Category Archives: Night Writer

42 and 57, or “Let’s see who rusts first”

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by the Night Writer

Today’s the birthday of the man who, along with the movie Monty Python and the Holy Grail, is responsible for most of the catch-phrases in my vocabulary. As noted by The Writer’s Almanac:

It’s the birthday of the man who said, “Any man who can hitch the length and breadth of the galaxy, rough it, slum it, struggle against terrible odds, win through, and still knows where his towel is, is clearly a man to be reckoned with.” That was science fiction writer Douglas Adams, born in Cambridge, England (1952), the author of The Hitchhiker’s Guide to the Galaxy. The series begins with the main character, Arthur Dent, lying on the ground in front of bulldozers that are about to demolish his house to make room for a highway. His friend Ford Prefect shows up and explains to Arthur that he, Ford, is actually from another planet; and that Arthur doesn’t need to worry about his house getting demolished because Earth itself is about to be demolished to make room for an interstellar highway. Ford and Arthur hitchhike on a spaceship and begin their adventures through the galaxy.

I first heard of The Hitch-Hiker’s Guide to the Galaxy in 1979 when some co-worker’s had a bootleg copy of the BBC’s original radio-play. I later ended up buying four of the five books in the HHGTTG “trilogy”, video-taping the Beeb’s technically awful television version and dozing through the big-bucks movie version a couple of years ago. I wouldn’t recommend Adams for spiritual guidance (re Oolon Colluphid’s trilogy of philosophical blockbusters Where God Went Wrong, Some More of God’s Greatest Mistakes and Who is this God Person Anyway?) but just the other day I found myself saying, “Pleased to be of service” and, in the comment section of another blog, typing “Flying is the knack of learning how to throw yourself at the ground and miss.” Other common expressions one is apt to hear around me are, “Time is an illusion. Lunchtime doubly so”; “This is obviously some new usage of the word ‘safe’ (or whatever word fits the moment) that I previously wasn’t aware of”; “Mostly harmless”; “It will all end in tears, I just know it”; along with random references to the Ravenous Bugblatter Beast of Traal, Slartibartfast and of course, the classic, “42!”

57. That’s how old Adams’ would have been today if he were still alive.

Well I’ve never been to Spain…

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by the Night Writer

…but that may be about to change. Over the weekend my wife, Tiger Lilly and I applied to be accepted into the Pueblo Ingles program to help Spaniards learn to speak English. Pueblo Ingles is an organization that sets up week-long English immersion training for Spanish-speakers eager to perfect their English for business and social purposes. All we have to do is provide our own transportation to and from Madrid and any personal travel we want to do before or after the program. Otherwise the program provides all meals and accommodations during the week plus transportation from Madrid to the village where the instruction takes place. Oh, and we have to swear not to speak a word of Spanish while we’re there!

This afternoon I received an email enthusiastically accepting me into one of the weeks, and we’re hoping that the Reverend Mother’s and Tiger Lilly’s acceptance will be coming soon — I won’t go without them! Our program would run from July 24th through 31st and would take place in the village of Valdelavilla, which is described as follows:

Valdelavilla is a small town in the highlands of Soria, just south of the wine-producing region of La Rioja. It dates back to the 18th century but it was reconstructed as a rural tourist complex after it was abandoned in the 1960’s for demographic reasons. It is considered as one of the best-preserved natural sites in Spain with unique architectural and landscaping characteristics, a rich abundance of flora and fauna, and a quite magical atmosphere.

The village is nestled in a valley and even in its heyday, its population probably never surpassed 30 families. It has rustic feel to it with twelve traditional stone-walled houses, cobblestone streets and plenty of exposed brick and timber. Open countryside and beautiful panoramic views complete the quaint atmosphere and make this venue a favourite for volunteers who want that “authentic Spanish experience”, and “to get away from it all”. Valdelavilla arguably represents Pueblo Ingles in its rawest form.

Ok, so it’s not exactly five-star accommodations (other Pueblo Ingles venues are more polished) but the site sounds beautiful and we can book more stylish quarters when we’re back in Madrid after the program is finished and we continue our vacation. The images I’ve found of Valdelavilla show buildings and scenery very similar to the part of Tuscany where we stayed a couple of years ago (and loved).

The Rev. Mum discovered the program through an article in the Strib a few weeks ago. The Spanish-speakers pay to participate, but the Anglos are comped (a word I’ll likely have to explain to the “students”). It’s not exactly a free ride, however, as we’ll spend several hours each day speaking English with the students in a variety of business and social setting, including telephone conversations, and the evenings are spent doing skits and enjoying long (and late) suppers — and talking, talking, talking (a challenge for me, I know). We’re encouraged to talk about anything and everything in order to help the Spaniards acclimate to idioms and cultural nuances. I’m sure it will be tiring, but at the same time we’ll be learning a lot about Spain and the lives of the people we’re talking to and it should be very educational. Perhaps we’ll even pick up some very useful details to make the rest of our trip even more interesting!

All in all it sounds like a great way to see a new country and learn about other ways of life — all while helping other people. What can be better than that?

Update: The program couldn’t fit all of us into the July 24 week, but later added a week to this summer’s schedule. The Rev. Mum and I will go to Cazorla in the sunny south the week of July 3-10, while Tiger Lilly participates in a teen program in El Avets near the French border.

Fighting with Tiger Lilly

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I cashed in some of my Best Buy Reward Zone points recently and picked up a couple of classic Xbox games — Halo and Halo 2. Tiger Lilly and I enjoy gaming together and these games have been a lot of fun. I can’t help but notice some differences in our styles of combat, however.

For example, in my other gaming I typically play the WWII “Brothers in Arms” series. These games pride themselves on being realistic, so there are no health packs and “level ups” to be found. As such, I’ve learned to move carefully and to peek around corners to keep myself and my squad alive and it’s a hard habit to break. TL on the other hand goes charging off in the direction of enemies as soon as they pop up on the tactical display, typically wreaking carnage with an occasional, “Whoops, I died.” Her eyes and reflexes are also sharper than mine, so as she’s blowing Covenant and Flood to pieces she’s also scooping up useful debris before I even see it. “Cool — a rocket launcher!” or “Whoa, sentinel beam!” are usually my first clue that valuable items arewere for the picking.

She’s also liable to run out of the range of my HUD so that I lose track of her in a melee. My most common utterance when we’re playing is, “Okay, now where are you?” This usually results in her making her character (and its green overhead triangle) jump up and down until I can draw a bead on her. Either that or I simply follow the trail of body parts she’s left in her wake. Nevertheless, we’re getting pretty good at working in tandem, flanking enemies and alerting the other when we’re throwing a plasma grenade, and she hardly ever runs in front of my sniper rifle any more.

It does feel a little odd serving as wingman for a 15-year-old, and I suppose there are more edifying things I could be doing with her other than burning a few hours a week saving humankind. I figure it doesn’t hurt, though, to let her know I’ve got her back. And that — wingman or not — I am the Master Chief.

Turning on the Gino signal

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Gino, here are a 24 to 50 more reasons to come to Minnesota for the wedding…

Pet Pigs Go Hog Wild in Western Minnesota
Officials recently discovered that pot-bellied pigs — a southeast Asian species imported to the United States, often as pets — have been roaming wild and apparently reproducing for the past few years. The pigs could number 25 to 50, and the first ones either escaped captivity or were illegally released into the wild.

“It’s just really, really bad news,” said Steve Merchant of the Department of Natural Resources. “They can be very destructive to native plants and wildlife habitat, and they carry diseases that can affect wildlife and livestock. We’re definitely concerned. We want to get them out of there.”
…
Pot-bellied pigs can grow to 300 pounds. Vacek said the carcass of one pig he examined probably weighed 90 to 100 pounds. It was a boar with 4-inch tusks.

Come out a few days early and maybe you can help us save some money on the reception menu!

Send us your tired, your hungry, your huddled polar bears

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Satellite photos show Lake Superior nearly iced-over on March 3, 2009.


Image from N.O.A.A.

Reportedly, this phenomenon happens about every 20-30 years. Another source reports that global floating sea ice levels this year are as high as they were in 1979, using data and a chart from the University of Illinois’ Arctic Climate Research Center:

Rapid growth spurt leaves amount of ice at levels seen 29 years ago.

Thanks to a rapid rebound in recent months, global sea ice levels now equal those seen 29 years ago, when the year 1979 also drew to a close.

Ice levels had been tracking lower throughout much of 2008, but rapidly recovered in the last quarter. In fact, the rate of increase from September onward is the fastest rate of change on record, either upwards or downwards.

The data is being reported by the University of Illinois’s Arctic Climate Research Center, and is derived from satellite observations of the Northern and Southern hemisphere polar regions.

“Thanks to a rapid rebound in recent months.” You’ve got to give President Obama credit; he said he’d stop global warming and he has!

The Depths of the Night

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I was combing through my blog archives earlier looking for a study that I’ve previously cited because I want to use it in another post that I’m working on. In the process I came across a short piece that I wrote here back in 2005, my first year of blogging. It seemed especially appropriate for the present day when so many people appear to have so much to worry about. I’m re-running it here in the hope that it might help someone find a little peace and comfort.

A Beast in the Night

It’s two a.m. and the beast slides in under the bedroom door while I’m sleeping, a darkness deeper than the dark. I feel his weight as he sits on my chest and the tingling sensation of the tips of his talons as he takes my head and turns it slightly to face him. “Let’s talk,” he hisses.

This implies conversation, but it is one-sided. Doom seems to be the theme, oppression the objective, but I’m not paying too much attention to specifics as I sort through and catalog the degrees of my awareness. The house is quiet and still. No strange lights from outside, no smell of smoke through the screened windows. My wife rests peacefully beside me. There is just this…thing, hunkering down, pressing on my thorax. My breathing seems shallow; does it have to be? I fill my lungs several times, deeply. Breathing is good, the weight remains. I experimentally try shifting my position.

“Ah-ah,” says the beast, “does it hurt when I do this?”

Actually, no, nothing hurts. I easily move my arm and place my hand below my collarbone. The river courses deep and wide and steady beneath my fingertips in a familiar rhythm. My skin is cool and dry and yet I know the beast has found something, deep within. A tiny flame of fear, like a pilot light, and now he breathes on it and his very breath is combustible – the flame roars, seeking more fuel, wanting to consume me. In the light of day I hardly notice the steady but small flame; now in the dark every flicker seems to cast an ominous shadow. This is beyond reason, but reason I must: there is money in the bank, we are whole, the jobs are good, the basement will be dry again. I am fine and no weapon formed against us will prosper.

The beast is unimpressed, and answers each thought with a “But…” of his own, his own butt and haunches squeezing against my ribs. The debate goes on quietly for an hour. I should get up. I should get some water. I should change the scenery, but I feel trapped. “Yes…trapped,” the beast says, “trapped, trapped, trapped.” This is going nowhere. Reason is not sufficient, and argument is ineffective. If he won’t listen to me, then I won’t listen to him. I deliberately turn my mind to the old songs, the songs of deliverance and praise, I repeat them to myself, sometimes running verses together or in different order, simply using what comes to mind, from another pilot light, a garment of praise for the spirit of heaviness, replacing fear with power, strength and a sound mind.

The darkness in the room changes perceptibly. It’s nowhere near dawn, but it seems lighter somehow. Peace returns, if sleep does not. At 4:00 a.m. I’m aware that my wife is awake, lying quietly in the dark. I speak softly, “Are you awake?”

“Yes. Why are you?”

I tell her what happened. She draws closer, hooks one of her legs over one of mine, her arm brushes the last traces of the beast from my chest.

“I’m feeling better,” I say.

This also reminds me of something else that I’ve written here before, a quote from Edwin Louis Cole: “Fear is the belief that something I cannot see will come to pass. Faith is the belief that something I cannot see will come to pass.”

Which will you choose to believe?

I will say of the LORD, “He is my refuge and my fortress; My God, in Him I will trust.”…You shall not
be afraid of the terror by night, nor of the arrow that flies by day, nor of the pestilence
that walks in darkness, nor of the destruction that lays waste at noonday.
— Psalm 91: 2, 5-6

Wasting away again in an Obama-ville

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Obama: It’s a Good Time to Buy Stocks

President Obama said Tuesday that now is a good time for investors to buy stocks if they focus on the big picture.

The Dow plunged Monday to its lowest level in 12 years.

“What you’re now seeing is a profit and earnings ratios get to the point that buying stocks is a good thing if you have a long-term perspective on it,” he said to reporters after meeting in the Oval Office with visiting British Prime Minister Gordon Brown.

That sounds very familiar. Let’s access the ol’ mental jukebox….ah, yes, Fred Waring and Pennsylvanians from 1932 with an Irving Berlin song called “Let’s Have Another Cup of Coffee”:

Just around the corner,
There’s a rainbow in the sky,
So let’s have another cup of coffee,
And let’s have another piece of pie.

Trouble’s like a bubble,
And the clouds will soon roll by,
So let’s have another cup of coffee,
And let’s have another piece of pie.

Let a smile be your umbrella,
For it’s just an April shower,
Even John D. Rockefeller
Is looking for the silver lining!

Mr. Herbert Hoover
Says that now’s the time to buy,
So let’s have another cup of coffee,
And let’s have another piece of pie!

Back in the 1930s the shanty-towns of homeless people were called Hoovervilles. Perhaps tomorrow they’ll be called Obama-villes, or maybe just “affordable housing.”

Hello, Americans — and good-bye to a legend

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Bob Greene is a master, and writer who’s style influenced my early days. He’s done a number of tributes over the years, but none have been better than the one he just offered to Paul Harvey who passed away Saturday at the age of 90:

I’ve never been one to attend the performances of symphony orchestras, but off and on, for more than 35 years, I gave myself the gift of something even better:

I would go and sit with Paul Harvey as he broadcast his radio show.

It was music; it was thrilling. I met him in the early 1970s, when I was a young newspaper reporter in Chicago, and that’s when he allowed me, for the first time, to sit silently in his studio as he did his work. Over the years, whenever I felt a need for a Paul Harvey fix, he was always welcoming, and we came to know each other well. I would sit there wordlessly and observe absolute excellence.

He would invariably be wearing a smock when I arrived — he had been working since well before the sun came up, and the smock would cover his shirt and tie. It was the kind of smock a jeweler might wear, or a watchmaker — it was crisply pressed, the uniform of an expert craftsman. I never asked him why he wore it, but I suspect that was the reason — pride in craftsmanship.

He would be at the typewriter, honing his script. He was famed for his voice, but the writing itself was so beautiful — his respect for words, his understanding of the potency of economy, his instinct for removing the superfluous. The world heard him speak, but the world never saw him write, and I think he honored both aspects of his skill equally.
…
And then the signal from the booth, and. . .

“Hello, Americans! This is Paul Harvey! Stand by. . . for news!”

And he would look down at those words that had come out of his typewriter minutes before — some of them underlined to remind him to punch them hard — and they became something grander than ink on paper, they became the song, the Paul Harvey symphony. He would allow me to sit right with him in the little room — he never made me watch from behind the glass — and there were moments, when his phrases, his word choices, were so perfect — flawlessly written, flawlessly delivered — that I just wanted to stand up and cheer.

But of course I never did any such thing — in Paul Harvey’s studio, if you felt a tickle in your throat you would begin to panic, because you knew that if you so much as coughed it would go out over the air into cities and towns all across the continent — so there were never any cheers. The impulse was always there, though — when he would drop one of those famous Paul Harvey pauses into the middle of a sentence, letting it linger, proving once again the power of pure silence, the tease of anticipation, you just wanted to applaud for his mastery of his life’s work.

He probably wouldn’t have thought of himself this way, but he was the ultimate singer-songwriter. He wrote the lyrics. And then he went onto his stage and performed them. The cadences that came out of his fingertips at the typewriter were designed to be translated by one voice — his voice — and he did it every working day for more than half a century: did it so well that he became a part of the very atmosphere, an element of the American air.

Read the whole thing to get the “rest of the story” about an American legend. Good day!

An old man’s hat

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by the Night Writer

LIFE ON EARTH is pulled down hard on a man’s head. This life was made by hatters. A busy street is only coffee, bread, and hats. The smell of a man’s hat – an old man’s hat – is like the nostril of a horse. You are breathing in what something beautiful and ancient has breathed out. The heat and life contained in it, the silk interior. An old man’s hat is necessary: You see that when he takes it off, his hair and skin abruptly float away.

— David Keplinger, from The Prayers of Others. © New Issues, 2006.

Night Life: All the single ladies

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The Mall Diva, Tiger Lilly and MD’s friend and singing-partner, Princess Flicker-Feather, are taking a hip-hop dance class once a week. I don’t know what hip-hop dance involves but since Easter is coming up I thought they might be working up some special choreography. Nevertheless, when the Diva said Princess Flicker-Feather was coming over to practice I thought they were going to work on their expanding repertoire of music for the Open Mic Circuit.

I was down in the Man-Cave working on something edifying when thumping bass and stomping feet started pounding above my head. “I don’t remember any of their songs sounding like that,” I thought to myself. I shrugged it off and kept working … until there was a loud crash. What in the name of This Old House is going on? I went upstairs, the beat getting louder each step, and swung into the living room … where the the three femmes were lined up doing unison steps to Beyonce’s “Single Ladies (Put a Ring On It)”. Apparently that’s the song they are dancing to in class. They had the music up so loud the walls were dancing too, though not in perfect sync, which is why someone’s hips had bumped into one of them, resulting in the noise that brought me upstairs.


Click for video.

“Put a Ring On It” is an admirable sentiment, but “Put a Cork In It” was more my concern. Even though modestly attired, the vibrations from that much hip-swing and shimmy were enough to trip the always sensitive tracking system of every teenage boy in a two-mile radius. If even one pheromone got through the thick walls we were going to have a riot on our hands. Great. It was a cold night and I was going to have to spend it on the porch with a rifle and a harpoon.