Hey, Caligula! We’re trying to have a civilization here!

There’s some patent medicine that has a commercial, “Eat like a kid again.” Brilliant. Gorge yourself to the point of nausea, then take this pill to avoid the consequences. Why not just use peacock feathers dipped in olive oil? Sometimes the old ways are best.

According to Moses Maimonides, no disease that can be treated by diet should be treated with any other means. I would add exercise to diet. Maybe in the twelfth century when Maimonides was writing, everybody got lots of exercise automatically.

To maintain good general health, I also take a big placebo once in a while, especially if I feel a cold coming on. Some people think taking a placebo is pointless if you know it’s a placebo, but follow my logic here: I know about the placebo effect too. Studies have shown that the placebo effect is real. So there’s no illogic in taking advantage of the real placebo effect by taking a real placebo. Also, by now I’ve established through my own experience that taking a placebo works for me, so it does work for me. I don’t know why everyone doesn’t do this.

The trick is to choose a placebo that’s cheap, with no harmful side effects. It’s a bonus if it has some actual physical utility independent of it’s placidifying benefit. Unless you’re completely deranged you’ll choose something that’s available over the counter, preferably at the grocery store. I like vitamin C, and sometimes zinc. I tried echinacea, but that didn’t do anything for me. I think some of those so-called “natural remedies” are just silly superstitions, like homeopathic medicine.

If a sensible diet and an hour of exercise every day don’t work, then I turn to a stronger remedy. I take a nap and drink a big glass of water. This usually works in time, but if not, or if the pain is extreme, then I kick it up a notch and pursue a strategy of benign neglect and denial. Sometimes I eat a cookie. So far, this has almost always worked. The rare exceptions have required a trip to the library, a web search, and once or twice a visit to a doctor.

The Greeter and his Wife

A Wal-Mart greeter and his wife lived in a beat-up old trailer out on the by-pass. One summer’s evening as he was gathering up the carts in the parking lot, one of the carts spoke to him saying, “Hey, buddy, don’t take me back into the store. Leave me out here where I can at least live free.”

The Greeter looked around and called out, “Is that you, Harold?” but the cart said, “It’s me, right here. I’m no shopping cart, but an enchanted… um, I’m enchanted.” The greeter wondered if it could be one of those new network-aware carts with the speakers for targeted advertising. He looked closely at the cart, but saw nothing. The cart said, “Satisfied? I told you, I’m enchanted. Please, do me a favor, don’t take me back inside.”

“An enchanted what?” asked the greeter.

“What difference does it make? I’m a talking cart; Just walk away.”

So the greeter released the enchanted shopping cart, and taking the rest of the carts he went back inside. When his shift ended he went home to his beat-up old trailer and told his wife all that had happened. “Did you wish for anything?” she asked.

“What? No,” said the man, “That’s stupid; What would I wish for?”

“Well you could wish for a real house for us instead of this nasty trailer. Go on back there and ask the magic cart for a house. He owes you for letting him go.”

The man didn’t want to mess with it, but rather than get into a big thing with his wife he went back to look for the cart. The night had gotten colder, and a gusty wind blew trash around the parking lot. He looked around, and then called out, “Psst, hey cart!”

The cart rolled up and said, “What’s up?”

The man said, “Hey, my wife, she said I should have asked for something.”

“What’s she want?” asked the cart.

“She’d like a small house instead of the trailer.”

“Okay, you got it. Anything else?”

“So what, are you like an enchanted prince?” asked the man.

“I’m an enchanted attorney, okay?”

The man went home, and found his wife sitting in front of the TV in their new house, a nice little two-bedroom ranch. He sat down beside her, and everything was fine for several weeks. But as time passed, the wife grew restless. “You’d think your magic cart could just as well have given us an attached garage, with one of those openers like your brother’s kid has.”

The man said, “This is fine; leave it alone.” But his wife kept after him, and in a few days he gave in. Late on a windy, rainy night he stood in the parking lot and again called out to the cart, and the cart came rolling up.

“Yeah, what?”

“She wants a nicer house, out in that new subdivision, Oak something; Park? Peak? Can you help me out?

“You got it. Anything else?”

“So how’d you get enchanted anyway? I’m just asking.”

“None of your business. Go on home and be happy. 2218 Oak Peak.”

The man thanked the cart, and went home. He had to admit it was a pretty nice house. And his wife thought so too, for about a week. Then she became restless. “This place is too big for me to keep up with. We need a maid. Go ask the cart to send one out. And someone to do the yard work too.” The man said, “No, this is wrong. What we have is plenty good enough.” But his wife persisted, he gave in, and again he stood in the lot. There was lightning, and the sky looked nasty. The wind had a funny smell. Before he even spoke, the cart rolled up and said, “You see where this is going, right? She’s never going to be satisfied, and it’s all going to end badly.”

The man replied, “Yeah, I know, but she’s my wife. What’re you gonna do?”

“That’s up to you,” said the cart.

Later that night, after stopping for a tall cold one on the way, the man sat by himself in front of the TV in his shabby but comfortable trailer. He’d gotten a raise at work, and a special bonus award as employee of the year. That came with a parking place and a free vacation day every month. The big-screen TV had been nice, but there was no sense pushing your luck.

Oh, I see; it’s “Congress shall make no inappropriate law”

It’s getting hard for me to write about this without foaming at the mouth (which would at least be entertaining) and becoming repetitive. The government is in the process of singling out a class of people, the Legitimate Journalists, and granting them “special” rights. Those special rights? Yeah, they’re the one’s we all have; The same rights the Constitution says Congress can’t mess with.

Oh, right, I forgot; The Constitution is a LivingBreathingDocument. I guess “Make no law” has evolved (or mutated) to mean “Make appropriate laws.” Good thing the judges were able to clear that up for us.

The mainstream media is playing along, for the noblest of motives. They think campaign-finance regulation will get BigMoney out of politics, securing our democracy and making the world a better place. It’s only incidental that regulating the political speech of non-certified journalists will raise a barrier to entry. Their support of McCain-Feingold isn’t driven by the need to secure a monopoly that technology is undermining. (Wooo! I’m a scary Blogger! People are reading Instapundit instead of the New York Times! Wooo!)

So what’s the prescription? Do I just ignore the whole thing and engage in civil disobedience? Or do I set up (or join) some kind of organization and get certified as a Real Journalist? Those are the two basic approaches I see.

I think there’s room for people to do either, and it might be best if some chose one way and some the other. I’d be a little concerned if there was a big rush to one side, as if all bloggers formed up into little news corporations, profit or non-profit. I’d be more concerned if the bloggers on the left all went one way and those on the right went the other way. This should be a non-partisan issue. Oh, unless the mainstream media has some kind of preference for, say, left over right. But when it comes down to it, the mainstream media’s concern is for their rice bowl. Just like the incumbent politicians who passed McCain-Feingold.

Chaos; Confusion; My work here is…

just starting.

I’m grateful to Doc Rampage and Back of the Envelope for noting my recent move to WordPress.

If two smart guys both found the transition confusing, I guess it must have been. I thought, you know, Monday Evening; That comes after Monday Afternoon, in a chronological sense. Like this new blog comes after my old blog. Not very creative, I admit. Good thing I didn’t try to have some kind of grand opening launch in conjunction with the change to daylight savings time:

“Next Sunday morning spring forward to Monday Evening, the great new blog from Monday Afternoon, starting monday afternoon after lunch. ”

Quiet Enjoyment

New technology seems to attract new metaphors, some more apt than others. This one was new to me, and actually has explanatory power:

Imagine that all your personal and professional information and communication facilities sit in the center of a doughnut-shaped pile of construction materials. Both, in turn, are situated in a rest area alongside a busy highway.

Read The Internet Has No Security Architecture. I saw this on Privacy Digest’s Cryptography site.

Not your father’s workshop (I hope)

An excerpt from The Worm Ouroboros by E.R. Eddison

Now the fashion of the chamber was that it was round, filling the whole space of the loftiest floor of the round donjon keep. It was now gathering dusk, and weak twilight only entered through the deep embrasures of the windows that pierced the walls of the tower, looking to the four quarters of the heavens. A furnace glowing in the big hearth threw fitful gleams into the recesses of the chamber, lighting up strange shapes of glass and earthenware, flasks and retorts, balances, hour-glasses, crucibles and astrolabes, a monstrous three-necked alembic of phosphorescent glass supported on a bain-marie, and other instruments of doubtful and unlawful aspect. Under the northern window over against the doorway was a massive table blackened with age, whereon lay great books bound in black leather with iron guards and heavy padlocks. And in a mighty chair beside this table was King Gorice XII, robed in his conjuring robe of black and gold, resting his cheek on his hand that was lean as an eagle’s claw. The low light, mother of shade and secrecy, that hovered in that chamber moved about the still figure of the King, his nose hooked as the eagle’s beak, his cropped hair, his thick close-cut beard and shaven upper lip, his high cheek-bones and cruel heavy jaw, and the dark eaves of his brows whence the glint of green eyes showed as no friendly lamp to them without.

That’s better than having a Shopsmith.

Go Illini!

I’m not a big basketball fan, but since I graduated from there I’ll be rooting for the University of Illinois tonight.

UPDATE: Okay; People who know tell me I should now root for Michigan.