Guesstimate.

One of the things that scrolls my nurd is when clients ask for time estimates for editorial work. Not the deadline; they mean how many paid-by-the-hour hours will it take. 

I understand that they have their own paperwork to file, and that the bean counters think that estimating time to copyedit or proof a book ought to be as straightforward as estimating time for a delivery of rocks. But it doesn't work that way.

Actually, the proofreading is not too difficult to estimate, since by doing a couple of pages quickly I can figure out how long and messy the job will be. Copyediting is a little harder, since it involves editing for sense and continuity, which can be an issue if the book turns out to be complicated. Estimating for fact-checking is the worst, though, because it's hard to tell right away if the author is a know-nothing dumdum who is going to ensnarl me in a world of irritation. 

The estimate I'd like to send

You can give a book a quick going-over, but that won't tell you if the author is using half-baked or completely unbaked sources, is mistranslating foreign words, is making wild suppositions hidden by passive language, or a hundred other things that make a book a pillar of lies. As a fact-checker it is not enough to say "WRONG!" like Dom DeLuise in Blazing Saddles, although it would be satisfying. I'm expected to provide the right information, or exhaust all efforts to find it. 

The problem is, unlike your plumber who discovers hidden problems, I have little recourse when an estimate is entered. One large company in particular makes it very hard for everyone if a job comes in over estimate, and it delays payment by weeks or even months. They make strong incentives to get me to provide on-target estimates, even though there's no certain way to do it. Either I overestimate and get a rep as an over-charger, or I underestimate and wind up working free hours. 

Anyhoo, it's made me more sympathetic to the contractor who finds unexpected issues like asbestos or bad wiring or unknown leaks or any of a number of things unexpected in a renovation. Sometimes you just can't tell where the big problems are hiding, in homes as in books.

Spiders from Mars.

There we were, complaining about 2020, as if once we got through that stupid and miserable year everything would be better. Instead we got worse government, psychotic Russian warmongering, Canadian dictatorship (!), and now, gigantic parachuting spiders.

I get the feeling that this decade is going to suck pretty hard all the way to the end.

The spiders in question are the Joro spider, a brightly colored nightmare that comes to us from Asia, like so many bad and really weird things. According to the New York Post, from whence I borrowed the alarming photo below, "The massive Joro spider, an invasive species from Asia, has descended on southern states — particularly Georgia and South Carolina — and is now due to spread rapidly to Alabama, according to the University of Georgia’s Odum School of Ecology."

Surely such a huge bug would never survive our northern winters, right? That's for tropical places, the price they pay (along with cyclones) for gorgeous weather. But no, according to spiderologists: "The spiders were exposed to below-freezing temperatures for minutes at a time — about as long as they’d need to find a warm place to hide."

And what's this about parachuting?

"Indeed, bug-watchers have spotted the Joro using their webs as parachutes, transporting them by wind."

Uh-huh. 

I'm not a victim of arachnophobia, in that I am not panicked thinking about spiders or go into frozen terror looking at one. I know what phobias feel like, being inclined to acrophobia, and my feeling about giant spiders is not like that. However, I have a strong repulsion from giant spiders, and this one looks particularly bad. The Joro has a minor venom that isn't a real danger to humans, unless one has an allergic reaction.

I do not intend to let one of these bastards get close enough to me to find out.

Research scientist Andy Davis says, “People should try to learn to live with them. If they’re literally in your way, I can see taking a web down and moving them to the side, but they’re just going to be back next year.”

And I say: No. I say: I'm going to murder every one that I see. I say: These arachnid sons of bitches had better turn out to be a bigger bust than the murder hornets. And if not, I say: Nuke them from orbit. It's the only way to be sure. 

"Poem" doesn't rhyme.

It occurred to me that the word poem does not actually have a rhyme. Ironic, isn't it?

Of course, the always-helpful site RhymeZone, friend to writers of song and limerick, tried to come up with a few. 

2 syllables:

bro hymn, ho hum, know him, loham, low hum, pro-am, show him, spoem, throw him

3 syllables:

below him, roboam

4 syllables:

jeroboam, rehoboam

Meh. Take away the ancient kings and all you have are weird combo words and sorta rhymes. As example, RhymeZone shows that no less a person than Oliver Wendell Holmes resorted to a near-rhyme for "The Iron Gate":

Where all goes wrong, and nothing as it ought?

Old age, the graybeard! Well, indeed, I know him,--

Shrunk, tottering, bent, of aches and ills the prey;

In sermon, story, fable, picture, poem,

 

It's not bad, but there's still something imperfect about it, more suited for light verse than anything serious. That's okay for a trash poet like me, who just diddles with words for laughs, but Ollie W. was a pretty serious guy. "Poem" is not "pohim." It's not quite Tom Lehrer rhyming Harvard with disCARvard, but it's in the same zip code.

I like to play with the rules themselves rather than just look the other way. If you've hung around this drugstore for a while you know that I wrote a poem about eye rhymes (words that look like they should rhyme but don't) and words with silent letters, as well as verbs that defy reason and words with very few rhymes. My favorite may be my ode to Wile E. Coyote, though.

Rather than follow a standard rhyme scheme like A/B/A/B or A/B/C/B, I wanted to simulate the chaos of a Looney Tunes cartoon, where the storytellers follow a structure but all within is crazy. This was my rhyme scheme:

A

B

C

C

D

D

E

F

G

G

E

B

F

A

I

I

Every line has a line that rhymes, but most of them are not where they ought to be. I'm not sure it succeeded, and may have just confused people, but I was happy when I was finished.

Surely, not since the time of Roboam

Hath been such a wackadoodle poem

Roboam: "You can say that again!"

P.S.: Those who remember H.R. Pufnstuf might be interested to know that RhymeZone came up with a scant few rhymes for orange, which are even worse than the ones for poem. However, Witchiepoo was wrong; there ain't no rhyme for oranges. 

Perils of inflation: entertainment.

We all have heard how bad inflation is, although some people seem to have trouble comprehending the idea. These are people for whom the term "fiat currency" is alien. They still expect to walk up to the treasury building and trade in a dollar note for that amount of gold. They'd better bring a microscope if that's the case.

There are two equations of economics that everyone ought to know, but seem to be mysterious and inscrutable even to those who supposedly do:  

Greater demand or lower supply = higher prices

Too many dollars chasing too few goods = higher prices

The latter is exactly what's happening now, as the government runs off sheets of delicious money that are each worth less than the dollars printed before them. 

But is inflation really bad? Yes, to those who remember stories of little old ladies on Social Security eating cat food to survive before benefits were pegged to you-know-what. My savings cannot possibly keep up with the rate of inflation as it is now.

 

I thought, since people pay more attention to entertainment and celebrity than reality in our culture, it might help to look at inflation in another way, using the Bureau of Labor Statistics' helpful Consumer Price Index inflation calculator (costs as of January 2022). Here we go:

The Six Million Dollar Man -- TV show premiered 1973; man now costs $38,958,152.42

The Millionaire -- TV drama where a man gave random people a million bucks premiered 1955; now would now give $10,529,887.64

50 Cent -- Rap star born 1975; now costs $2.59

"Bet-a-Million" Gates -- American gambler earned nickname in 1900; now would be "Bet $33,470,000" Gates*

Marshall Crenshaw's "A Hundred Dollars" -- Song released 1987; now would be $250.80

Two dollars demanded by psychotic paperboy in Better Off Dead -- Film released 1985; now demands $5.28 

Sweepstakes -- Short-lived TV drama ran 1979; million-dollar prize now costs $3,768,739.95

The Million Dollar Duck -- 1971 live-action Disney comedy; duck now costs $7,028,700.00

Two Cents -- expression re: one's opinions originated 1939; now opinions worth 40 cents

A Fistful of Dollars -- 1964 Spaghetti Western; a fistful of singles (approximately 10) now worth $90.40

Million Dollar Baby -- Another Eastwood film, from 2004; baby now worth $1,480,505.53

 

$1.98 Beauty Pageant -- Prize dispensed in 1978 mock-pageant show now worth $8.37

Shoeless Joe Jackson -- Admitted to being paid $5,000 to cheat in the 1919 World Series; now worth $77,665.19 (current Major League Baseball minimum salary is $570,500.00) 

Total 1944 US Government spending --  $91.3 billion; worth $1.462 trillion today, which is a small bit compared to our actual 2021 budget of $6.818 trillion, and we were fighting a World War on two fronts in 1944* -- US population has not quintupled since then

*For these, I had to go to another site as BLS doesn't go past 1913 or over 10 million bucks.

💸💸💸💸💸

Everything looks more valuable with inflation, but that only means that the money is less valuable. Does this illustration help? Probably not. Some people can't see the crocodile that's biting them on the butt.

The Pickleball Menace.

I'm not old enough, and perhaps young enough either, to play pickleball, but the intrepid New York Post makes me wary of the sport. "Pickleball Mania Leading to an Epidemic of Injuries Among Baby Boomers," reports the newspaper. Just looking at this ferocious action shot exposes the menace.

The Post reports, "Pickleball has been billed as a more accessible and a less intense tennis alternative, but experts say the popular pastime is still leading to a rash of injuries amongst the senior set. 'Obsessed' retirees are playing several hours per day, leading to overuse injuries. The older demo is also more likely to have weak bones, putting them at a greater risk for fractures."

The people profiled are not very old; we're not talking nonagenarians here. More like early sixties. Yet somehow, despite being able-bodied, they spend hours playing pickleball instead of working honest jobs. And they don't stretch enough, or take a break when they're hurt. It's just pickleball, morning, night, and noon.

It makes me wonder what other activities are causing overuse injuries in these crazy retirement villages. Is shuffleboard elbow a serious problem? Maybe mall-walking tendonitis? Croquet knee? Horseshoes carpal tunnel? Quoits wrist? I don't even want to ask what problems cornhole might be causing. 

I know a lot of doctors may be harrumphing at me; I can almost hear them through the computer. "Harrumph," they say, "a little overuse injury is nothing compared to the diseases of overweight and inactivity. Do you know that 80 percent of Americans don't get enough exercise, Fred? Well, do you, punk?" 

Well, I counter, do you doctors know that fully a third of Americans don't get enough sleep? Which problem is easier to fix? Mightn't a well-rested person be more likely to engage in exercise, and do it properly, with good stretching and other injury-prevention measures?

What I'm saying is -- avoid the pickleball menace and take a nap. That's what I intend to do, anyway. Maybe right now. 

😴

The power of clean.

 Ranked from weakest to strongest, the fundamental forces of the universe are: 

• Gravity
• The Weak Nuclear Force
• Electromagnetism
• The Strong Nuclear Force
• The Power that Attaches a Hair to the Side of a Toilet

Got the spider!

Baby dog Izzy was off to the groomer yesterday morning, so I put aside my paying labors to clean the bathrooms. It's very difficult to do any chores around the ten-month-old scamp, because when chores are attempted he goes through a few stages, all of which are useless:

1) Curiosity -- What is going on?

2) Participation -- I'm going to help!

3) Frustration -- This is boring and smells bad.

4) Interference -- This is stupid! Let's go play!

It's much better to take any opportunity when he is not around to get things done. 

So I'm glad that's done, but today is Ash Wednesday, which means it's time for me to consider cleaning something much more gross than any ol' bathroom -- my miserable soul. I'm not going into hiding this year like one of the Desert Fathers, nor have I planned to give up anything like chocolate, like one of the Dessert Fathers. (rimshot) I'm up in the air at this late date about what to do for Lent, but I'll do something. 

Meanwhile, remember how glad I was yesterday that I survived February without a big fall? Guess who stepped on black ice this morning and introduced his hip to the tarmac? Yes, your old pal Fred. Izzy sort of freaked out, while Tralfaz just laid on the snow looking at me. Man's best friend. 

Made it!

Thank God, we survived February this year with nothing horrible happening. Seemed like a close call a few times. We had more ice around than Saskatchewan, but I only took one fall, and it was facing uphill. 

Trust me when I tell you novenas were being said. We had gotten to feel like we could not get through February without illness, death, or injury, so this was a win. I greatly sympathize with all those for whom February has been crueler this year -- I know how you feel. 

That's about all I have to say, except, in tribute to frequent commenter PL Woodstock, I wrote the following:

The great actor Frederic March was known to drop into Maguire's Saloon now and then. One evening a few patrons noticed him enter, looking quite tired after a long day on the set. 

"The usual, Mr. March?" asked Maguire, behind the stick. 

"No, Mags, I need something to give me some pick-me-up," said March. "Goldwyn's got a party later and I have almost no energy at all."

"I got you, sir. Hang on." 

Maguire quickly mixed up his Electric City Special, named for his hometown of Schenectady -- cold black coffee with two shots of rye and a twist of lemon, on the rocks. "Just drink this down quick."

March did, and sat straight up on his stool. "Wow, that was terrific!" he said, but the drink went right to his head. He slumped onto the bar, out cold. 

"Didn't work, huh, Mags?" said Gig Young from down the bar. 

"Oh, you know March," said Maguire. "In like an ion, out like a lamp."

🥁