Music From Hell!

etc., funny things, humor, music, , , , ,

Whenever you see a cartoon about someone arriving in hell, they’re issued a musical instrument—almost invariably an accordion or bagpipes. Sometimes a banjo.

Why is that? Are they played badly every single time? Are there no tunes that they’re really the best instrument for? Why all the hate?

Let’s start with the accordion. Unquestionably, the virtuoso of the accordion is “Weird Al” Yankovic. He has made fun of the instrument by using it to mimic the sound of an iron lung in one of his early songs. (Not politically correct, I suppose, but very funny, which, now that I think about it, sums up a lot of Al’s repertoire. But I digress.)

The Weird One is particularly well known for his epic medleys of famous tunes played on the accordion. Among the tunes he’s given the polka treatment are “99 Red Balloons,” “Hey Jude,” “In-A-Gadda-Da-Vida,” “Hot Blooded,” “Jumping Jack Flash,” and “My Generation.” Just wrap your head around that.

Another much-maligned instrument is the bagpipes. About the only song that people will tolerate from a bagpipe is “Amazing Grace,” which is what was played every night when Dan and I were on a “barefoot cruise.”

But in general, the Scottish instrument is usually held in the same esteem as Scottish cuisine. (Never having been to Scotland, I can’t vouch for the accuracy of the slight on their cooking. I have been to England and Ireland, also often derided for their food, but I enjoyed eating both places. In England, I actually ordered a dessert called “spotted dick” and ate it, mostly so I could say, “I ate a spotted dick.” But I digress again.)

Yet another instrument that has a bad rep is the banjo. I think this is primarily due to that scene in Deliverance, where it became shorthand for mentally challenged Appalachian children and perverts. “Dueling Banjos” is the only banjo tune most people can name, and that’s half guitar.

But as Weird Al is to the accordion, Bela Fleck is to the banjo—a virtuoso, I mean, not a comic genius (though Fleck does have a tune called “Cheese Balls in Cowtown”). Fleck plays mostly jazz banjo, of which he is the only practitioner, to my knowledge. However, he has been known to dabble in classical banjo, recording an entire album that included the Keyboard Sonata in C Major, which can be heard here https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Ych7SiJ1pjg.

(I actually tried to learn to play the banjo once, but I was caught up in my perpetual music loop—when I had time, I had no money for lessons; when I had money, no time. Eventually, when I was broke, I sold the banjo, which solved the problem. But I digress some more.)

Some of my favorite music stories involve an old friend of blessed memory, Bill Maraschiello, better known as Bill-of-Many-Instruments Maraschiello. If it had strings, keys, pipes, or anything else, Bill could play it. Guitar, mandolin, hammered dulcimer, lap dulcimer, and more. I swear if you put an old shoe in front of him, he could play it and make it sound wonderful. Once I once saw him play two pennywhistles at the same time—a different melody on each. It was nothing short of amazing.

Bill was short, just 5’2″, and sometimes he played miniature versions of accordion and bagpipes—concertina and uilleann pipes. (I suppose, since the haters often say that bagpipes sound like someone torturing a cat, the uilleann pipes would be blamed for abuse of kittens. Also, I couldn’t find a picture of them to go with this post. But I digress yet again.)

It’s said that music soothes the savage beast. I guess accordions, bagpipes, and banjos simply make them more savage. Perhaps it’s safest to avoid them, but I don’t think I can. Some of my musical heroes have played them. And I don’t think they’re going to hell for it.

Remembrance

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I saw a post on social media yesterday that showed Native children dressed in school uniforms. Their image, wearing Native garb, was reflected in a pool of water. The words “Never Forget” were printed in between the two images. It made me stop and think how few of us remember what happened to Native children who were taken from their families and sent to government schools. It wasn’t taught in the schools I went to and isn’t likely to be taught now in a number of states. How can we remember what we never even knew?

In the spirit of remembrance, though, here is a glimpse at what we at least try not to forget.

Never Again

The Holocaust is the most famous event that we are exhorted never to forget—and never to allow again. As time goes on, there are increasingly fewer people who remember its horrors for themselves. There are movies, books, newsreels, and other media that have kept the memories alive, however. These days, we’re more aware of the concept of genocide, though there are those who deny that the Holocaust happened. January 27 is Holocaust Remembrance Day. It’s worth noting that German schoolchildren are taught not to forget. They learn about the horrors and even visit the sites of concentration camps, which are preserved as memorials to the dead.

Attack on Pearl Harbor

National Pearl Harbor Remembrance Day is observed every year since 1994 on December 7, the “day that will live in infamy” to remember and honor the Americans who were killed in the Japanese surprise attack on Pearl Harbor in Hawaii. More than 2,000 people died and many more were injured. Remembrance Day is not an official national holiday, but flags are flown at half-staff. There are several memorials, the most famous of which is over the site where the USS Arizona was sunk. There is also a memorial to the USS Missouri, the ship where Japan surrendered to the US, ending WWII.

Hiroshima and Nagasaki

The US’s use of the atomic bomb on two cities in Japan is another event that bears remembrance—and avoidance in the future. Japan has designated a church that was nearest the center of the blast at Hiroshima as the official Peace Memorial. There are also a park and a museum at that location. At the Children’s Peace Memorial in the park, thousands of colorful origami cranes, a Japanese symbol of peace, can be seen. Nagasaki has also designated a memorial and a museum. As threats of nuclear war grow increasingly plausible, it’s worth reflecting on the damage done and the lives lost.

NASA’s Day of Remembrance

This year, January 25 has been designated NASA’s Day of Remembrance honoring the astronauts who have died in the process of space exploration. Three crew members died in a fire on the launch pad in 1967, and 14 crew members, including “Teacher in Space” Christa McAuliffe, were lost in the crashes of the Space Shuttles Challenger and Columbia. Kennedy Space Center has a Space Mirror Memorial where workers and visitors often leave flowers.

9/11

This is the most recent event that needs to be remembered. Where we were when it happened is burned into those of us old enough to be aware of it. (It amazes me that I have to write that sentence.) Memorials at Ground Zero as well as in Pennsylvania and Washington have been built—parks and plaques and a 9/11 museum. Actually, countries around the world have memorials for the event as well. There have been solemn ceremonies such as the reading of the names of the dead on the first anniversary of the attack. There have been lots of other changes that remind us of 9/11 in less inspiring ways, such as increased security in airports and a greater awareness of terrorism in the US from a number of other sources.

It’s sad—tragic—that these remembrances involve so much death. And there are more tragedies that I haven’t even mentioned, like President Kennedy’s death (which some of us are old enough to remember for ourselves). Celebrations of people’s lives don’t seem to last that long.

Maybe it’s because the tragedies arouse in us deeper levels of feeling than lives lived well and examples that inspire. Maybe it’s because we hope something good will rise from the ashes.

Chatty Catty

cats, etc., family, humor, language, pets, ,

Yes, I’m one of those crazy ladies who talks to my cats. The thing is, some of them talk back. They’re not often communications that I can understand, but I don’t care. It’s like having the TV on in the background while I write. It’s part of the ambient sound of the house.

(Once one of my cats did communicate something recognizable to me via brain waves. Dushenka was sitting on the arm of the sofa looking at me, and I swear I could hear her thought: “I need a drink of water.” When I checked it out, her water dish, which she couldn’t see from the sofa, was indeed empty. It was a psychic communication, adorable and yet a little creepy. But I digress.)

We had a cat named Shaker who taught a parakeet to speak cat. Shaker went around all day saying r-row (rhymes with now). We’d have little conversations with her. (“Shaker, what’s a kitty say?” “R-row.” “Yes, that’s right.”) Well, Ralphie the parakeet (named after Ralph Waldo Emerson), after hearing all this r-rowing many times a day, began saying it too. (We tried to teach him to say “Pretty bird,” but he only ever picked up the “bird” part. He started saying “Shaker-bird.” He was one confused little guy. But I digress again.)

Some of our cats stuck to the stereotypical “meow,” but they put their own spin on it. Julia, for example, had a little meow that was decidedly bitchy. Her personality wasn’t a bit bitchy, but her meow sure was. Her littermate Laurel had a silent meow, perhaps in self-defense. She would simply open her mouth with her lips forming the word “meow,” but no sound came out. (Do cats have lips, anyway? I’m not sure. Siri claims they do.) Louise would make a darling little sigh when I held her in my arms. I melted every time she did that.

I loved silent Laurel, of course, but I longed for another talkative cat. I went to the shelter and told the helper, “I want a talker.” All the aides looked at each other and then simultaneously pointed at one particular cage. (The kitty in the cage was named Precious Bob. That would never do. We renamed him Jasper. But I digress some more.) Jasper would wait until we were in bed at night, then come bounding up on the bed and meow both incessantly and insistently. We didn’t know what he was saying—just that it seemed terribly important to him. We would ask him what it was all about. “What’s that you say, Jasper? Timmy fell down the well? And Grandpa fell in after him? And all the rescuers sent to get them out fell in too? And then a plane crashed into the well? And caught fire?”

Our present cat, Toby, doesn’t bug us for food (mostly, that is), but when we say the magic words, “Toby, do you want to EAT?” he says mm-weep. He makes other cute noises like mm-wow and mm-woo, but mm-weep is saved for breakfast and dinner. He occasionally snores. (We briefly considered whether he needed a little kitty CPAP, but then we considered trying to put one on him and rapidly changed our minds. But I digress some more.)

But that’s just how our cats communicate with us. There’s also the ways we communicate with them. These vary from babytalk that makes us sound like babbling idiots: “Toto-boo-boo, does you want your noms? Num, num, num—om-nom” to pleading: “Toby, get off my lap. I need to pee” or “Move! You’re standing on my boob. You weigh like a brick!” It doesn’t matter. He ignores both babble and pleading. Just like a cat.

Munchy Memories

cooking, etc., food, , , ,

Food is one of the most powerful ways to evoke memory. Just the smell of biscuits or chocolate chip cookies can take you right back to your mother’s or grandmother’s kitchen. Food is a trigger—a pleasant one—that helps you recall warm feelings and better times. In other words, food and the past are intimately intertwined. I have lots of that kind of food associations.

When my husband’s friend John and I used to go on what we called a “hot date,” we would invariably go to a diner and then thrift shopping. Maybe a bag of M&Ms to share for dessert. (My husband knew all about this and approved. He knew we wouldn’t take “hot date” literally. He also doesn’t mind when I joke about the dancing boys coming over when he’s away or my lover Raoul. But I digress.)

There’s a very retro diner in a nearby suburb called the Hasty Tasty, so that’s where we usually went, though sometimes we’d hit Waffle House or a small, family-run Mexican place. The Hasty Tasty has booths, waitresses who don’t greet you with “Hi, I’m Amy. I’ll be your server today,” and daily specials, my favorite of which is the chicken-n-dumplings on Thursdays. I haven’t been there in a while since John died, but I remember him and our dates fondly. I miss him even more than the Thursday special.

My Aunt Thelma owned a small hotel right across from another diner in Campton, KY. This was back in the 70s, so it was authentically retro, with the counter-n-stools, jukebox devices at every seat, and a pinball machine in the corner. They made a mean burger, grilled on a flattop, of course, and their chili was amazing. Along with the penny candy in the general store that Aunt Thelma also owned, the diner features in my favorite memories of Campton.

Comfort food helps you cope with feelings of depression and loneliness. That’s the magic it wields. I have many types of comfort food. Mashed potatoes (a common comfort food for many), mac-n-cheese, and chicken fried rice all somehow make me feel better.

In this part of my life, I’ve become a semi-foodie (or at least a gourmand), but when I want a grilled cheese sandwich, I want the kind that diners serve or that my mother made for me. White bread and American cheese (even Velveeta) are what I crave. Sliced diagonally The grilled sandwich that my husband made for me recently was delicious. It featured a thick slice of ham and Havarti cheese, but it just didn’t hit the right notes the way a more humble sandwich does.

I also have fond memories of a truly non-foodie food: the do-it-yourself pizza kit that came in a box. It included a packet of what you could turn into dough with the addition of water, a long metal can of sauce, and a smaller can of parmesan. If you paid extra, you could get one with pepperoni. Throughout my childhood, this and school cafeteria “pizza” were the only kind I had.

We didn’t have a round pan for baking it, so we used a rectangular baking tray. It was too long for the pizza dough, so we had a short, rectangular pizza. We used to fight over the corner pieces. (We did have an old, round lard can lid, but it was battered and lumpy, not good for baking even the least imposing pizza. But I digress again.)

Another favorite childhood memory is watermelon in the backyard in the summertime. Unlike eating watermelon in the kitchen/dining room, at the picnic table, we could simply dispense with plates and napkins and let the juice roll down our chins and make them sticky. We could spit seeds for distance.

But there was one other aspect of backyard watermelon that made the treat even watermelon-ier. That was a light sprinkling of salt. Salt improves most foods it comes in contact with—every form of eggs and potatoes, to name just two. Even desserts need a pinch of salt in the recipe to make them dessert-ier. On Food Network competition shows, when they say a dish “lacks seasoning,” what they mean is salt.

I tried to introduce my husband to the pleasure of watermelon with salt. He tried it, but it didn’t impress him. For Dan, it wasn’t a sense memory the way it is for me (unlike his mother’s stuffed peppers, which I have never been able to successfully replicate).

We are creating our own sense memories, though, and they’ve been added to my list of comfort foods. He makes mac-n-cheese with tuna and peas, shepherd’s pie (which has the advantage of having lots of mashed potatoes on it and gravy in the bottom to soak them in), and something we call deconstructed cheeseburger mac.

These will figure prominently in the years to come when I need soothing, comfort, and memories.

Beware the Sentient Cereal

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My husband hates TV commercials and other forms of advertising. There’s nothing odd about that. Most of us do.

One thing he objects to is sexism that targets men. If he sees a commercial that presents a man having trouble caring for a child or cleaning the kitchen, then a woman swoops in to solve all his problems, his head explodes. “That makes men look incompetent. That’s sexist!” he says. “You taught me that!” (Well, that’s true. I guess I did. So many commercials, even in these more enlightened days, depict women with disgusting, flimsy garbage bags and the hefty-hefty-hunk providing non-stinky bags as he ripples his pecs. But I digress.)

One of the ads that he has particular trouble with is the one where little angels—cherubs, really—manufacture toilet paper. “They’re dead babies,” he insists, “and they’re making ass-wipe. It’s bad enough putting dead babies to work, but this is demeaning.” That’s a hard argument to argue with. (It’s no use telling him that it’s a metaphor for softness. He only believes in metaphors when he creates them. But I digress again.)

Another one of his least favorites is the Pepto Bismol commercial where they sing about assorted gastrointestinal ailments. “Turn the sound down!” he yells if I have the remote. The idea is for me to mute it before they get to “diarrhea.” Somehow, singing about that bothers him more than the other ailments. (I’m troubled by the fact that they touch their hips when they say the word. I tend not to shoot from the hip, so to speak. But I digress some more.)

He also objects to billboards or restaurant signs that, for example, show a pig offering plates of pork to people. “That’s horrible!” he says. “They’re encouraging people to eat one of their own kind.” He’s right about that, I have to admit. It’s kind of creepy.

Where we seriously part ways is over one certain cereal commercial. It shows cereal squares frolicking, so I’d describe them as anthropomorphized. The cereal bits chase each other and then one eats another one. To Dan, it’s almost as bad as a B-grade horror movie. “I hate this commercial. They’re eating each other!” he cries. “That’s cannibalism!”

“It’s cereal,” I say. “At least pigs are sentient beings. Cereal isn’t.”

“It’s cannibalism, anyway. They’re being portrayed as sentient,” he says. “They walk and talk and play on slides.”

“But it’s just cereal!” I reply. That never ends the argument though, and it doesn’t prevent having the same conversation every time that ad comes on. I just have to wait until another ad comes on and hope it doesn’t trigger another one of his outbursts.

(Some would say that pigs aren’t sentient, but I’m willing to agree with Dan on that. They’re very intelligent. In my worldview (which, of course, is the correct one), most animals are sentient. They have thoughts and emotions, and not all their behaviors are instinctual. You’ll never convince me that a cat isn’t a sentient being. I’ve known ones that can engage in complex behavior like playing fetch or snubbing us. Crows are sentient; they can learn. Elephants are definitely sentient; they can grieve. I don’t know about fish and insects, though. I haven’t decided about them. But I digress yet again.)

But cereal isn’t even alive, much less capable of movement, thoughts, and emotions. It’s inert, not capable of higher functioning. Or any functioning at all, really.

We see these atrocities everywhere. Even some of the streaming services I pay for have ads these days. We don’t want to pay extra for the no-ads variety. They cost enough as is. But the cost to me is hearing Dan shout at the TV, complain about sexism, and argue with me about supposedly sentient cereal. It’s part of what I pay for.

My Uncle, My Friend

etc., family, , , ,

Uncle Phil was not my uncle by blood or marriage. He was my friend, an honorary uncle. And now he’s gone. I just got word today.

Uncle Phil was a friend to me when I deeply needed one. I met him during my college years, a long time ago, but I’ve never forgotten what he has done for me. He helped me through one of the darkest times of my life, when I was bereft. He never understood exactly what his presence meant to me, but he lent it all the same.

Uncle Phil was a companion not just in sorrow, though he certainly was that. But he was also a friend in joy. He and his wife drove over 500 miles just to be at my wedding to Dan, and we drove over 500 miles to be at his to Meg.

Uncle Phil helped shape my musical taste. He played the guitar, specializing in old-timey music, with a group called Mole in the Ground. There were many times when he played for me—Fox on the Run or some old square dance tune, and “Star of the County Down,” which was the song he associated with his wife. He took me with him to his band’s performances and played for me on porches and in empty rooms.

I have memories. Good ones. Uncle Phil took me on picnics with peanut butter sandwiches on light rye at a local park. We played with a wandering puppy who would catch a ball and then run off with it. Uncle Phil called it a “Labrador De-triever.”

Uncle Phil taught me so many things. He taught me songs. He taught me to read Tarot cards. He taught me his unique interpretations of Bible stories. He taught me how to be strong. He taught me to appreciate Irish whiskey. He taught me how to grasp happiness from the midst of despair. He taught me that I could take care of someone else even when I needed taking care of myself.

Uncle Phil was a Friend as well, a member of the Society of Friends (Quakers), a beacon of the inner light. I attended meetings with him a few times and shared in the peace and fellowship. He lived his faith without retreating from the world that contained a troubled me.

Uncle Phil has left this world. I toasted him with Irish whiskey and Irish music. My grief is still raw. I am richer for having known him and the world is poorer for having lost him.

What’s So Funny?

books, etc., funny things, humor, , , , , , ,

If you ask me (which no one did), the funniest joke there is, is this one:

What did the Zen master say to the hotdog vendor?

“Make me one with everything.”

The second funniest is:

First Old Lady: My, it’s windy today.

Second Old Lady: No, it’s Thursday.

Third Old Lady: So am I. Let’s go have a cup of tea.

(I have a friend whose favorite joke is a filthy one about a guy in a clock shop. But I digress, and refuse to tell it here.)

What makes something funny? There are theories which sound scientific. One is that “a violation of expectations or incongruity between what is expected and what actually occurs” is the source of humor. I’m not sure if that applies to my favorite jokes, but I think it does to the filthy one. Another theory is that “humor can arise from a sense of superiority or relief that comes from perceiving oneself as better than others or from being relieved of a perceived threat.” That sounds like a load of dingo’s kidneys to me and doesn’t explain either of my favorite jokes. (I don’t think that I feel superior to the three old ladies. The older I get, the more sympathy I have for them. But I digress again.)

Anyway, I think that proposing theories of humor detracts from what is funny. What science can tell us is the effects of humor on human beings. Laughter releases endorphins, the body’s “feel good” chemicals, and decreases cortisol, a stress hormone. Rapid breathing while laughing increases oxygen intake and improves cardiovascular function. It “serves as a form of communication, signaling safety, playfulness, and bonding among individuals” and “can help regulate emotions by reducing stress and tension.” Also, laughter is associated with “improved cognitive function, including enhanced creativity and problem-solving skills,” which means that Weird Al must be a genius. (I mean, Weird Al is a genius, but this proves it.)

So, what’s funny?

For some reason, there’s a category of stock photos known as “Women laughing alone with salad.” I have no idea why single women find salad funny or why there are so many of these photos, but it’s a real thing. (I think the fact that it’s a real thing is funny. But I digress yet again.)

One of my favorite types of humor is puns. Many people consider them the lowest form of wit, but they crack me up. I’ve been known to indulge in them, sometimes in pun contests and sometimes in real life.

Once, over breakfast, a friend remarked that her eggs Benedict were slow in coming. I said, “Maybe the kitchen staff had to go out and steal a hubcap to serve them on.”

“I know I’m going to regret asking, but why?” she asked.

“Because there’s no plate like chrome for the hollandaise.” She almost defenestrated me.

I also love improv comedy. I’m sorry that Whose Line Is It Anyway? isn’t around anymore. But at least some friends of mine have kept up the tradition with an improv group they call “Deep Fried Lemurs.” I’ve participated in it too, at least to the extent of providing setups for the “Scenes From a Hat” bit.

I also love literary humor. There are some great humor writers out there and some hysterical stories and books. For short stories and essays, I go for James Thurber and Erma Bombeck (both Ohio writers). And, if I may make recommendations for books (and I don’t see why I shouldn’t), Christopher Moore’s Lamb: The Gospel According to Biff, Christ’s Childhood Pal, Jenny Lawson’s Let’s Pretend This Never Happened, and Douglas Adams’s The Hitchhikers’ Guide to the Galaxy are among my favorites.

Two kinds of humor I don’t care much for are slapstick and revenge comedy. I just never got the appeal of the Three Stooges and hated The War of the Roses. I do like some forms of physical comedy, though, such as the Ministry of Silly Walks sketch from Monty Python And pretty much anything else Monty Python except the Mr. Creosote bit.

So, what are your favorite jokes and puns (filthy or not)? Do you have any theories of what makes something funny? Recommendations for sources of humor? I’d love to hear them. (I could use the laughs right now.) Perhaps I’ll include them in a future blog post.

Fighting Spam and Scams

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It’s tempting, but I don’t actually use an air horn to discourage spam callers. And I don’t want to buy a program that claims to help. My phone recognizes what it calls “Potential Spam,” which leaves me with a dilemma. The phone doesn’t officially declare it to identified spam, so I always fear missing a call I want to answer because my phone is mistaken. But I do know a couple of ways to thwart the spammers and scammers.

One not-so-secret I’m willing to share is that saying, “Hello” when you answer the phone is a bad idea. If it is a call from a spam boiler room, this triggers their system to route the call to one of their agents. I have sympathy for people who are forced to make a living this way, but not enough to listen to them begin their spiel.

Instead of “Hello,” I identify myself (“This is Janet”). It’s a polite enough greeting just in case it’s someone I might actually want or need to talk to. My second response is similar—”What is this in regard to?” It’s a good question even if someone does start talking after “This is Janet.” If there’s still no one on the line, I say, “Is anyone there?” After that, I simply say, “Goodbye.”

This system works well for me. It takes only a couple of seconds. And it avoids the “Hello” trap.

Another thing I know about spam calls is never to say “yes” to any question. Unscrupulous callers can record this answer and use it to “prove” that you agreed to make a purchase. One of the most common questions designed to evoke a “yes” is “Can you hear me?” For that, I reply, “I can hear you.” Sometimes, they ask twice, hoping that the next time I’ll say, “Yes, I can hear you.” You have to be alert to make this work. Spam callers can ask a lot of yes/no questions, hoping that you’ll slip up.

Other spam calls, the more dangerous kind, are ones that are designed to get you to whip out your credit card and give them money. They usually try to make their call sound frightening. For example, they say, “This is the IRS.” That’s enough to alarm nearly anyone. However, the IRS never phones. They send threatening letters, sometimes the kind that you have to sign for.

Another scammer scheme is to claim that they are from IBM (or Microsoft or whatever) and claim that you have malware on your computer. They then say that they can take care of the problem and ask for your credit card. Or they say they’ll give you instructions that will let them take control of your computer to remove the malware—an even worse idea. At least one guy I know was suckered into doing it. I also know a 96-year-old woman who didn’t fall for it, bawled them out and threatened to call the cops on them.

Speaking of computers, scammers also try to catch you via email. Once I received a communication that said that I was being charged several hundred dollars and, if I hadn’t actually bought anything, I should get in touch. Alarmed, I did. But then they went too far. They said that to solve the problem, I would need to download a software program. Well, I wasn’t born yesterday. I knew that was a bad idea and declined to do it. Then I reported them to the computer crime and fraud hotline. When I got another communication of the same type, I simply ignored it.

Another email scam is to contact you and say that a friend or relative is in trouble somehow and needs money right away to solve the problem. I got one of these claiming that someone I knew was stranded in Germany and needed help. It was remotely possible, as he had a daughter studying in Germany. But before I did anything else, I called his wife. She said that he was indeed out of town, but visiting family in Michigan.

Once I actually was in the position of being in a foreign country and needing funds. When I contacted a friend, though, I provided an obscure piece of information that only a close friend would know. That’s another good strategy. “If you’re really Roger, tell me what was on the corner when you lived near me.” If he doesn’t say “a vet,” he’s probably a Nigerian prince.

There’s Prayer in Schools

Christianity, education, etc., government, religion, social policy, , ,

Despite what you may have heard, there is prayer in public schools. It’s totally legal.

You don’t think so? The government forbids it?

Not true! Students and even teachers pray in school every day. They always have and they always will. Pray all you want.

A student can pray before a test or just because. Groups that meet for that purpose can pray—during a free period, for example. (There was a group in my high school that did this. I attended a few times but left when they started planning a book burning.) There’s absolutely nothing stopping you from praying like this.

The only thing that’s not permitted in schools is requiring anyone else to pray with you or telling them how they have to pray. A principal or teacher can’t start class with a prayer. You can’t insist that students pray over lunch. You can’t base grades on whether or not a student prays. If a student chooses to pray, you can’t tell them which prayer to use. All those things fly in the face of the Establishment Clause of Freedom of Religion in the First Amendment to the US Constitution.

“Congress shall make no law respecting an establishment of religion, or prohibiting the free exercise thereof” is what it actually says. That means that there can’t be a law that makes one religion the official religion of the US. And it means that, if you do have a preferred religion, the government can’t prevent you from practicing it. It’s left up to the individual what religion—if any—they practice.

The problem comes when we’re discussing public institutions, which include public schools. (Obviously, students in religious schools can pray whatever the school says to.) The first part of the clause says that the public institution can’t declare an official religion. That’s why there’s no compulsory prayer in schools. The second part, “prohibiting the free exercise thereof,” says that everyone is free to worship in their own way. That’s why students are able to pray in schools during their free time, by choice, without an official such as a teacher or the principal leading it. The government can’t forbid it.

If prayer were to be required in schools, there would be any number of cans of worms opened. Let’s take a basic Christian prayer—The Lord’s Prayer.

Which version of the prayer would everyone be required to say? There’s a difference between the Catholic version and the Protestant version. But the wording also differs among the Protestant denominations and individual congregations. Debts and debtors? Trespasses? Sins? Many churches specify in the church bulletin which wording to use so that they can pray in unison.

Another can of worms is that not all Americans are Christians. Increasingly, children from other faiths are entering the public schools. Why should they be required to pray a Christian prayer? But what’s the alternative? Couldn’t they just sit quietly while everyone else prays or pray their own prayer silently to themselves? No. That establishes the prayer of one religion as the official classroom prayer to the exclusion of the others. Anyone who doesn’t share that religion gets treated differently. Their prayer is not the one being said for everyone. That’s the establishment clause again.

Then, think about what it would be like if Christians weren’t in the majority in a school. (For the moment, let’s suppose that the majority rules, which is many people’s assumption.)

But Christians aren’t always in the majority in a public school. I always think of the example of the followers of the Bhagwan Rashneesh. A religious community in Oregon, they incorporated as a city, Rajneeshpuram, which had around 7,000 people. Nearby Antelope, Oregon, had a population of about 60.

The State School Superintendent visited the district’s high school and found that it was “permeated with religious symbolism” and “did not look, sound, or feel like a public school.” The religious symbolism was Rajneeshee, of course.

Now imagine those people from nearby Antelope. If their kids had to attend the Rajneeshpuram school, which was officially a public school, how would their parents have liked it if the students were required to say the Rajneeshee prayers? Not so fond of required prayer in public schools now? Ready to take the Rajneeshees to court to prevent their prayers as unconstitutional? That would be my guess.

In other words, be careful what you pray for.

Me and the PoemBot

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The other day I started fooling around with ChatGPT, the AI program that people are using to write things for them. As a writer myself, I wondered if I would be out of a job any time soon. Realistically, I know I won’t, since the ghostwriting firm I write for does not allow us to use AI-created content.

Still, I was curious about what ChatGPT could do with various writing tasks, so I dove in. Here’s what I found.

The program did well on factual queries (Write a paragraph on bipolar disorder) and even had an answer for a philosophical query (What is the meaning of life?). The more criteria I gave it, the worse it did. (Write a practical but amusing paragraph about bipolar disorder.) It showed a definite tendency to throw in every simile and metaphor it could, which definitely ended up mixed.

For blog posts with not-too-specific topics, it did better. I asked it to write a paragraph for a blog post on a self-help topic, and it almost instantly came up with one about positive affirmations. Asked to write a blog-post paragraph on toxic positivity, it did quite a competent job.

But I really wanted to test its talent when it came to poetry, a much more difficult skill. I stuck mostly to sonnets and haikus (I did have it write one villanelle) on assorted topics. All the sonnets it produced were Shakespearean unless I specified a Petrarchan, Miltonic, or Spenserian one. The sonnets were awfully self-reverential. No matter the topic, they tended to include the words sonnet, stanza, or verse. Here’s a sonnet it wrote on the subject of writing, which I suppose gave it an excuse to refer to sonnets within it. But it also referred to a dance, a symphony, brushstrokes, a tapestry, melodies and song, a journey, and dreams.

Now, I haven’t done Lit Crit in many a year, but the result seemed muddled and mediocre to me.

Upon the page, my quill begins its dance/ In ink, the thoughts from depths of mind take flight./A symphony of words, a sweet romance/Each line a brushstroke in the poet’s light.

In solitude, I craft a world unseen/With verses woven like a tapestry./The writer’s heart, an open book, pristine/Unraveling tales of eternity.

Oh, how the words, like melodies, entwine/In stanzas, whispers of a silent song./The poet’s soul, an endless, vast design,/In every verse, a journey to prolong.

Through pen and paper, dreams find their release/In every sonnet, life finds sweet peace.

Then, I tried it on a different topic—sex. I was curious to see how it addressed this most human of activities. Here’s what it wrote:

In whispered shadows where desire’s flame,/Ignites the senses in a sacred dance./Two souls entwined, no need for words to claim,/The poetry of passion’s sweet romance.

Bodies as verses, intimate and bare,/In tangled sheets, a sonnet takes its form./Each touch and kiss, a stanza to declare,/A love that weaves through passion’s vibrant storm.

Ephemeral, the moments that we share,/As pleasure paints the canvas of the night./In silent echoes, echoes of a dare,/Two hearts entangled in this sweet delight.

Oh, sonnet of the flesh, in whispers spun,/In ecstasy, a tale of love is done.

Again with the references to sonnets, dance, poetry, verses, stanzas, and painting a canvas.

The chatbot, in my opinion, did better with haiku. Here’s a haiku on the subject of haiku:

Three lines, concise art,

nature’s essence captured close,

haiku whispers truth.

Here’s what it did with a haiku on bipolar disorder:

Storm in a fragile mind,

sunshine and shadows collide,

bipolar tides shift.

And on the subject of writing in general:

Ink-stained whispers flow,

Words on paper, tales unfold,

Silent stories grow.

But when it came to sex, the haiku was again (in my opinion, needlessly) self-referential:

Whispers in moonlight,

Bodies weave an intimate

Haiku of passion.

So, what did I learn from my experiments? ChatGPT does a decent job with factual topics, though it has a tendency to rely rather heavily on figures of speech. Here’s a paragraph it wrote when I gave it the subject of bipolar disorder in the style of my other blog, Bipolar Me. It wrote a (flattering) description of the blog instead.

Navigating the rollercoaster of emotions that is bipolar disorder is a journey unique to each individual, a theme explored with raw honesty on the pages of the Bipolar Me blog. In the midst of the highs, where creativity flows like a torrential river, and the lows, where the world appears desaturated and heavy, the author skillfully captures the kaleidoscope of emotions that define life with bipolar disorder. With a poignant blend of vulnerability and resilience, the blog illuminates the challenges faced by those grappling with the disorder, dispelling myths and stigma along the way. Through personal narratives and reflections, the Bipolar Me blog serves as a beacon of understanding and connection, reminding its readers that they are not alone in their journey through the intricate landscapes of mood swings and self-discovery.

And here’s what it said about this very blog:

The “But I Digress” blog, much like a meandering conversation with a wise and witty friend, invites readers into a realm where thoughts flow freely, detouring into unexpected intellectual landscapes. With each post, the blog embarks on a delightful exploration of diverse topics, from profound philosophical musings to lighthearted anecdotes, weaving a narrative that reflects the author’s curious mind. It’s a virtual salon where ideas intermingle, and the unexpected tangents become the heart of the discourse. Whether dissecting the nuances of contemporary culture, diving into the intricacies of literature, or reflecting on the quirks of everyday life, “But I Digress” captivates its audience with a blend of insightful commentary, humor, and a touch of intellectual whimsy, creating a space where readers can both ponder the profound and enjoy the pleasures of intellectual meandering.

I’ll take it. Thanks, ChatGPT.