segregating in earnest not long afterwards. It had been years since right-wing politicians could reasonably expect to win office in places like California, Massachusetts or New York, so they stopped even bothering, and moved to the Old South or the West where their views were welcome. By the same token, after decades of gerrymandering it became obvious that Leftists could not compete politically in the "flyover states" as they sneeringly called them. The widespread deportations of illegal immigrants from the flyover states changed the demographics of those areas drastically, as did the race riots that occurred in the Old South as a result of the black "Flash Mob" phenomenon (this was black violence perpetrated upon whites, usually with the encouragement of black politicians and church leaders. The left-leaning media outlets of the time refused to report on the racial aspects of the flash mobs, and thus came to be seen as collaborators in the flash mob violence, and were eventually targeted by outraged whites during the so-called "MSM Purge" of 2021).
Well, that's a good start, I think. You can probably tell I've read my share of Tom Kratman and Oh John Ringo No! novels in the recent past. *grins*
Thursday, June 02, 2011
Can You Discern Male Versus Female Writing Styles?
V.S. Naipaul says he can.
I can't. Here's how I scored:
You scored 4 out of a possible 10
Sloppy thinking. You clearly need to read more books by men.
4/10 is close enough to 50%, which is little more than blind chance.
Give it a try, tell me how you do. Let's start a new meme.
I can't. Here's how I scored:
You scored 4 out of a possible 10
Sloppy thinking. You clearly need to read more books by men.
4/10 is close enough to 50%, which is little more than blind chance.
Give it a try, tell me how you do. Let's start a new meme.
Sunday, July 18, 2010
I Write Like...Vladimir Nabokov?
There is a new website called "I Write Like" that, given a few sample paragraphs of your writing style, tells you which famous author your writing most resembles. So I submitted the following excerpt from a recent BBQ restaurant review:
Sara regretted ordering fried squash, as it turned out to be frozen rather than fresh. The hush puppies were hand formed and edible, which is better than we have found in many barbecue restaurants. They weren't the best hush puppies we have eaten, though. The pork barbecue meat was sliced as we both requested; not much of a smoke ring in evidence, and not much smoke flavor, either. Still, it was properly tender, if a bit dry (order your barbecue chopped if you want to be able to properly moisten it with sauce). Porky's had two barbecue sauces on hand, a vinegar-based Eastern NC sauce (Sara pronounced it mostly vinegar and otherwise flavorless) and a dark brown tomato-based sauce that probably came from a commercial gallon jug, not much tang and a little too sweet.
Sara had thought about ordering banana pudding for dessert, but after she observed the waitresses manufacturing it behind the lunch counter using a 1-gallon can of commercial pudding glop and commenting loudly enough for Sara to hear about how many bananas to put into it, she decided to skip on the banana pudding. We skipped on the desserts, as a matter of fact.
Service at Porky's was quick and efficient, with our waitress only making one mistake when she poured iced tea into my Diet Coke. She caught herself and brought me a new one, so it was all right in the end.
After lunch we drove home via Albemarle, North Carolina, and stopped in at the Sonic Drive-In there, and ordered milk shakes for our delayed dessert. The waitress roller-skated our order out to us. If you're an American Idol fan, this particular Sonic is the drive-in that Kelly Pickler worked in during high school.
And received the following result:
Although I swear I haven't been ogling the teenaged BBQ waitresses...
I have to guess that this will become something of a meme among my blogging friends in the next day or so.
Sara regretted ordering fried squash, as it turned out to be frozen rather than fresh. The hush puppies were hand formed and edible, which is better than we have found in many barbecue restaurants. They weren't the best hush puppies we have eaten, though. The pork barbecue meat was sliced as we both requested; not much of a smoke ring in evidence, and not much smoke flavor, either. Still, it was properly tender, if a bit dry (order your barbecue chopped if you want to be able to properly moisten it with sauce). Porky's had two barbecue sauces on hand, a vinegar-based Eastern NC sauce (Sara pronounced it mostly vinegar and otherwise flavorless) and a dark brown tomato-based sauce that probably came from a commercial gallon jug, not much tang and a little too sweet.
Sara had thought about ordering banana pudding for dessert, but after she observed the waitresses manufacturing it behind the lunch counter using a 1-gallon can of commercial pudding glop and commenting loudly enough for Sara to hear about how many bananas to put into it, she decided to skip on the banana pudding. We skipped on the desserts, as a matter of fact.
Service at Porky's was quick and efficient, with our waitress only making one mistake when she poured iced tea into my Diet Coke. She caught herself and brought me a new one, so it was all right in the end.
After lunch we drove home via Albemarle, North Carolina, and stopped in at the Sonic Drive-In there, and ordered milk shakes for our delayed dessert. The waitress roller-skated our order out to us. If you're an American Idol fan, this particular Sonic is the drive-in that Kelly Pickler worked in during high school.
And received the following result:
Although I swear I haven't been ogling the teenaged BBQ waitresses...
I have to guess that this will become something of a meme among my blogging friends in the next day or so.
Tuesday, November 10, 2009
It's Not Plagiarism, It's...Found Poetry, Yeah, That's It
The former Poet Laureate of UK, Andrew Motion, apparently is too lazy to write his own poetry anymore, so he uses poetry he finds elsewhere, claiming it is "found" poetry, and that he is justfied because Shakespeare did it, too.
I'll have to remember that defense the next time I "find" a wallet on the street.
I'll have to remember that defense the next time I "find" a wallet on the street.
Saturday, September 06, 2008
Treasure Blog: Profound Words
Rather than the usual story of glittering gold dug from the ground or retrieved from wreckage at the bottom of the sea, this time I'll offer a treasure I found at the Cowtown Cop blog. The blog post is itself worthy, but in the comments field the incomparable Brigid talks about death:
For every way that there is of being here, there's an infinity of ways of not being here. Historical accidents wipe out whole universes with each movement of the clock. Statistics label us ridiculous. Black holes loom, hungry. Thermodynamics prohibit us. Jihad Terrorists want to kill us, if we're not taken out first by hurricane, flood, tainted food,outsourced enginnering or that offer of a lift home from Ted Kennedy. Life, by any reasonable measure, is impossible, and your life — just being there today,able and willing to risk yourself to help a child in danger, even more so.
Dealing with death on a regular basis, sometimes our own mortality brings on the weariness of an unwanted nap, slumbering thoughts of past sorrow and loss. I think of those we came so close to- and those we never truly had a chance to save, and it's as if the color seeped out of our blood. Yet we keep drawing in breath after breath, pulling in precious moments of oxygen with the remnants of our courage, until our blood darkens with strength, slowly filling up some of those empty chambers in our hearts. Giving us strength to go back out in the field, where next time, perhaps the one we reach out to, we can save.
Words written that well are a treasure far more precious than any diamond or gold coin, and unlike those relics, doomed to spend their existence locked away, the words can be shared among many.
For every way that there is of being here, there's an infinity of ways of not being here. Historical accidents wipe out whole universes with each movement of the clock. Statistics label us ridiculous. Black holes loom, hungry. Thermodynamics prohibit us. Jihad Terrorists want to kill us, if we're not taken out first by hurricane, flood, tainted food,outsourced enginnering or that offer of a lift home from Ted Kennedy. Life, by any reasonable measure, is impossible, and your life — just being there today,able and willing to risk yourself to help a child in danger, even more so.
Dealing with death on a regular basis, sometimes our own mortality brings on the weariness of an unwanted nap, slumbering thoughts of past sorrow and loss. I think of those we came so close to- and those we never truly had a chance to save, and it's as if the color seeped out of our blood. Yet we keep drawing in breath after breath, pulling in precious moments of oxygen with the remnants of our courage, until our blood darkens with strength, slowly filling up some of those empty chambers in our hearts. Giving us strength to go back out in the field, where next time, perhaps the one we reach out to, we can save.
Words written that well are a treasure far more precious than any diamond or gold coin, and unlike those relics, doomed to spend their existence locked away, the words can be shared among many.
Tuesday, April 22, 2008
"It's Full Of What Seems To Be Schoolgirls Giggling."
The British Library Reading Room has relaxed its standards, causing howls of outrage among the "serious" authors who try to work there.
When Karl Marx created the tenets of Marxism in the British Library’s Reading Room and Charles Dickens worked at one of its desks, they did not have to endure queues, a lack of chairs and tables, and rooms closed by crowd control.
Two years after one of the world’s greatest libraries opened its doors to undergraduates and anyone working on research, high-profile writers and academics say that the struggle to find a desk is now intolerable. Library directors stand accused of increasing visitor numbers to boost funds and performance bonuses.
Although there are 1,480 seats in the library, the author Christopher Hawtree was last week forced to perch on a windowsill while the historians Lady Antonia Fraser and Claire Tomalin have swapped horror stories of interminable queues. Library users complain that the line to enter the new building in St Pancras, central London, has recently been extending across its enormous courtyard.
Speaking to The Times yesterday, Lady Antonia said: “I had to queue for 20 minutes to get in, in freezing weather. Then I queued to leave my coat for 20 minutes [at the compulsory check-in]. Then half an hour to get my books and another 15 minutes to get my coat. I’m told it’s due to students having access now. Why can’t they go to their university libraries?”
Ms Tomalin described the crowds as intolerable: “It’s full of what seem to be schoolgirls giggling. I heard one saying, ‘I’ve got to write about Islam. Can I have your notes?’ It’s what you expect to hear in a school.”
Of the long queues she said: “It is absurd. It’s access gone mad. Access has many good points, but making the British Library, which was for specialist readers, into something for general readers seems to me terrible.”
The historian Tristram Hunt said that it was a scandal that it was impossible to get a seat after 11am when students were there. Many people travelling from outside London complain that they cannot get to the buidling any earlier. “Students come in to revise rather than to use the books,” he said. “It’s a ‘groovy place’ to meet for a frappuccino. It’s noisy and it’s undermining both the British Library’s function, as books take longer to get, and the scholarly atmosphere.”
The British Library does not deny that there is overcrowding. It has even produced leaflets listing other recommended libraries. But Phil Spence, its director of operations and services, said: “There are currently no plans to restrict the numbers of users.”
He confirmed that the library’s directors received performance bonuses depending on the number of visits.
Ha! So that's the reason that they let the proles in!
When Karl Marx created the tenets of Marxism in the British Library’s Reading Room and Charles Dickens worked at one of its desks, they did not have to endure queues, a lack of chairs and tables, and rooms closed by crowd control.
Two years after one of the world’s greatest libraries opened its doors to undergraduates and anyone working on research, high-profile writers and academics say that the struggle to find a desk is now intolerable. Library directors stand accused of increasing visitor numbers to boost funds and performance bonuses.
Although there are 1,480 seats in the library, the author Christopher Hawtree was last week forced to perch on a windowsill while the historians Lady Antonia Fraser and Claire Tomalin have swapped horror stories of interminable queues. Library users complain that the line to enter the new building in St Pancras, central London, has recently been extending across its enormous courtyard.
Speaking to The Times yesterday, Lady Antonia said: “I had to queue for 20 minutes to get in, in freezing weather. Then I queued to leave my coat for 20 minutes [at the compulsory check-in]. Then half an hour to get my books and another 15 minutes to get my coat. I’m told it’s due to students having access now. Why can’t they go to their university libraries?”
Ms Tomalin described the crowds as intolerable: “It’s full of what seem to be schoolgirls giggling. I heard one saying, ‘I’ve got to write about Islam. Can I have your notes?’ It’s what you expect to hear in a school.”
Of the long queues she said: “It is absurd. It’s access gone mad. Access has many good points, but making the British Library, which was for specialist readers, into something for general readers seems to me terrible.”
The historian Tristram Hunt said that it was a scandal that it was impossible to get a seat after 11am when students were there. Many people travelling from outside London complain that they cannot get to the buidling any earlier. “Students come in to revise rather than to use the books,” he said. “It’s a ‘groovy place’ to meet for a frappuccino. It’s noisy and it’s undermining both the British Library’s function, as books take longer to get, and the scholarly atmosphere.”
The British Library does not deny that there is overcrowding. It has even produced leaflets listing other recommended libraries. But Phil Spence, its director of operations and services, said: “There are currently no plans to restrict the numbers of users.”
He confirmed that the library’s directors received performance bonuses depending on the number of visits.
Ha! So that's the reason that they let the proles in!
Tuesday, April 15, 2008
Lileks Waxes Profound
Here.
I’ve been trying to find the right words for a certain theory, and I can’t quite do it yet. It has to do with how a candidate feels about America – they have to be fundamentally, dispositionally comfortable with it. Not in a way that glosses over or excuses its flaws, but comfortable in the way a long-term married couple is comfortable. That includes not delighting in its flaws, or crowing them at every opportunity as proof of your love. I mean a simple quiet sense of awe and pride, its challenges and flaws and uniqueness and tragedies considered. You don’t win the office by being angry we’re not something else; you win by being enthused we can be something better. You can fake the latter. But people sense the former.
Well said.
I’ve been trying to find the right words for a certain theory, and I can’t quite do it yet. It has to do with how a candidate feels about America – they have to be fundamentally, dispositionally comfortable with it. Not in a way that glosses over or excuses its flaws, but comfortable in the way a long-term married couple is comfortable. That includes not delighting in its flaws, or crowing them at every opportunity as proof of your love. I mean a simple quiet sense of awe and pride, its challenges and flaws and uniqueness and tragedies considered. You don’t win the office by being angry we’re not something else; you win by being enthused we can be something better. You can fake the latter. But people sense the former.
Well said.
Saturday, March 10, 2007
Sincerity and Honesty: I Like That In A Writer.
In an article about the death of Captain America, I happened to glance at the small blurb that the writer, Steve Shives, included in his author profile:
I'm not especially intelligent or eloquent, but I'm honest, independent and prolific, so chances are I'll stumble over an insight here and there. Thanks for reading, and don't be shy with the feedback.
This is self-effacing, sincere and very charming. It makes me happy to see a writer make a statement like that about himself, especially in these days of arrogance and snark.
Thank you, Steve.
I'm not especially intelligent or eloquent, but I'm honest, independent and prolific, so chances are I'll stumble over an insight here and there. Thanks for reading, and don't be shy with the feedback.
This is self-effacing, sincere and very charming. It makes me happy to see a writer make a statement like that about himself, especially in these days of arrogance and snark.
Thank you, Steve.
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