Aisle be passing by.

I would like to thank Gloriam Marketing, a Catholic PR firm, for the following chart.

A better explanation of Catholicsthenics I have not seen. It would apply, of course to any Christian church that has kneeling, and to a lesser degree to anyplace humans congregate that involves the dreaded aisles. 

Getting past seated people is no fun in movie theaters, which is why people often like to sit on the end of a row (as in Mass as well). It is better to be put upon than to be embarrassed as the put-uponer. This is complicated by people carrying enormous buckets of popcorn and a soda large enough to hydrate a derby winner, either of which may be worn by the put-uponee if things go sideways (literally). At least that's one peril one hopes to not see in church. Church can have its entertainment value, but please -- no snacking. 

Aisle passings are even worse at live theater or sporting events. The immediacy of the performance makes everything more dramatic. You don't want a view of some guy's butt as he passes by to cause you to miss Hamlet stabbing Polonius (oops, spoiler!) or a thrilling game-tying steal of home plate. You can't get those moments back. 

The worst has to be the airplane, though. Crammed into a seat not on the aisle -- perhaps at the window or, God love you, the center -- you had better be able to contain your bodily fluids for the length of the trip. Otherwise I promise the aisle seat will be occupied by a large human who does not want to get up to let people in or out and will definitely make that opinion known. With almost zero headroom, you couldn't even leap over him. It makes for a travel experience packed with grumbling, recriminations, and discomfort. 

I usually think of people who enjoyed the COVID lockdowns as being kind of loony, but when I think of aisles, it makes more sense. 

Anyway, I showed the illustration above to my wife, and she thought it would be great to incorporate such workout techniques into Mass officially. She thought the choir could start with something cheery for stretching and warmups, then sing a dirge at the end for cooldowns. You'd shower after church rather than before. I think I'll mention it to the Cardinal; like me, he could stand to take off a few pounds.  

Sprung.

As I noted, and you know if you're in this hemisphere along with most of the population, spring has arrived. And that means hope! Dreams! Young love! And WORK WORK WORK.

Yesterday I was in the giant houseware store, which I'll call Loam Depot because I was buying mulch and rocks. Rocks! When you're a kid you think rocks just happen. They're not something you buy. They're all over. Why spend money on rocks? Why torture the poor suspension (yours and the car's) with a load of rocks? And why buy mulch when you can mow over leaves and make it?

I know, I know. I don't care why. It just is. Spring comes and my un-mulched areas look like crap. As for the rocks, like most people in the 'burbs whose mailbox is on the devil's strip twixt sidewalk and road, I am not content to just let the mailbox post stand in dirt. But I am not so foolish as to think something planted in primo dog zone would survive. Once one dog hits the spot they all want to, and there's no plant alive that can withstand that kind of barrage. Some people cover the ground at the base of the post with bricks or mulch, and some use decorative pebbles, like moi. I use red ones. They match the mulch. 

My dad was a great one for landscaping, and he absolutely 100% did not pass that love down to me. I envy people like him, people who love gardening and tending the lawn and all the other things that make the property look dandy. They get exercise and fresh air and have more to show to the world for the effort than sweaty gym clothes. I like growing individual plants, but nothing more than I can grow in a pot, and that includes grape tomatoes and bell peppers. I cannot stand the idea of turning a large plot of earth, shoving in seeds, then fighting off deer and rabbits and bugs all summer. Unless I can develop a plant that produces Krugerrands, I think I'm just not going to maintain the motivation necessary. 

Today, though, is one of those days I have to buckle down and get some things done. Putting down some tick-murdering poison along the border of the property, for example -- one of the ways we keep the dog tickless. Killing weeds in walkways and other places plants don't belong. Washing the cars -- I feel confident that the big freeze is done, and there's no point in have a vehicle that looks like a pretzel. 

I guess that shows just how close to nature I am, that my spring endeavors are all about cars and poison. Oh, and I got the grill going yesterday, so that's propane for burning meat. I'm a one-man Anti-UN Environmental Programme. And for that, at least, I am proud. 

As I look back on today's blog entry, I realize I've covered this ground in years gone by. And that's what spring is -- covering the same old ground, year after year. With mulch.

Anatomy of a rock album.

 

The formula of stupid ideas.

I have wondered if there is some means to get an idea of how many stupid ideas we have. I think there must be a finite number. Perhaps if we had a formula to find that number we might be better able to prevent them, or at least cope with their effects. 

Some definitions are in order here. By stupid ideas, I am referring to bad ideas for actions that may be put into effect. "I am cold, so I will leap into the sun" is stupid, but impossible. "I am cold, so I will start a fire in the kitchen" is stupid, but possible. The latter would count toward the total, the former not.

The universe may be infinite, or infinite for our practical purposes, but human intelligence can only grasp so much. Therefore we may assume it has an upper limit to its generative capability, which we will call i. The total number of humans to have ever existed to the present moment we will indicate by the symbol h. We will further want the number of dumb ideas generatable by i over the course of the average lifespan (g). That gives us the base formula of:

(i x g) x h = theoretical total of dumb ideas 

But wait! Perhaps we want to remove all the redundant ideas -- like, instead of counting each incidence of "I'm going to wrestle that polar bear" as 1, we just count every incidence of that exact idea as a single idea, allowing for similar but not identical permutations of it. I propose that for this purpose we use the amended formula thusly:

(i x g) x h - dittos = theoretical total of unique dumb ideas 

Now, if it wasn't obvious before, it will be clear that I am talking through my hat. I can barely make my checkbook balance. So while it might be a nice idea to get a grip on our total number of possible bad ideas, I have no idea how to do that. Plus, in practice, human ingenuity toward bad ideas may actually be infinite.

I'm kind of sorry I started this whole process. Just add this blog entry to the pile of bad ideas and proceed with your day.   

Heels at a wake.

I predicted that this might be a bad year for funerals, and indeed, I was obliged to attend one last week. In a way it was a happy occasion, in that the deceased had once been estranged from his family, but by his passing was sorely missed by all. A wake with a prayer service was scheduled, and I got there just in time for the prayer service, which was standing room only. 

Then the weird thing happened. I bring all this up because I found it very odd and slightly entertaining. 

As the service concluded, I made my way to the front to bid farewell to our friend and to offer condolences to the family. I happened to notice some black flecks on the ground as I waited -- black flecks that stood out against the beige carpet -- black flecks that followed my path to the front. 

Had I stepped in some foul substance on my way in? How embarrassing! Time for a quick goodbye and exit. 

Except on my way, I saw something sticking out from my pants cuff. The very thing that was leaving the trail. 

The heel of my left shoe had chosen this sacred and solemn occasion to disintegrate completely. 

I ripped the heel off and continued. As I ducked down the steps to the funeral home, the heel from the right shoe, not to be outdone, emerged from beneath my shoe. I paused, ripped that off too, and proceeded to the car posthaste. 

Now, this is an odd thing to have happened. This was a pair of well-made Ecco shoes that were in apparently fine condition when I left the house, shoes that were comfortable and buffed up nicely. But note too that these shoes had been in my possession for well over fifteen years -- I can't actually remember when I bought them. Since I've been working at home for more than nine years now, they have not gotten as much use as they once did. But meanwhile the rubber was slowly rotting away until bam! In the presence of death, they themselves gave up the ghost. 

Funerals and weddings have a way of disclosing unfortunate couture situations at the last minute. The suit you like no longer fits (damn you, Doritos!). The tie you intended to wear has a coffee stain you missed. The cuff links no longer sit together in the box; one has gone roaming. Anything can happen. I would not have minded discovering the shoe issue at home; I have other dress shoes. I did mind the heels sitting under my feet through the event like a sooty time bomb.

I've had heels detach from shoes before. I've even had the entire sole with heel detach from cheap uppers in my young days. But I've never had a heel just disintegrate. Had the dog gotten to them and chewed at the heels? No, it would have been plain to see. Nope, this was just a case of rubber deterioration, I suppose. Even silicone lasts only 20 years. 

Well, that's the way the heel bounces. 

For the men whose funerals I've attended recently: May their souls rest in peace. 

As for my shoes, well, may their soles rest in peace. 

Springshots.

Ah, spring! What joy! How well the great poet Chaucer put it: 

Whan that Aprille with his shoures soote, 

The droghte of March hath perced to the roote, 

And bathed every veyne in swich licóur 

Of which vertú engendred is the flour; 

Whan Zephirus eek with his swete breeth 

Inspired hath in every holt and heeth 

The tendre croppes, and the yonge sonne

Hath in the Ram his halfe cours y-ronne...

Yeah, dude. Righteous.

You gotta love spring, if only because winter sucks so much. Yeah, the bugs are back, and some of the birds make a lot of noise, and some of the neighbors make a lot of noise, but it's okay. Why, I saw a pileated woodpecker the other day, not twenty feet away! Almost fainted with excitement. 

The bird was camera-shy, alas, but I offer these simple pictures of spring in her splendor. 

Okay, so this doesn't look like much. But when I see long, dead grass strands under my deck, I know what it means...

Construction time for the Robins again. 

The blooms look so wonderful that I hope we don't get snow in May again this year. Kills flowers dead.

The dogwood's already losing its petals. Lazy, that's what I call it. Well, let sleeping dogwoods lie. 

The maples are finally unfurling their leaves. Baby steps, maples. 

This tree always looks great. Except the year we got a late blizzard and it had so many leaves up already that the weight tore down several limbs. But it bounced back after a decade or so. Can't kill this guy.

And finally, daffodils. Maybe my favorite flower.
You forget the bulb is there and suddenly: Bing! I'm back!

The sunlight colors always look like hope. 

Sike?

Honestly, I wonder what kids are thinking. I didn't know what they were thinking when I was one, to be frank, so you can imagine how bad I am at it now. 

Today's complaint concerns the abuse of an interjection that my generation made great, a tagline so profound and so much fun that it arose from nowhere and became universal in no time. 

Of course, I am referring to

PSYCH! 

It seems that youngsters, who literally know nothing, are rendering the word as "Sike!" Which is inscrutably dumb. If they aren't doing this as some parody of Gen X, which Occam suggests is not the case, then they are making a silly mistake. 

Psych! as an exclamation, of course, is something one says as to indicate that the other has been fooled, gulled, pranked, or otherwise tricked -- from the expression psych out. I think Webster's errs in listing as synonyms for psych (out) words like terrorize, frighten, and discourage. Psych out was and is a less serious term in common use, at worst meant to intimidate or distract an opponent, not drive him into the fetal position. 

Obviously this term comes from psychology, "from scientific Latin psychologia 'the study of the mind and behavior,' derived from Greek psychē 'soul, mind' and Greek -logia 'science, study,'" according to Webster. Pretty common terms, especially in this over-analyzed era, no? Been around in English since at least 1749. And yet the youth of the country has to make up some strange spelling for psych?  

If only there'd been a popular TV show, one that lasted, say, eight seasons, using the term as a title; perhaps a show featuring a fake psychic, a member of Gen X; a show titled after the term that would have the double meaning of psychic and psyching out (since the hero is a fake). Perhaps the show's theme song might even use the expression "psych you out". 

Maybe then, kids today might remember how to spell the word. Oh, who knows. Probably not. 

Tax Day, Fredcoin, and You!!!!

Today is the income tax deadline in the United States. Talk about rending unto Caesar -- the whole process leaves you feeling pretty rended. 

Of course, you know what the answer to all your tax problems is: Fredcoin! Not just the only cryptocurrency with the imprimatur of Fred himself, but also the only cryptocurrency with a secret toy surprise!*

Before or on tax day, the teeming hordes of Fredcoin customers always come to me with questions. "Fred!" they say, "we have questions!" And I say, "My friends, I have answers!" But since we're up against the deadline for filing income tax, I figured I'd better give you an FAQ list rather than trying to help each of you individually. Plus, I hate to see a grown man cry. 

FREDCOIN AND TAXES: FREQUENTLY ASKED QUESTIONS

1. Is Fredcoin considered a tax shelter?

Yes, and by that I mean, no. If you leave your cash invested in Fredcoin, then yes, you don't have to worry about paying taxes. If you should foolishly want to reconvert your Fredcoin to worthless U.S. currency, then consider your shelter as firm as Dorothy's Kansas farmhouse.  

2. Which IRS form do I need to file to lay out my Fredcoin investments? 

You need to file a Schedule FRD, form 8712-P, with a side of pickled beets. 

3. Are my vast Fredcoin profits taxable income?  

Yes, I certainly believe they would be. 

4. Can I buy Fredcoin if I live in Austin?

I'm sorry, this is a "Fredcoin and Texas" question; that's a different FAQ.

5. Is Fredcoin a form of money laundering?

No, no, of course not! Now, it's possible that some unscrupulous characters might slip some ill-gotten gains into their purchase of Fredcoin -- how would I know? And it's possible that they might convert their Fredcoin back into some crummy U.S. currency, minus a large fee, to claim it was all Fredcoin profits and totally legit. Ha! Ha! What a funny little totally fake scenario. No, we never talk about money laundering here at Fredcoin. We much prefer to call it money fortification.  

6. Why is Fredcoin the best cryptocurrency out there, bar none, hands down, hands none, bar down?

You have to ask? Look at it! No other currency of any kind has Fred on it. And I think that says it all. 

🪙🪙🪙🪙

*Secret toy surprise offer may not apply. See side of box for details. Do not use Fredcoin internally. Some patients reported that Fredcoin caused dizziness, nausea, and elongated nostril hairs. Fredcoin is a registered trademark of Fredcoin Inc. LLC LLP MNOP. All Rights reserved. Lefts are up for grabs.   

Dogs in the comic books.

Throughout the history of American comic books, dogs have played an interesting but not dominating role. There have been a number of famous canine characters who appeared first in comics, and others who appeared elsewhere and made their way into comics. But considering the enormous popularity of dogs as pets in our history, they actually seem underrepresented. 

Note here that I'm not referring to funny-animal type dogs, like Snoopy or Pluto or Droopy or Huckleberry Hound or even Underdog. I'm thinking here of action hero dogs. And no, Scooby-Doo does not count. Jonny Quest's dog Bandit is close, but he's not a headlining character, I'm afraid. The same goes for Snowy and Dogmatix. 

Lassie, however, was not just a star of film and television; the world's favorite collie starred in comic book adventures by Dell from 1950 to 1962; then Western picked up the series until 1969. And I am not kidding about being the favorite of the world, or at least what we used to call Christendom -- those comics were also published in Canada, Brazil, the UK, Australia, Scandinavia, Germany, and so on. Rin-Tin-Tin didn't have as long a run in comics, but his adventures appeared in most of the same markets and Lebanon as well, according to the Grand Comics Database. 

Less down-to-earth dogs were featured in comics, of course, and we've covered a couple of the most famous ones on this blog. Krypto, Superman's super pet dog, was unleashed (ha!) on the American public in a March 1955 issue, and Batman got a part-time dog helper named Ace a few months later. Older than both of those characters by three years is Rex the Wonder Dog, a heroic white shepherd who was so smart and whose adventures became so fantastical that in more recent years has been said to have superpowers, and be a superhero in his own right.

When Marvel comics decided to have a dog character, it was of course Lockjaw, a monstrous teleporting bulldog, as part of the Inhumans, because we can't just have friendly pets when Jack Kirby is involved.

But speaking of Marvel, I'm proud to report that the inspiration for this post today is my own dog Izzy, America's Sweetheart. Yes, I was amazed to discover that before he lived with us, he was actually a friend of the Fantastic Four's Human Torch, appearing in an issue of Strange Tales in 1965.

Therefore, as I own Izzy, I am the official agent of a Marvel character. If Disney wants to go ahead and ruin the Fantas -- that is, make a new Fantastic Four movie, they will need to pay us a small fee -- perhaps two or three million dollars -- for the rights. 

🐕💰🐶💸🦮🤑

Okay, maybe it's just possible that Izzy did not appear in the actual comic book. I say that based on the fact that his head is not as big as a human's, as shown above, and in 1965 he was not born yet -- and would not be for 56 years. The actual panel from the story, courtesy of the entertaining Comics Archaeology site, is here: 

But if Disney would like to send us a bushel of money anyway, I'm sure we can accommodate them. Come on, Mouse House! Look at my dog! He's cuter than anything you've coughed up in at least twenty years and has universal appeal. (Oops -- maybe I should not have mentioned Universal.) 

A little travelin' music, Sammy!

It's an odd fact of life that sometimes funerals come in bunches. In 2015 I went to so many that my suits were getting tired of being dragged out of the closet. Then, 2016 was quiet. But this year is not starting off well. It's not like I live in the Villages or work for a funeral home, but I fear there may be a more funerals in my near future. I hope not my own. 

One common feature of the two funerals I have attended thus far in 2024 is the bagpipes. Now, in both cases, the deceased was of Irish descent, straight up the potato tree. Prominent Catholics, too. Also, they were affiliated with either the Ancient Order or the police or firemen, and those fellows always keep the pipes close at hand for such occasions. 

I have nothing against the bagpipes, as long as I'm not standing directly in front of them. But I'd rather not have them played when my time comes. I'm only a fraction Irish personally, a fraction that would balloon up considerably on St. Patrick's Day of course, but no one in my family ever got all weepy over "Danny Boy" or anything. So I think I'm not deserving of the bagpipe treatment. 

No, there are other instruments that I think would be better suited for my funeral. If I don't get them written down in my will, please remember these and instruct the funeral home and church accordingly. Any of them will do. 

1) Slide Whistle

Putting the fun in funeral comes the slide whistle, and the cheaper the better. Bonus money for the musicians if they can do a long "beeeeewooooop" sound as the coffin is lowered. 

2) Kazoo

Similar to #1, but as anyone can play the kazoo, they will be distributed to the crowd. Imagine a whole bunch of mourners on the sidewalk outside the church playing "Amazing Grace" on the kazoo. It would be appropriate for my level of sanctity. 

3) String Quartet Marching Band

To reenact the Woody Allen Cello in a Marching Band moment from Take the Money and Run, but with a standing-bass player as well. Cheer up the bereaved!

4) Mouth Harp

You know, the goinkitty goink thing you put in your mouth to bang along with the tune and wreck your bridgework. It's not that loud, so for ceremonial purposes we might have to find someone who plays an electric mouth harp. Hey, I might be the proximate cause of someone inventing a musical instrument! The electrical mouth harp. It'd be like Dylan at Newport, only dumb. 

5) Ukulele

This only applies if we go with the Hawaiian Shirt Themed funeral, which would require me surviving my wife. I recently gave her a gift -- I put my ugly Hawaiian shirt into the charity clothes drive. She'd never put up with a Hawaiian Shirt funeral unless she was already dead, and even then I'm not certain. 

6) Sjøfløyte

I'm actually more Scandinavian than I am Irish, so it would be more appropriate to play something from the frozen north like the sjøfløyte. What is that, you wonder? It's a Norwegian version of the recorder. Everyone makes fun of learning the recorder in school -- Why didn't they teach me how to fill out a tax return instead? Wah wah wah! (Like third graders could grasp tax law. Adults can't.) But no one would make fun of the sjøfløyte. They wouldn't be able to even pronounce it. The word looks like the sound of a stifled sneeze. I'm sure the instrument is more melodious. 

7) Big White Piano

Why? Well, I like the piano all right. The main thing is, Elton John famously hates white pianos. That'd keep him from trying to muscle in and do a Fred-themed version of "Candle in the Wind." There's only room for one star at my funeral, Reg, and that's going to be me. 

8) Flugelhorn 

No particular reason except I think flugelhorn players need the work.

9) Boardwalk Hall Auditorium Organ

Okay, maybe you won't be able to get the grieving millions to agree to a small musical accompaniment. In that case, rent the Midmer-Losh organ in Atlantic City's Boardwalk Hall, the world's largest pipe organ. This thing is so huge that they don't even know for sure how many pipes it has -- somewhere around 33,113, but no one knows for certain. The stops on the organ rate their own Wikipedia page, which I never will. Just see if they'll lend it out for the day. Probably not a lot of call for it. Maybe get a discounted rate.  

10) Saxophone 

"But Fred! You hate the sax! You say it sounds like a flatulent duck!" That's true, and the only reason the saxophone is on this list is if "Yakkity Sax" is played. The coffin must be carried in a complex path at running speed to the graveyard, while the mourners chase after it, and dropped in the hole. Somewhere up there, Benny Hill would be smiling.

Super eclipse!

Today, of course, is the total eclipse of the sun in the United States and elsewhere in this hemisphere, the first one here since 2017. Where I am in New York we won't get the whole magilla, but it will be a nearly total eclipse, hitting around 3:30 this afternoon. 

Meanwhile, at the Super Museum in Metropolis, Illinois, Superman has made preparations. 

 

It seems kind of silly for the one guy who could always look straight at the sun to wear eclipse glasses, especially since they could compromise his secret identity. (Clark Kent -- shhh.) However, it's possible there is a villainous plan by the evil Eclipso, a DC Comics villain since 1963.

Eclipso is a scary evil dude, with a variety of superpowers, but in his early stories he was mostly a menace to ordinary people. He was the alter ego of the magically cursed solar scientist Bruce Gordon; in the event of an eclipse, Eclipso would arise from Gordon and wreak havoc. In more recent years Eclipso has become a worldbeater, a menace to millions, capable of taking on DC's mightiest heroes. So maybe Superman's eclipse specs are part of a plan to save us from Eclipso today.

Elsewhere in the funny pages, others have also had a bad time with eclipses. 

Let it be noted that Charlie Brown is not the only hard-luck character in Peanuts.

The other Goldilocks.

One of the joys of ambling through used-book stores, back when such things existed, was the fortuitous find of books long out of print, forgotten perhaps but still worth reading. I discovered quite a few authors that way in my younger days. 

Most of those stores are gone now, but at least we still have Project Gutenberg, which is quickly becoming the repository of the literary past. In Bradbury's classic Fahrenheit 451, there is a group dedicated to committing books to memory so that civilization can be restored when the dystopic government falls. Project Gutenberg is certainly doing its bit to help. 

Looking through old books is quite educational. For example, I happened to discover the story of Goldilocks in an old kids' book on Gutenberg while looking for something else. 

What's that, Fred? You don't know the story of Goldilocks, the food thief, vandal, and squatter?      

No, not that Goldilocks; the other one. 

Her, I know.

This other Goldilocks is a princess! Her story can be found in two books on Gutenberg: The Blue Fairy Book edited by Andrew Lang (1889) and Fairy Tales (vol. 1) by M. F. Lansing (1907). She is called either Pretty Goldilocks or Fair Goldilocks; she is a princess and has no need of raiding bears' houses. The only thing she has in common with the more famous O.G. is the color of her hair. 

Royal Goldy, the Hot Tomato

This Goldy is such a stunner ("the prettiest creature in the world") that a foreign king sends a massive retinue to her place, with a pile of loot that Musk and Bezos would envy, to ask for her hand in marriage. She says no thanks, and politely returns the presents, only keeping a box of pins (either because she liked them or to show the king that she appreciated the gesture, depending on your story source). The king is miserable at this rejection. One of his courtiers, a fellow named Charming, says that he thinks he could have gotten Goldilocks to come back with him. So you know what comes next. The king says Go get her, then! No, these are medieval types; the king, feeling mocked, orders Charming to be locked in the tower and starved to death. 

Of course, all-around good guy Charming had not intended to mock the king; he is hurt by this injustice. The king later has a change of heart and speaks with Charming, who explains that he meant he could bring back Goldilocks for the king. Oy! After seeing to Charming's needs, the king wants to send the boy off with a bunch of court suck-ups to get the girl for him. Charming says nay nay -- just a horse and the king's letters to the girl will suffice. 

On his way to see the princess, Charming has some minor adventures that demonstrate his kind heart (you can read them yourself; trust me, he's a nice kid), and word gets to Goldilocks that he's a great guy and one fine figure of a man, too. Nevertheless, Goldy gives him some quests. He must find a ring that she lost in the river a month ago, kill a murderous giant, and fetch a potion from the terrible Gloomy Cavern. Easy-peasy! Fortunately, Charming has a dog named Frisk (or maybe Frolic) who talks to him, and the help of the animals he was kind to on his journeys, so it all works out.    

Satisfied, Goldilocks agrees to go to the king's city and marry the guy, although she says Charming and she could have stayed at her place and she would have married him. Of course, Charming is an honorable man of his word, and would not backstab the king that way. 

The king marries Goldilocks and does what you'd expect -- get jealous and have Charming arrested and thrown in the tower to starve to death. You might think that we're dealing with one of the more soft-headed variety of fairy-tale kings. All this chucking people into towers to starve -- where does that get you in the end? You think the mournful cries of the victim will warn everyone that the king will tolerate no disobedience, but it just brings the mood of the place down. 

It all works out, of course. The king accidentally poisons himself with the potion from the Gloomy Cavern, Goldy sets Charming free and marries him, and Frolic (or Frisk) lives with them happily ever after. 

This is such an interesting story, where kindness is rewarded and duplicity (and stupidity) are punished, and a nice cautionary tale about the problems of absolute monarchy. It doesn't really have the homespun charm of our better-known porridge stealer, and it's got some noble quest/bad monarch/talking animal stuff that could be added to and taken from other fairy tales like so many software plugins. But it's pretty good, and the fact that the princess proposes to and saves the hero is different, so it definitely does have its merits. 

Like I said, you never know what you might find when you start poking around old books. There's all kinds of gold in there. 

AFABs and AMABs.

Five years ago, this blog joshed about California outlawing gender-reveal parties as part of a "Gender Prenatal Nonassumption Act." Well, we're not there yet, but we're getting closer. 

No less a popular authority on medicine than the Cleveland Clinic is tying itself in knots over having to use terms like "man" or "woman," lest they offend women who think they are men and vice versa. The problem is, they're trying to write about health concerns that may only affect one gender or the other, and it's making them crazy. Pity them: Here they are trying to educate the public for its own good about, say, prostate cancer, but they can't say this affects men (although women have no prostates) because men who call themselves women will be offended and -- I'm not sure what. Ignore the advice? Be angry because it applies to them (they, having prostates)? 

One way out of this inability to tell the truth is the "assigned" gambit. Instead of calling human beings men and women, which has worked pretty darn well through history, we now can say "assigned male at birth" and "assigned female at birth." As if the obstetrician just made some arbitrary decision when yanking the baby from the mother (or "birthing person"). Even the baby has to be covered by gender newspeak. As the Cleveland Clinic writes: 

"The fetus gets its assigned sex around nine weeks of pregnancy, although your healthcare provider can’t detect it on ultrasound yet."

In other words, the growing baby's sex organs are showing at nine weeks of pregnancy, but they cannot be seen yet on ultrasound. Does the Clinic have any idea how weird their phrasing sounds?

If these geniuses have their way, we'll all be known as AFABs and AMABs -- Assigned Female At Birth and Assigned Male At Birth. Of course, it won't stay there -- it never does. Remember, terms like "handicapped" and "colored person" were once the polite terms, but once they became common they became insulting, and new terms had to be put into use. I suspect AF/MAB's days are numbered already.  

In the meanwhile, though, we can still celebrate true love in a modern way. Instead of Boy Meets Girl, of course, we will have:

"AMAB Meets AFAB"

 A Poem

An AMAB a-wandering near the windmills by the bay
Distressed by the eagles, chopped up below them lay
Was suddenly, like chance, taken at the flood
By a lovely young AFAB, xer eyes as dark as mud.

"That's my kinda AFAB," the youthful AMAB cried
"I must go and meet xer; I'll not be denied!"
The AFAB, quite lightly, trotted down the road
Xer coveralls, quite tightly, xer tuchus they showed.

"Hello there!" said AMAB, "And please pardon me!
I hope you have interest in an A. M. A. B."
"Why, yes," said the AFAB, "and you seem okay.
It's just about lunchtime; what do you say?"

AMAB and xe went to dine at McKlaus's
On hot roasted mealworms and crickets with louses
They toasted each other with beetle juice soda
And strolled to the lake by the People's Pagoda.

"You're just right for me," said the AMAB with heat
"What a great fortune we happened to meet!
What a great future we'd have! Can you see?
You, me, and unassigned baby makes three!"

"Cool your electrons," the AFAB said ruthlessly.
"I like you, but thus far I have acted truthlessly.
In fact, I'm an AMAB, but wished to be other,
So my assignment was changed by birth parent (mother)."

"Worry no more," said AMAB with a cry,
"For no more truthless has one been than I!
For I am an AFAB but lied on the form.
I'd say I was anything for your love so warm!"

They were bonded together in ceremony
No one was sure who was he or was she
But they vowed to be one if their hearts still were in it
And truth never entered their lives for a minute. 

When is Men's History Month?

I demand a Men's History Month. We're a minority in America (49.6% of the population are women) and we need to stand up and be noticed. 

And who knows? Maybe if there is a little more respect for the men in our culture, they'll stop putting on women's gym clothes and trying to pretend they think they're girls so they can beat the snot of out ladies. 

Of course, the argument is that men, especially white men, have all the power in the country and so they don't need any recognition for their accomplishments. As one of the white cisgendered oppressors, I say to that: Nuts! If we have it so great, why are men almost four times more likely than women to commit suicide? 

But let's get back to sports for a moment, because the just-completed Women's History Month likes to shove the famous 1974 Billie Jean King/Bobby Riggs tennis match in the Houston Astrodome in our face every year, and it ought to be addressed. In fact, except for women's tennis, which it publicized, I think it's done a disservice to other women in sports in the long run. 

I have no doubt that the match was honestly won by King; moreover, I don't care. Bobby Riggs was a washed-up 55-year-old man when he played that match, and his opponent was 29. Riggs had retired from professional tennis 11 years earlier. The last time he'd won a major, Harry Truman was president. Sure, he was shootin' off his mouth, saying he could beat a female opponent regardless of her age, but that was all in service of his main mission: to Promote the Career of Bobby Riggs. And in that event, he succeeded admirably. 

Meanwhile, on Earth, a man of competitive age beat both the Williams sisters at tennis in 1998 -- in back-to-back matches. The Williamses claimed to be able to beat any man ranked under 200, so Karsten Braasch of Germany (ranked #203) obliged. The pack-a-day-smoking Braasch beat them 6-1 (Serena) and 6-2 (Venus) while drinking beer. Sure, this was a funsies match, and no one involved was too caught up in the result, but then again, how different would it been if they had? Maybe not a lot. Serena was always a ferocious competitor (a trait that served her well, but also led to some John McEnroe-type hysterics later in her career), and I can't believe she took it easy on Braasch. 

The Riggs/King match, though, made it seem more plausible that a woman could beat a similarly able man at a physical challenge, when in fact this not true. Sure, there are plenty of women who could beat me any anything -- I'm not proud, or competitive, or athletic -- but they could not beat a man at the same level of ability. Which is why they are being viciously routed by jerks who claim womanhood but have the physical advantages of manhood. 

We're not celebrating those dudes in our Men's History Month. We're celebrating the ones who gut it out every day to do the right thing for those they love, who show honor and courage and deal squarely and honestly with everyone. Those are traits men respect, traits we need more of in society.