Mark A. Rayner's Blog: Mark A. Rayner's Goodreads Blog, page 81

Ask General Kang: Do you enjoy daylight savings time?

Yes, of course. There's nothing I enjoy more than having to reset my body's circadian rhythms because of your human delusion that you control things. Most of you can barely operate your own crude technologies properly (put up your hands if you know how to stop your PC from launching Outlook), so I love the farce that is daylight savings time.

Ooo, look at us humans, we're the masters of time and space. We can set the clock back. We can set it forward. We call the shots.

I haven't seen a species as delusional since I conquered the Do These Pants Make Me Look Fat Confederation. (And yes, they did, and easily overrun by a phalanx of orangutans with particle rifles and whiffle bats.) So yes, you humans are deluded. The sun doesn't change what it's doing. All that happens is you either lose or gain an hour of sleep. And neither are very good. At least when I travel the circadian reset has some purpose. (Sitting on a beach or ogling Parisian women, for example.)

My understanding is that daylight savings time saves us energy

Stupid human! Studies can show whatever they want. Its origins are a freakin' bug-collecting Kiwi, and, of course, some British twit who wanted to play golf longer into the evening. But energy use now is so distributed that it's impossible to make that claim.

Now I'm going to go have a nap. My cat was up at its usual time — an hour before I wake for my daily calisthenics and fresh fruit enema — so I may be a little cranky.

Next time: I'm currently travelling at very close to the speed of light — does that mean I don't have to set my clocks back?
Alltop and humor-blogs.com don't ever sleep. Originally published November, 2009.

Smoke 'em if you got 'em

Untitled, a photo by Foxtongue on Flickr.

This cocky little duo signifies that The Skwib will be re-running good stuff from the archives for the next few weeks, while I attempt, once again, to write 50,000 words during the month of November.

I have been successful once, but the fact that I'm already about 8,000 words on DAY 6 does not bode well.

If anyone else is engaging in the NaNoWriMo madness, and wants to be my writing buddy, I can be found on the site here.

Alltop quit smoking with cocks years ago.

Remember, Remember the Fifth of November

Thomas Cadwell watched as the children danced around the bonfire, singing:

A penny loaf to feed the Pope.

A farthing o' cheese to choke him.

A pint of beer to rinse it down.

A fagot of sticks to burn him.

He marked the fifth of November — as all in England did — though it was a strange kind of celebration. But he was old enough to actually remember the events they all sang about. He'd been in London when it happened; he had been just a boy, no more than five or six, visiting relatives for the opening of the parliament, and the celebrations that would accompany the long-awaited event.

Burn him in a tub of tar.

Burn him like a blazing star.

Back then England had been partly Catholic, even if there were no rights for them. Not anymore.

Burn his body from his head.

Then we'll say ol' Pope is dead.

Hip hip hoorah!

Hip hip hoorah!

His family couldn't get very close to the Houses of Parliament, because of the crowds. It ended up saving Thomas's life. The explosion had been spectacular: When the gunpowder went off, the House of Lords was reduced to rubble, killing King James and many nobles instantly. Everyone within 100 yards of the building was killed — the crowds outside, the Commons, all of the Lords — and the stained glass in Westminster Abbey shattered like the uneasy peace between Catholics and Protestants.

But the carnage was not over.

It came to light that the catastrophe was a Catholic conspiracy; the plotters tried to set Princess Elizabeth, James's eldest daughter, on the throne. But England was having none of it. Catholics were rooted out and slaughtered, though some were allowed to convert to the Church of England.

Thomas had been one of those. In 1605 he'd only been six — younger even than the new King, Henry — and the mob that hunted down his Catholic family showed him mercy.

But not his father or mother, his brother or sisters.

Remember, remember the fifth of November,

The gunpowder, treason and plot,

I see of no reason why gunpowder treason

Should ever be forgot.

He knew the children dancing around the flames could not remember what happened, so he was not angry with them for starting to sing the song again, dancing now with even more fervor. Since that day, Parliament had never met again, and the King's power in Great Britain was absolute.

A tear ran down his face, and Thomas looked away, as the children continued dancing, and singing as the flames licked the darkening sky.

A papist plot of great extent,

Blew up the King and the Parliament.

Three score barrels of powder below,

Poor old England to overthrow:

By God's providence they were catch'd

The Catholic treason was o'ermatched.

Holloa boys, holloa boys, make the bells ring.

Holloa boys, holloa boys, God save the King!

Hip hip hoorah!

Inspired by: The Gunpowder Plot | Bonfire pic by Dan Taylor. Originally published in 2006.

Ask General Kang: If a blogger blogs in the forest, and nobody is around to read it, does it exist?

I think what you're really asking is can something exist without being perceived. Of course, in this instance, you're forgetting that the person writing the blog — the blogger — will perceive the blog, so of course it exists.

This raises another question, though. If this fictional blogger — let's call him Mankor the Metaphysical — is in a forest that is outside of a net connection, so Mankor has no way of publishing the blog entries to the Internet, does it exist?

I suppose if Mankor just blogs for himself, then perhaps we can answer yes to this question, because for our sad hypothetical Mankor, the act of blogging is not so much about having an audience read it, as it is of actually writing something.

On the other hand, some may argue that blogging is in essence a kind of performance — more than any kind of writing is, really — in which case, we'd have to say "no" the blog does not exist in the wilderness. It requires an audience.

On another prehensile appendage (remember, I'm an uber-chimp, so feet count) Mankor the Metaphysical may be barking mad, and believe that he has an audience, even if he doesn't, in which case, he could well be performing his little heart out for his imaginary viewers.

On a final foot, let's say that I have dispatched a troop of Gorilloids (armed with broadswords and wearing Fezzes) to dispatch this pesky Mankor, so he won't be doing anything. Let alone blogging. And yes, if a blogger is hacked to pieces in a forest by a cadre of blade-wielding super-apes, there will be a sound.

It will be screaming. (And a fair amount of oo-ooo-ing from the Gorilloids.)

Next time: Did you have Theatre of Cruelty on your home world? Was it the good kind, or was it French?

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The six essentials every writer must have

According to the semi-famous writer, fake expert and shiller of Mac products, John Hodgman — not to be confused with John Hodgeman, inventor of alligator pants — there are six essentials that "every writer must have at his command."

empathy
the willingness to endure solitude
the belief the world cares about what you have to say
the ability to describe facial hair accurately
a large desk in a quiet room in which to chase your demons (preferably a circular room, so that the demons have no place to hide)
special stationary with pictures of typewriters and/or quills on top
and if you have purchased the audiobook version of his complete world knowledge, then you will know writers also require their own theme song.

John Hodgman, The Areas of My Expertise

Far be it for me to quibble with a writer of his vaunted semi-fame and success. (I hear he has his own high-speed zeppelin, and everything.)

As I have neither a zeppelin, nor a theme song, you may feel it presumptuous on my part to try and correct him in any way, but I feel he is wrong on two counts. In most respects, this is an excellent list, and though I desire a theme song, the lack of one has yet to prevent me from writing. When I have reached his level of success, I assume that a theme song will happen to me, as a matter of course.

On the subject of hackneyed stationary, complete with an image of a quill, typewriter, or any other kind of writing device (I hear J. D. Salinger had a chisel and mallet on his letterhead), this is completely absurd. We're living in a digital age. Nowadays, writers should have a website with an image of a quill, or typewriter. (Monkeys will do, but only if a significant portion of your writing is humorous in intent, if not actual fact.)

Hodgman's list is woefully inaccurate regarding the important subject of silly hats. This is de rigueur for every writer who has any aspiration of ever being successful. I suspect he left it off his list because of his extraordinarily large cranial circumference, which makes it difficult to fit a silly hat of any kind.

Though if he is still looking for one, I believe he would do well with a fez, or perhaps a bellhop hat. (Both can be perched easily on the swollen melon of a giant-headed writer.)

I would also add that the ability to count is irrelevant.

And yes, the gent pictured above is sporting a spectacular Partial Napoleon III Imperial, with Faux Friendly Chops (using the Dreickland swoop, of course). I knew you'd get it.

Alltop is still working on stubble. John Hodgman's site is here, and you will note: no images of typewriters. You can find a helpful Beard Type Chart here, and historical background on beards at the ubiquitous wiki link. And my apologies to all pogonophobiacs for this beard-filled post. Originally published October, 2010.

Indelicate lists: synonyms for "virgin"

Conventional

celibate
chaste
innocent
pure
vestal
virtuous

Negative definition

inhibited
nonsexual
repressed
unsexed
unused
unworked

Positive phrases

differently climaxed
eros free
fully flowered
penetration exempt
sex free

New constructions

absexual
buxoff
celibaste
fuxless
virgon.

Alltop is differently aggregated. Inspired by Comedy Bang Bang, episode 128, after the discussion of there being a need for other words for "virgin"

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The Halloween Feast of Madness Bird

Say what you will about Marge and Delia, but they served a mean turkey dinner.

Sure they might have been witches. Sure, they tended to use a little too much salt when they were cooking. (Probably from all the dehydrated eye of newt, which is very high in sodium, but they could never seem to find it fresh.) Sure, they had a questionable living arrangement, vis-à-vis men with pirate shirts and pumpkins for heads. (Who may or may not have been called Angus McGourd.)

Put their peyote stuffing (with pine nuts and dried) cranberries was delectable.

Alltop likes a little LSD in it's mashed potatoes. Disturbing photo via Twisted Vintage. Originally published October, 2010.

Jerry Seinfeld on Halloween

Alltop is made of the cheapest, grey aggregator on the web.

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Clown Apocalypse

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Fight Your Demons, a photo by Lissy Elle on Flickr.

Years later, the survivors discovered the Bozo Virus got its start at Escola de Clown de Girona, near the end its semester.

The "Esclowna" was a kind of university/prep school for the international clowning set. The buffoons-in-training lived in common dorm rooms, and shared everything, so the virus spread easily within the school. There it incubated. (The school was at least 30 kilometers from the nearest village in Spain.)

Everyone had flu-like symptoms, and then recovered, but of course, everyone at the school was a clown, or a clown-in-training. The other effects went unnoticed, until after they matriculated. (Everyone at the Esclowna later said it was the best graduation ever.)

After the school year was over, the faculty, staff and students went to their respective home countries, throughout the world, and began to perform as clowns: at birthday parties, in old folks homes, in circuses, on the street.

At first the virus was spread by contact. Then it mutated and became airborn. By the time authorities realized they had a pandemic on their hands, the virus had mutated again: you could catch it by even seeing a clown.

By then it was too late. Only the most extreme coulrophobes and the naturally immune were spared the ravages of the disease: first flu-like, then the outbreaks of Red Nose, Sad Face, Happy Face, and of course, the grotesque, frizzy, multi-colored Goofy Hair. The economy ground to a halt because of employee absences as the victims of the Bozo Virus spent their days making balloon animals, pulling down one another's pants, and stuffing too many of themselves into small vehicles. (Many of these victims suffocated, instead of suffering the fate of the rest.)

The infection rate was 99 percent, and except for a few cases where it was possible to restrain the victim, lethal. The Bozo Virus was a cruel task-master. The infected could think of nothing else but clowning. Every moment they were conscious, they spent coming up with routines, acts, and "bits". They didn't eat. They didn't drink. They only slept when their bodies ran out of energy. Eventually, they succumbed to the diesease, and no amount of horn honking could rouse them.

The survivors all later agreed it was a tragedy. Hilarious, but a tragedy.

Alltop was one of the coulrophobes who survived.

The worst toilet in Switzerland

Having recently watched Trainspotting, I was struck by how funny (and then disgusting) the "worst toilet in Scotland" scene was. So, that toilet wins for nasty. I think we have to give the prize for frightening to this toilet hanging over a precipice in the Swiss Alps.

Imagine having to sit in this port-loo during the middle of a wind storm. (And not just the terrifying buffets on the structure itself — there is a serious hygienic risk from untoward gusts blowing from below, if you get my drift.)

Now, what the photo doesn't show very well is the dangers of approaching the summit from this face of the mountain. In addition to bad weather, avalanches and deranged goats, this approach has the added danger of being sluiced on by exhausted climbers who've made it to the bivvy above.

Alltop loves to go a-wandering along the mountain trail. This photo is by extra-minty. Originally published November, 2009.