Daniel E Wolf
Q: Why is it that at the beginning, America got the Puritans and Australia got the convicts?
A: Because Australia had first pick.
You can see all 19 crimes that got people sent to Australia, here.
My favorite? It’s a tie between #5 (Impersonating an Egyptian) and #17 (Watermen carrying too many passengers on the Thames – if any drowned).
Also, that 19 Crimes wine isn’t half bad. Try some – if yer not a Puritan.
Just in time for Memorial Day, from downtown Annapolis, MD, comes a video that’s a couple of years old now but still remains timeless. See it here. Gotta love that Naptown Funk. Thank you for your service, Rylan Tuohy, and all Midshipmen of the USNA.
I guess!
I’ve been meaning to do a post on The Four Horsemen of the Apocalypse for some time now. It’s among the more enduring – and flexible – images to be extracted from the last book of the New Testament – The Revelation to St. John of Patmos – chapter 6 to be exact. According to Wikipedia, St. John of Patmos was an exile and a visionary. The inclusion of his work in the Christian canon is one of the more surprising facts of church history. Full of oddball numerology and wild images, John’s “Revelation” has been interpreted as everything from literal historical End Times prophecy, to a peyote-fueled bender that bears less resemblance to anything we might expect to see or hear about on the evening news than to imagery from a very bad dream.
One traditional interpretation breaks down the Horsemen’s roles as: 1) Christ (or Anti-Christ) = “white,” 2) War = “red,” 3) Famine = “black,” and 4) Plague = “pale.” Whatever the significance, these guys are not just here for Sunday dinner. No, they mean business, and an unpleasant business it surely is. As to those tangled eschatological wrangles I choose to take no part. Rather, in the tradition of many down the ages, I’d like to use The Four Horsemen of the Apocalypse for purposes of my own. So, settle in: There’s a tale to tell. And the Horsemen are here to help me tell it.
From birth, each of us are endowed with certain traits that either contribute to our life, health, and longevity, or detract from it. Maybe we’re born with a certain specific genetic disorder like, say, Cystic Fibrosis, that most often leads to an early demise in young adulthood. Or maybe there’s a certain constellation of inherited traits, habits, and environmental exposures that predispose us to systemic malfunctions later in life – circulatory, respiratory, digestive, whatever – or to any of the myriad insidious cancers of breast, bowel, prostate, lung, or brain, that will do us in one way or another, sooner or later, by hook or by crook.
For most of us who live to a certain age, it’s not just one thing that could kill us, it’s many. In fact, there are probably at least four potential killers that might end our lives at any point in time. And these I like to think of as The Four Horsemen of the Apocalypse.
In my own case, there’s a family tree littered with the fallout of psychiatric disorders including depression, psychosis, and more than a couple completed suicides. It’s one of the things that led me early on to pursue a career in psychiatry – and later, to abandon it. But that’s another tale for another day. The point is, though maybe that’s my Black Horse, it’s still just one among several.
One of my grandmothers died relatively young – about the same age I am now – of an unspecified “respiratory virus” that took her down in just 3 days. It was a shock back then, long before COVID-19. But it’s a fact borne out by the coroner’s report. Is this the Pale Horse that awaits me? If so, how would I – or anyone – know except after the fact?
Another grandmother died of a stroke secondary to Adult Type-2 diabetes, a condition which we share. For me, that’s probably my White Horse, white being the color of refined sugar which we diabetics must assiduously avoid. I have written on the forbidden joys of eating ice cream elsewhere, and you can read that extended meditation here if you’re so inclined.
My dad lived until age 96. But without triple bypass surgery he’d likely have bought the farm decades earlier. Surgical prep work for benign hypertrophy of the prostate revealed multiple coronary blockages that warranted immediate intervention. He never really had the prostate thing taken care of, and that’s what ultimately got him. But in the intervening years he played a lot of rounds of golf and was relatively vigorous well into his 90’s.
My mom also lived into her 90’s. She succumbed – strange for a non-smoker – to chronic pulmonary disease that by the end prevented her from getting a good deep breath. For many years her docs closely followed a spot on her kidney because her sister had earlier died of renal cell carcinoma. But as it turns out, it was lung not kidney that finally finished her.
As for me, which horse – Red, Black, White, or Pale – will win the race? Your guess is as good as mine. But all’s I’m saying is, for each of us – from starting gate to post – there are plenty of contenders. And whatever the odds, only one of them crosses the finish line first. So, ladies and gentlemen, place yer bets. It’s a fine day here at the track…
New Yorker cartoonist David Sipress is on a science kick lately.
Here are two recent favorites.
“I don’t know much about science, but I know what I like.”
“Turns out it wasn’t the giant asteroid that killed the dinosaurs.
It was stress about the giant asteroid that killed the dinosaurs.”
There’s a brouhaha brewing out on the Left Coast, specifically at the Fremont, CA plant that makes Teslas. You might even call it a kerfuffle if you’re so inclined. But bear with me here. There are several strands of a story to unwind. So, a little background’s in order. Or, read it in full, here.
For those possessed of an electric car, or those with reverence for Elon Musk, the serial entrepreneur who founded Paypal, Tesla, and SpaceX. Also for those familiar with Keanu Reeves’ role in the cult movie classic, “The Matrix”. And last but not least, for those who follow Ivanka Trump on Twitter: Prepare to be enlightened. For those with no interest in any of it? You’re excused. Be on your way, I won’t be offended. Oh, and also: Sorry, beer fans, it’s got nothing to do with microbrews. So, for you too, it’s “see you next time. ” For the rest of you? It’s “read on if you dare.”
Probably best to start at the end and work our way back to the beginning: Elon Musk’s tweet this week urged his followers to “choose the red pill.” That set off a firestorm of Internet reaction, including this from Ivanka Trump: “Taken!” What’s the big buzz? Well, in “The Matrix,” Kenau Reeves’ character is given the choice of two alternative pills with different effects. In brief, “taking the blue pill” means succumbing to believing a blissful lie. “Taking the red pill” means committing to engage with gritty reality.
What’s all this got to do with electric cars plus the POTUS’s daughter? Well, it seems that – in Silicon Valley at least – “taking the red pill” has become somewhat of a fixation for Right-leaning hipsters who tend to question prevailing wisdom on everything from social policy, to – well – COVID-19 and the sticky matter of reopening of the economy.
So, how did Elon and Ivanka end up such unlikely bedfellows? Aye, thereby hangs this tale. Like all businesses, Musk’s factory in Fremont was shut down by the State of California’s stay-at-home order. That cost him a small fortune. <Well, small for him, but big for most of the rest of us.> Demand for Teslas is high. They’re selling like hotcakes. No product? No profit. Got it? Gooood.
So, like any good maverick mogul, Musk re-opens his factory in defiance of the State. Then, like any good billionaire with a hot finger on the Twitter button, he threatens to move his factory out of state. Then, he invites those enforcing Public Health orders to come down to the assembly line and arrest him, calls them “fascists,” in fact. Finally, he urges all his followers to “take the red pill.”
At this point, everyone on the Right stands up and cheers, while everyone on the Left looks at each other in bafflement. How can a progressive icon producing a cool electric car that’s become the poster child for personal transport among the climate change crowd take such a subversive stand? And maybe more importantly, at least if yer a Netflix exec, I hope yer taking notes here, because there hasn’t been a story line this juicy since Season One of Mad Men. But I digress.
Back when I was a little boy, I lived in a one horse town that also came with one stop light and one doctor, a man we used call ‘Doc Flick.” William Flickinger, MD was the only medical game in town for all your ailments. Oh, and also, he smoked cigars. Not just at leisure, mind you, but while he was examining you. (Think: Season One of Mad Men, with Bert Cooper as the good doctor, the glowing ash of his cigar stub one inch from your unprotected eyeball as he listens to your chest with a stethoscope.)
On the big mahogany desk in this office there sits a gallon jar full of little red pills. These are not the dull red of Advil, but shiny bright red. I could be wrong, but I’m pretty sure Doc Flick’s red pills were placebos. Why? If you had a cold, you’d take home a packet of little red pills. Skinned knee? Same red pills. Hell, he probably even gave my mom a few on her way over to the hospital to have her gall bladder removed. Red pills: They’re good for what ails ya.
When Elon Musk says “Take the red pill,” my first thought is NOT Kenau Reeves or The Matrix. It’s Doc Flick, with his cigar and that jar full of placebos. Lucky for some, we’ve grown up a bit since the 60’s. That’s why not all of us are as likely as others to get fooled by a slick huckster peddling the libertarian industrial version of little red pills, meanwhile blowing cigar smoke in your face. Hey, you’re welcome to believe whatever you like. It’s still a free country after all. But by this point, some of us have “gritty reality” down cold. So – thanks anyway, Elon – no red pills for me. And you can quote me on that too.
I know some of you worry when you don’t hear from me for a while. Well, rest easy. Just because there’s nothing worth commenting on doesn’t mean I’ve succumbed to a virus or anything. But today there’s this, which is so good on so many levels. Never fear, gentle readers: The forces of truth, justice, and correct spelling always prevail. Eventually.
Okay, I admit it: Sometimes I like to leave little gems in the online comments section of the NY Times op ed pages. Hey, I’m not proud of it. But some days I can’t help myself. Like today, when there was this article titled “Forget Pancakes. Pay Mothers.” The gist of which is that the monetization of all child care work will solve a whole raft of societal problems and economic injustices. And make moms – in aggregate – happier and more fulfilled.
Which, when you stop and think about it for even half a second, is one of the more outlandish examples of faulty logic on the face of the planet. For some, see, the notion of turning motherhood into a paying proposition is frankly – well, it’s a wee bit horrifying, isn’t it? And in my book, the less we monetize things – anything, everything – then the happier we’ll all be. But maybe that’s just me? Well, me and Bernie Sanders I guess.
In any case, my comment was approved by the NY Times censors in record time. It took all of about 30 seconds. I kid you not. Apparently somebody over there has developed a sense of humor. Either that or – more likely – they’re asleep at the switch. Truth to tell, I really don’t care which. I’m just a glutton for having my words spread abroad in whatever form. I really have no shame. As by now you dear readers are all well aware. Ahem.
You can read the full article here. And my comments below.
| DWolf | Denver, CO Beg to differ on one key point: NOT everybody loves pancakes. Were I to present my better half with pancakes for breakfast on Mothers Day, or any day, I’d be greeted with the sound of the chambering of a large bore round. So, understand that what sounds good based on one’s own experience or preference – be it monetization of child care, or pancakes on the menu – is often a highly risky business. |
Oh, and btw: Happy Mothers Day, dear.
I know it’s a lot to take in all at once, so please try to contain your excitement. Today’s Mothers Day Part One post contains not one, but TWO, “This Day In History” segments. And tomorrow’s Mothers Day Part Two? Well, if this one strikes you as snarky, THAT one will really knock yer socks off. So to speak.
On this day in history, May 9, 1914, President Woodrow Wilson first declared the second Sunday in May to be a holiday in celebration of the nation’s mothers. Everyone’s got one and as a group they are largely underappreciated. So, no surprise there: Good move for Woodrow. Great move for florists.
The second “This Day in History,” May 9, 1960, bears a bit more explanation. That was the day the FDA approved the G.D. Searle Company’s application for Enovid-10, more commonly known as “The Pill.” Obviously somebody over at the FDA had a wry sense of humor in deciding to approve this particular pharmaceutical on this particular day this close to Mothers Day. Anyway: Bravo, FDA.
On a more personal note – and a bit closer to home – FDA approval for Enovid-10 came two years too late for my mom. As the below photo illustrates, I was a change-of-life baby (“oops!”). And I didn’t even have the good grace to come as a girl, which might have redeemed the situation a bit for her in a house full of boys. Sorry mom!
I know, I know, we all must try to contain our excitement.
Hey, we’re trying here!
File it under the heading: “First World Problems.” Still there’s something almost endearing about NBA Players’ lament of “no hoop to shoot at” in a recent article, here. Faced with being out of action for 2 months that usually are the heart of playoff time, some have resorted to ordering and assembling <no! say it ain’t so!> portable outdoor hoops for their driveways. Myers Leonard, center for the Miami Heat, describes the process this way.
It took six hours without the proper wrenches and with limited equipment. “Ever try putting together an Ikea dresser?” Leonard said. “This hoop was like putting together three of them.”
Well now, I can relate, even though I officially retired from the game last Christmas. Yep, after a half century of lofting up shots at rims nailed to barn beams, corn cribs, and the side of my garage – not to mention the local YMCA – I finally hung up my sneakers. More recently, I’ve outfitted two apartments mostly with Ikea furnishings. So on several levels I know whereof the Heat center speaks.
At least now they can practice free throws under stay-at-home orders. One thing about it, though: With all this time to practice free throw shooting, I’m gonna expect the aggregate NBA free throw percentage to rise when play resumes. I mean, c’mon: 500 shots a day has gotta help the league’s brick-laying big men to improve their paltry averages from the charity stripe, right?
Who knows? If Wilt Chamberlain had had an opportunity like this during his Hall of Fame days, he might have ended up somewhere north of his 51.1% FT career average. And as strategies go, the hack-a-Shaq (Shaq’s career FT average: 52.7%) might never have seen the light of day. So c’mon guys – get out there and practice in yer driveways. We fans are waiting – and watching. And expecting big improvements.
Sometimes you just need a Pure Humor Sunday.
Today, that’s what you get.
Yer welcome.
First, the Emotion Decoder for all you good folk wearing masks.
Next, the perfect pun for all you egg-loving Francophiles.
Last but not least, a hilarious music teacher quarantine video, here.
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Bonus fuzzy cuteness.
