Thoughts on Remembering; or, A Highly Scientific Study

Remember, remember

the fifth of November,

Gunpowder treason and plot . . . 

So I have to confess that I've never seen V for Vendetta. A few years back when I first got on Facebook (I was a late-ish adopter) I was surprised but nerdily pleased to see the number of Guy Fawkes references bandied about on November 5th. (You may have noticed by now that I'm American. I assume that these references are more plentiful among the Brits.)

I didn't realize that there had been a huge movie in which Guy Fawkes (or at least the mask version of him) and his associated rhyme featured prominently. I just thought a whole bunch of other people were book nerds and liked Agatha Christie. 

I mean, sure, I'd heard of the movie; I just had no idea what it was about except for Natalie Portman shaving her head.

I don't think I figured out the V for Vendetta/Guy Fawkes link until the next year when Guy Fawkes day rolled around, everyone started quoting rhymes, and a few people started complaining about people not knowing anything about history and just quoting dumb movies, blah blah blah. (The fact that people were throwing sheep at Guy Fawkes, or sheep dressed like Guy Fawkes, or foxes dressed like sheep, or whatever, clearly showed that Facebook also endorsed the Guy Fawkes thing, which made the likelihood of the book geek scenario shrink, collapse, and dwindle down into a bedpost nothing.)

It was slightly deflating to realize that, far from being a co-conspirator in geeky book type lore, I actually was simultaneously 1) not a member of the Kool Kids Klub and 2) being despised for appearing to belong to the Kool Kids Klub by members of the We Actually Know How To Spell Cool But We Are Soooooo Over It Kids Club. And nobody but me seemed to know or care that I knew the Guy Fawkes rhyme like twelve years before it was a cool/lame movie. 

Ah, the trials of being a book geek. 

All of which is to say, I have apparently discovered the limits of the popular memory. The populace at large only remembers things for six-and-a-bit-years. I can say this with some certainty after conducting a highly scientific test (i.e., looking at my Facebook feed and realizing that only one person mentioned anything about Guy Fawkes and then figuring out that the movie came out seven years ago). 

Obviously, V for Vendetta has now been forgotten; it has become lost, as my old Welsh professor would have said, in the mists of antiquity. 

That, you know, or people were too busy throwing tantrums having political discussions in preparation for tomorrow's election to bother with silly pop culture references. 

Do you think they have a customer loyalty program?

I recently received the following email in my spam folder. My spam folder is a source of frequent amusement, and this did not disappoint:

I find several things interesting about this:

- The fact that Nigerian con artists apparently have found a way to get repeat customers. They are nothing if not resourceful!
- They are gutsy enough to put a warning at the end not to trust anyone else (but we're TOTALLY legit!).
- Judging by the total amount of money that has been set aside and the fact that "every affected victim" gets $3.4 million, only about 59 people have been affected. This is actually a lot better than my faith in the human race would have led me to believe.
- If you read the first sentence literally, it looks like the president of Nigeria is the one who rated his country the most corrupt in the world.

I think my favorite thing about this message, though, is the fact that, according to my research, the current president of Nigeria actually really and truly is named Goodluck Jonathan. Well, actually, it's Goodluck Ebele Azikiwe Jonathan, but I think that only makes it better. (Unfortunately, Dr. Silver Okoli appears to be an illegal fiction.)


This is right up there with the one where the sender claimed God had revealed my name to him as someone who was righteous enough to help him out.

Salmon Carrot Cake; or, Good Grief, I Love Parentheses!

So back when I was an English undergrad, I had to take a course entitled "Introduction to the English Language." I called it my crazy language class. The professor (whose name, and I am not making this up, was David Bowie) opened the class by saying that he was a Linguistics professor and that he didn't know why English majors had to take this course as a requirement, but that the powers that be didn't really know where else to put the class.

I spent a fair amount of the class keeping a detailed record of the random things this professor would say, along with the three other people who sat in the back right-hand corner of the class. One of my favorite moments (besides the time when he stopped, mid-class, to tell us "Where I grew up, hurricanes were the natural disaster of choice, so earthquakes just freak me out") was when he was talking about how the mind processes things we think we hear but that just don't make sense. The example he used was from his youth in the South (yayy for sight rhymes!) and a group of ladies (in my mind I picture a Sewing Circle like in Anne of Green Gables) were discussing what goodies and delectables to bring to the Big Function. (Probably a bazaar. Which, when I was little, I always thought people were saying "bizarre." This could explain some of my dislike of shopping.)

BUT ANYWAY. One lady said, according to my professor, "Salmon carrot cake sounds nice." (His response: "And it DOESN'T sound nice.") Everyone did a bit of a spit-take until they remembered that they were in the South, where people insist on speaking in such a way as makes misunderstandings mandatory (think: that moment in Gettysburg where Johnny Reb explains that the Confederacy is fighting for their rats), and realized that what she was really saying was "Cinnamon Carrot Cake" (which does sound nice), but her crazy accent had produced gobbledegook which everyone's brains had translated as "Salmon Carrot Cake."

Mmmmm… imagined malapropisms…. yum.

Well, I told you that story so I could tell you this one.

There's a moment in the Disney version of Peter Pan where this crazy pirate (I think he's wearing a pink shirt, but I may be wrong on this) is sitting up in the riggings with a (very fake-looking) accordion (seriously, it has no buttons!) and singing. (Yodeling, almost.) And Captain Hook loses patience with the long, drawn-out caterwauling and shoots him (whereupon you hear the sound of a falling fake accordion and a splash). And cute Mr. Smee tsks at him and says, "Oh, Cap'n. Shooting a man in the middle of his cadenza? 't ain't good form, you know!"

Yeah, I like that part.

But it wasn't until I was older that I actually realized that the word was "cadenza." As in, an improvised or written-out ornamental passage played or sung by a soloist or soloists, usually in a "free" rhythmic style, and often allowing for virtuosic display. (Thanks, Wikipedia!)

No, what I had heard as a child and for a rather ridiculously long time afterward was "credenza." As in, one of these:




It gives the line a whole new meaning, doesn't it?


Okay, everyone, all together now:

Mmmmm… imagined malapropisms…. yum!

Do you believe in omens?

I'm beginning to wonder if maybe the universe (or at least the legal profession) is trying to tell me that I'm not supposed to be a lawyer.

Every bit of mail I have ever gotten from the Federalist society has been addressed "Mr." Now, in some cases I could understand an organization getting slightly confused about gender-neutral names. But has anyone here ever in their life known, met, or even heard vague urban legends about a man named Elizabeth?

Now, I've heard from other (more gender-neutrally-named) female friends who are also Mr. to the Federalists, so I wouldn't necessarily take that as a conclusive sign, but today I also got a letter from the American Bar Association. At least I think I did. It has my address and my middle initial and my last name on it, but they have my first name listed as Cristina. Which it isn't (see above point about my name, Elizabeth, not being a man's name).

If they can't even get my name right, why am I bothering with all this again?



Note: To be fair, I should point out that I'm not the only one whose name the ABA is confused about. Shallow Man's letter (which also had the correct middle initial, last name and address) was addressed to Richard. Which isn't his name, either. So maybe the ABA would just rather have our family choose a different field? You tell me. (Although the Federalists at least have gotten his gender right.)

Again I say, say what?

So first I have to express my impatience with the fact that the So You Think You Can Dance results show airs at 8:00 instead of 7:00. The performance show airs at 7:00. Why the difference in times? Is it so vitally important that Are You Smarter Than a Fifth-Grader air right at 7:00? Why can't they put SYTYCD first and THEN air the 5th-grader at 8:00? Good grief, Fox. Good. Grief.

But I digress.

While watching TV in hopeful anticipation of my show, blissfully unaware that I was to be denied for another hour, I saw a commercial for the new Reese's Peanut Butter Cups. Someone there has apparently had the bright idea to team up with The Dark Knight for movie tie-ins and they will therefore be releasing -- get it -- BAT-SHAPED REESE'S CUPS. As in, less Reese's because they've cut the cup into the shape of a bat. Say what? They dang well better cut the price accordingly.

Because as "cool" as a bat gimmick is, when I buy a Reese's, I want my full allotment of chocolatey peanut butter goodness.

Good grief, Reese's.

Good.

Grief.

The IAUWGPSN; or, Democracy in Action?

And now, bringing you the latest update on a subject dear to our collective heart:

Pluto is now called a plutoid. Plutoids, for those of you who don't know, are

"[...] celestial bodies in orbit around the sun at a distance greater than that of Neptune that have sufficient mass for their self-gravity to overcome rigid body forces so that they assume a hydrostatic equilibrium (near-spherical) shape, and that have not cleared the neighborhood around their orbit." In short: small round things beyond Neptune that orbit the sun and have lots of rocky neighbors.

I can tell you, I'm certainly breathing a sigh of relief here. Back in 2006 when the International Astronomical Union cruelly stripped Pluto of its planetary status, I was worried that Pluto would remain unclassified forever, wandering around its uncleared orbit forever just wondering what it was and where it came from. Now it only has to wonder where it came from. However,

it remains to be seen whether astronomers will use the new term.

"My guess is that no one is going to much use this term, though perhaps I'm wrong," said Caltech astronomer Mike Brown, who has led the discovery of several objects in the outer solar system, including Eris. "But I don't think that this will be because it is controversial, just not particularly necessary."

Brown was unaware of the new definition until the IAU announced it today.

"Back when the term 'pluton' was nixed they said they would come up with another one," Brown said. "So I guess they finally did."

Who do we have to thank for this amazing act of astronomical confidence boosting? Who is the new superhero in the galaxy, bringing justice and handles to abandoned ex-planetoids everywhere? Who ya gonna call?

The International Astronomical Union Working Group for Planetary System Nomenclature, of course!

Say what?

Okay, okay, okay. It was really proposed by the IAUCSBN (International Astronomical Union Committee on Small Body Nomenclature). The IAUWGPSN only accepted it. Then the IAU Executive Committee approved it.

Say what?

You mean not only does it take them 2 years to come up with something "better" than "pluton", but they also have not one, not two, but three whole committees that it has to go through? Two of which appear to exist solely for the purpose of coming up with names for planet-type stuff? And "plutoid" is what they give us?

Puh-leeeeeze.

I guess they're only members of the IAU because they couldn't get an honest job as a real astronomer. You know it's bad when the people you're supposed to represent say outright that they're not going to pay attention to you anymore. At least the IAU has a good attitude about it, though.

"The IAU is a democratic organization, thus open to comments and criticism of any kind," IAU General Secretary Karel A. van der Hucht told SPACE.com by email today. "Given the history of the issue, we will probably never reach a complete consensus."

I think they've got that right. I don't see them agreeing with me anytime soon that they've messed this affair up from the get-go.

For a more scientific opinion, click here.

Mirth, misery, and madness

Now conveniently combined here.

Mirth for obvious reasons.

Misery at seeing the horrible abuse some people commit.

And most of all, madness because it's driving me crazy that I had to stop reading the site because I was laughing too much and causing disruption in the library so I have to wait until I get home to see the rest.

I'm "blaming" you, R2!

Common Courtesy; or, Incident at the Cinema

So we just got back from seeing The Bourne Ultimatum (which I quite enjoyed, but that's not what this story is about).

We arrived at the theatre in time and before the previews started but, since we had not seen fit to arrive an hour early to sit in line for seats, the theater was mostly full when we got there and aside from the very front row there weren't two seats open next to each other. I personally can't watch movies in the front row because, aside from not being able to see what's going on other than a minute inspection of Matt Damon's skin pores and chin stubble, I get a major headache and a stiff neck. Since I'm already having neck problems, we decided the front row was out and tried to find some other seats.

In general, I prefer the back of the theatre, but I also prefer watching movies with my husband, so when I saw two seats available on the first row of the back section, I decided we'd try there. Except that these two seats were separated by a couple already sitting down. I politely asked them if either of the seats were saved and they said no. I then asked if maybe they would be willing to move over one seat so --

I didn't get to finish before the guy started shaking his head no, they wouldn't be willing to move.

"So that my husband and I can sit together?" (This shouldn't have been necesary to point out, by the way; Shallow Man was standing right next to me.)

The guy absolutely refused to move.

Now, I realize they'd gotten there first. I realize that they wanted to sit where they were sitting. But I was only asking for one of them to move one chair over so I could sit with my husband. But this guy had apparently decided that the only possible seat in the theatre he could sit in was the one he was in and heaven forbid his date should have to move (in her defense, she was obviously unimpressed by his actions and she started to give him her opinion of them once we started to move on; but she didn't offer to move over, either).

So we ended up sitting on separate rows. (Some people on one row offered to scoot down three or four seats to let us sit together but it turned out one of the seats was already saved. Still, I greatly appreciated the gesture.)

Like I say, I understand that the up-front row people probably waited in line for a while to get good seats. Shallow Man and I did not.

But whatever happened to common courtesy?

Offers and counteroffers

Let this be a lesson to you all:

If you're trying to sell your house to Shallow Man and me, don't get greedy. This will only force us to get firm with you.

At this point we're considering how best to show our utter contempt for their current counteroffer (when the appraisal came in lower than their initial ridiculous counteroffer, what a surprise!). We've been fairly patient and more than reasonable up to this point, especially in making our offers. We were hoping they'd decided to be adults about this but apparently that's not the case. *Sigh.*

We're considering asking that they include a pony and install a small -- but serviceable -- bowling alley in the crawl space prior to closing in our counter-counteroffer. Including, of course, a note in the addendum that we like a good joke as much as they do. This will be no less of a joke than their current offer to us and makes for a much better story later on all sides. Hopefully it would also get the message out to them that we only entertain serious and reasonable counteroffers, not insults.

Unfortunately, our innate sense of professionalism (don't laugh so hard; I don't want any of my maybe-six-or-seven readers to choke and die -- there are few enough of you as it is) will probably win out and we'll end up leaving the pony out. Which is just as well, since I don't know where we'd put it -- what with the babies on the way we're probably going to need all the room for other things anyway.

*Sigh* again. What I put up with to stop paying rent.

You can't judge a book...

So I have to admit that I'm probably one of the things that is wrong with America today. I do, in fact, work at a big bad chain store which routinely puts shops around the corner out of business in a cruel and heartless fashion. Although what probably makes me a worse person is the fact that this doesn't bother me so much because I like the store I work at. *ducks behind a chair to avoid projectile missiles from outraged protesters*

But working at a bookstore gives me some great experiences in seeing the way people deal with books. Most people that I talk to, of course, are not the drooling, avid and voracious reader types, such as myself, who know what they want and where to find it, or else just want to sit there and bask in the glory of all those books, waiting for one to leap off the shelves in a fit of serendipity and fall into their outstretched arms.

The people I talk to tend to be a little less, shall we say, single-minded in their quest for all things written. Some of them appear to never have been in a bookstore before, and I must admit that there have been a few that I harbored doubts of their ever having been this close to a book in their lives. (Disclaimer: they are all intelligent and well-meaning people and I do not mean to criticize the way anybody does their book shopping. Whichever way you prefer is, in fact, the correct way.)

They wander up to the information desk and kind of squint into the air in a questioning manner, their gaze resting somewhere behind and above my right shoulder, before they say, "There's this book I want, but I don't know the author...." Of course, this isn't usually a problem with our handy-dandy computer system, provided of course that our system is in a good and informative mood that day and I don't have to resort to base trickery to fool it into telling me what I want to know. The problem comes if it's a weird title that they don't know how to spell, or if tricky homonyms come into play. I can't tell you how many times I have searched for The Tale of someone or other only to find out that the title is not referring to a story or anecdote but is, in fact, alluding to a portion of posterior anatomy that most humans do not possess.

What gets really good are the people who don't know the author OR the title, but have some vague idea about the plot and know that "the cover was blue," or at least that it was blue when they read it as a kindergartener back in 1958. Like the girl who wanted the book about a mouse that begins with D. (This actually turned out not to be so much of a problem, as it is the Newberry-award winning "The Tail of Despereaux" -- another of those ones! -- which I had just finished reading. But this is the exception.)

The weirdest experience I've had so far happened the other day, five minutes before I was scheduled to get off work (of course). A man came and told me, "I bought the new Betty Crocker cookbook for my wife but it's not the whole cookbook. How do I get the complete version?" Huh? Further questioning elicited the information that his mother had had the same cookbook but it was much thicker. How could he get a copy of that cookbook? I took him back to the cookbook section (where I discovered that he actually had purchased the Better Homes and Gardens book, not the Betty Crocker; he never quite seemed to grasp this...) and showed him the versions we had.

No good. "Yes, that's the one I bought my wife and it's not the complete version." Well, I could look it up in the system and see if there were any different, newer, longer versions. Would he like that? Yes, he would. So I looked it up and lo and behold, those were the only versions. (I had figured as much; if there was a "complete" one we would probably have carried it.) I even found the "classic 1953 version," which turned out to be a good 200 pages shorter than the new ones, and tried to explain to him that the thickness could be a difference in print size, the amount of pictures, the paper used or the binding. (My vote goes with the latter; apparently his mother's was in book form while the one he got for his wife was the three-ring binder kind.) No good. He didn't listen or didn't understand or didn't care.

This meant that we ended up going back to the cookbook section (which covers nearly an entire wall of our store) and he had me show him nearly every cookbook we carry so he could compare thicknesses and decide which one he wanted. Luckily, he decided before too long that he didn't require my assistance anymore so I didn't have to go through the whole wall. (And I was only 15 minutes late getting off work, rather than an hour.) When I left, he was favoring the American Test Kitchen Family Cookbook, which is rather hefty.

I guess the moral of the story is that while you shouldn't judge a book by its cover (especially since it's probably not blue anymore after 47 years), judging it by the width of the spine is just fine.