Pocket lint color test

There's a test for everything, it looks like.

45% Yankee

I took this test to determine my regionalistic tendencies, but it only differentiates between Yankee and Dixie: http://www.chuckchamblee.com/dom/fun/yankee_dixie_quiz.htm

It was fun but there should be categories for midwest, southwest, Great Lakes, etc. One of the questions does, in fact, have an answer which says "Very common in Michigan".

45% (Yankee). Barely into the Yankee category.

Finished the book....

I finished The Devil in the White City last night. It was a good read; the story (stories, really) are well told and certainly hold the reader's interests. But.

There's always a 'but', isn't there?

The book is written in a more disjointed manner than I had hoped. When I read the blurb on the back it seemed as though the two men's stories were more deeply intertwined than they were. It begins by alternating chapters; first involving the 1893 Columbian World's Fair and it's planning, surrounding the chief planner and architect, Daniel Burnham, then the story of Herman Mudgett, alias H.H. Holmes, a doctor (who graduated from the U of Michigan Medical School, btw) who moved to Chicago to take advantage of the World's Fair and the innocent people, mostly young and single women, who flocked to Chicago. I had expected that Holmes' and Burnham's paths would have directly crossed or one would have somehow influenced the other's life. But this wasn't the case. Larson, the author, admits that they likely never met since they didn't travel in the same social circles.

Larson could have written two seperate books, I think, with much better results. The 1893 Columbian Exposition was an amazing feat of engineering and human drive. The desire of the United States in general, and Chicago in particular, to outdo the International Exhibition of Paris of 1889 was plain and simple. The Eiffel Tower was a marvel of the show and was what everyone spoke of. The desire to "out-Eiffel Eiffel" was stated many times in the book. The tales told of the drive to get the Fair to Chicago, the desire of Burnham to make this the grandest fair ever seen -- to the point of hiring the finest architects in the world, including Charles McKim, Louis Sullivan, and Frederick Law Olmstead, the trials and tribulations of building The White City, so named because all of the important buildings were painted white and to differentiate it from the rest of Chicago, dirty from the coal smoke and the "progress of industry", called "The Black City", in time for the Fair to open, are more than enough to provide a fascinating read on their own.

Likewise, the story of H.H. Holmes (née Herman Mudgett) was a fascinating one all by itself. Holmes was a man born in New England in 1861 and the archetype, or nearly so, of a predatory serial killer. He was a charming and personable gentleman, capable of wooing women with his guile and lies, and making men hate him because of that. He settled in Chicago, near Jackson Park, where the Fair would eventually be built. Through a web of lies, manipulation, and murder, he was able to build a structure which was a hotel to some and a chamber of death to others. That Holmes was able to go on for so long doing the things he was doing without raising the curiousity of the Chicago Police or causing the loved ones of the people who disappeared to suspect foul play any more than they did was amazing. It wasn't even an issue of the police thinking that something was wrong and not being able to figure out what was happening, as occurred a century later with Jeffrey Dahmer and the Green River Killer, it was total ignorance on their part. Holmes, in fact, was quite friendly with the police in the area. He got away with it for a long time before being arrested for insurance fraud. It is unknown how many he killed. At least nine, for sure but the true number is most likely much higher than that. One newspaper estimated it to be as much as 200 but this number is probably high. At any rate, it was more than enough to send him to the gallows.

Larson's writing ability is very engaging and he tells a good story. But I wish it had been done in two separate books, or at least two separate parts of the same book. Each part could have flowed more smoothly, but mentions of what was happening "on the other side" would have helped tie them together.

Did I enjoy the book? Absolutely. Would I read it again, knowing what I know now? Yeah, probably so. This book is unlike any he's written up until now. But I would certainly also give his other books a chance, if the subject matter were as interesting to me as this was. Here's a link to a listing of his books. But use caution, since Amazon lumps him in with Erik Larsen, illustrator and others.

No, really. I'm better now.

Yes... I had a little meltdown over the last week but I'm better now. Not totally OK -- not that I'll ever be that -- but I'm better.

And... just for the record: St. Valentine was a martyr of whom little is known. The most famous thing to happen on Valentine's Day is the Massacre in 1929.

Happy artificial Hallmark Holidays.

What dreams may come.

When I was little, I used to have a recurring "daymare". In it, I would be sliding down the bannister of a grand staircase. It was amazingly long and I would fly down it often. But suddenly, the bannister would turn into a knife edge razor. It wouldn't cut me in half, per se, but it would torment me as I slid down. You'd think I could have avoided this torment by not thinking about it. But you'd be wrong. I couldn't stop myself from thinking about it and obsessing about it. Sometimes I would have the first part of the dream without the second. Other times I'd have the whole thing. It didn't seem like there was a pattern to what happened when.

In my adult life I have similar things happen. When something negative happens to me, I obsess about it. I go over in my mind all of the negative outcomes. Everything that can go bad, does. Even when there are good aspects, the bad and negative outweigh them. I feel like Chris Farley in Tommy Boy, where he's getting discouraged at not being able to sell brake pads to anyone because he sabotages his ability to do so.

If you haven't seen the movie, you should. It was Chris Farley at his best. But here's the relevent dialogue. The setting is in a truck stop restaurant where Tommy and Richard (played by David Spade) are trying to get something to eat but are being put off by Helen, the waitress:

Tommy: Hey, What's your name?
Waitress: Helen.
Tommy: That's nice, you look like a Helen. Helen, were both in sales. Let me tell you why I suck as a sales man. Let's say I go into some guys office and let's say hes even remotely interested in buying something. Well then I get all excited I'm like Jojo the idiot circus boy with a pretty new pet. The pet is my possible sale. Oh , my pretty little pet, I love you. So I stoke it, and I pet it, and I massage it, hehe I love it, I love my little naughty pet, your naughty. Then I take my naughty pet and I go ( makes ripping noises as he tears apart the roll) Uuuuuuh. I killed it. I killed my sale. That's when I blow it. That's when people like us gotta forge ahead Helen, am I right?
Helen: God you're sick."

Yeah... that's me. Jojo the idiot circus boy.

Sometimes you get a fortune that's just appropriate.

To achieve a great goal, one must bring along duct tape. Add a fortune to your website or blog, click here.

Why Judy Why? words and music by Billy Joel

It ain't about Judy.


Why Judy Why
Of all the people in the world that I know
You're the best place to go
When I cry, when I cry

I never asked for much before, not before
Things are changed; I need more
Tell me why, Judy, why?

I never thought that she would say
Say goodbye; but she did
And now I wanna die. I wanna die

I never thought that I would need, need a friend
But I did, in the end
Tell me why, Judy, why

Oh, what a scene
It's wrong for her to hang me up this way
Oh, where you been?
'Cause it's so hard to make it through the day

A man my age is very young, so I'm told
Why do I feel so old?
Tell me why, Judy, why?
Oh, what a scene
It's wrong for her to hang me up this way
Oh, where you been?
'Cause it's so hard to make it through the day

There's no tomorrow 'cause my dreams did not last
So I live in the past
Tell me why, Judy, why?

Finished The Victors

I finished The Victors last night.

While it was a good read, it was a book I could have probably skipped without missing out much on Ambrose's quality. There are a lot of passages lifted from other books he's written. Notably Citizen Soldiers, Band of Brothers, and D-Day: June 6, 1944. I wasn't upset about it; it's something that he admits in the book. And there's never anything wrong with rereading the extraordinary exploits of these incredible soldiers from all of the services on both sides of the battle. If I didn't like reading it I would have stopped. I would have probably said even less than I just did about the repetition were it not that I have read all three of the above books in the recent past.

If I were trying to give someone a flavor for Stephen Ambrose and provide a well-written and fairly well-balanced account from the soldier's side as well as the general's of the war in Europe from early 1944 through the end, this would be the book I'd recommend. I still recommend it for Ambrose's discussions of Eisenhower's thinking and decision-making process. He was Ike's biographer and privvy to his writings during and after the war. There aren't many who knew General Eisenhower as well and intimately as Ambrose.

The next book on the list is The Devil in the White City. This is a novel which intertwines the story of the 1893 World's Fair in Chicago and its architect, Daniel H. Burnham, with H.H. Holmes who was one of the first true serial killers. Holmes murdered between 27 and 200 people in and around Chicago during this time by posing as a doctor and operating The World's Fair Hotel, complete with crematorium and gas chamber, near the fairgrounds and employing his charm and disguise to lure his victims to their ultimate deaths.

First boogers, now pocket lint....

What's the world coming to?

Welcome to Vicki, owner of the new blog "Lint From My Pocket".

May your lint be plentiful and colorful. :)

Comics provide some of the most insightful thoughts.

If you don't read the strip Big Top by Rob Harrell, you should.
Today's strip was funny and provided me with some memories as well as being thought provoking.

In it, Kingston the Lion is taking Pete, a 10 year old boy who's growing up in the circus, to get some clothes. He asks the sales person if they have any Toughskins jeans. For those who don't know, Sears Toughskins were almost a rite of passage in the 1970s. They were probably the only article of clothing which would have been acceptable wear to attempt to survive an atomic weapon. I wore them a lot during my formative years. In "husky" size, please.

Anyway, the salesman sticks his nose up and informs Kingston that they don't carry those and why would he want them, anyway? Kingston replies that Pete wears the knees of his jeans out really fast because he's always outside running and jumping and climbing. Kingston asks the salesman what he might suggest as an alternative, to which the salesman replies "Ritalin".

It occurred to me as I was reading this strip that I didn't even know if Toughskins were sold any more. Not surprising, since I've graduated on to more grownup clothes now. (Besides, they don't make Toughskins in my size, even "superduper husky". A perusal of the Sears website shows me that they sadly are not making them any more. In fact, the only reference to them appears to be the title of a Rodney Carrington CD, "Growing Up Poor - Toughskins Jeans".

I got to thinking about why they don't sell them anymore. Is it because they're out of fashion? Is it because there are other similar and more affordable brands (which would be surprising, since they seemed to be worn typically by the poor kids)? Then the comic itself provided a tragic possibility: That today's children are so medicated with Ritalin and other similar drugs that they no longer wear the knees of their pants out by climbing around. Isn't that both sad and frightening? Did you know that Ritalin is identified by the DEA as a drug with a high abuse potential?

The first APA Diagnostic and Statistical Manual (DSM-I), published in 1957, contained no mention of anything like attention deficit disorder. It was included in the DSM-III, published in 1980, for the first time in anything like its present form. I don't argue with the fact that there are disorders out there which cause attention deficit. For those people, I think that medication may be a possible solution. But I think there are a lot fewer people (read 'children') who suffer from this who are popping pills daily. Children are interesting creatures; they are the perfect prototypes for scientists. When they encounter something that interests them whether for the first time or the hundreth time, they devote their attention to it. If that thing is outside and is more interesting than what the teacher at the front of the room is saying, guess where they're going to be looking? That's not attention deficit, that's attention priority.

Today's society is filled with more two-income families. There is little time for children to be children. Mom and dad are busy shuttling them between daycare, then to soccer practice, then to karate, then to violin lessons, then to whatever is next. They have nothing but structure in their lives. This is the antithesis of what being a child is about. They do these things because they are told to do them by their parents. And don't fool yourself: A parent saying "Do you want to take soccer or basketball or karate?" isn't a choice. The child will do something, whether they want to or not. If little Timmy says, "I don't want to do any of those things. I want to just play with my friends outside." that is not an acceptable alternative. Timmy can't play with his friends outside because all of his friends are taking violin lessons or playing soccer or basketball. Timmy's parents have something to prove to all of the other parents in the subdivision: That Timmy is a better or more active or smarter kid than any other.

My mom was a stay-at-home mom. She was there when we left for school -- for that matter, so was dad. He was a salesman who made his own schedule -- and she was there when we got home from school. No shuttling anywhere for us. I was asked if I wanted to try things out: Basketball at the elementary school. Cub scouts. Methodist Youth Fellowship. I gave them a try. I didn't stick with any of them except for MYF. That was fun. But there was no ultimatum given me when I didn't like it. There was no pressure on my parents to keep up with anyone or prove their kid was better or more active than anyone else's.

I was a lucky kid. I grew up in the country. Well, it was the country when I was growing up in it. There's a Walmart in town now. What was the country is a bedroom community now. But growing up in the country was a good deal. There was plenty of open space and plenty of room to do as I pleased. There weren't many kids around who were my age so I didn't have a whole lot of friends. But that wasn't a bad thing. I read -- a lot. I played outside. I did have a few friends nearby who would come over and we'd do all sorts of things that were fun. And we wore the knees out of our Toughskins.

Big Top is a really good comic and it has some really funny strips. But I had a hard time laughing about the message that today's strip sent. That's OK, though. It wasn't an offensive message or anything that's gonna make me want to write to the editor or anything. It was, in the end, a sad commentary on the way we treat our children today.

It's Heather's fault.

First, you should read Heather's Feb 4th blog entry.

Done? Good.
Pretty good, eh? Yeah. She's a smart one, that Heather.

Here's (most of) the email I sent her in response:

Feb 4, 2004
Very thoughtful entry yesterday.
Sometimes it's weird how similarly you and I think. I've had the same sorts of doubts for many years. You know I don't like the holidays, if not just for the lack-of-family issues but also for the crass overcommercialization of it all. There's little warmth to Christmas that isn't generated by advertising or retail sales or ulterior motives. I really hate that.

I don't necessarily subscribe to the standard Christian views about everything and I know that December 25 isn't really Jesus' birthday. But I think that the basic uncommercialized *ideal* of Christmas -- to be thankful for what you have and your family and friends -- is a sound idea. But it isn't going to be espoused genuinely by anyone who isn't looking for something to sell. I like giving presents. Let's have a day that's just "Present-Giving Day". Kind of Boxing Day-ish but not so close to Christmas. Make it in January. Middle of the month. On a Friday. Give the kiddies a day off from school. Give them all the presents they can break. But during the Christmas season, no advertising of sales is allowed. No sappy pleas by Sally Struthers that play on our capitalist guilt to come and give a starving African child a sandwich. On December 24, 25, and 26, all we do is celebrate each other and ourselves and any gods we may believe in. Churches are closed except for four hours on December 25. Apart from that, it's all got to come from within. No sports, no American Idol stars singing Christmas carols. Just families staying in and playing games and talking and laughing and maybe even crying. But it all comes from within.

Yes, I know I'm a cynical curmudgeon. But it'll still never happen because nearly 25% of this nation's economy is driven by two months in the winter. Carefully orchestrated and scheduled. Sally Struthers is waiting in her air-conditioned trailer in Kenya. Ruben Stoddard and Clay Aiken are standing in fake snow on a set in California. And Walmart is going to advertise yet another sale.

I think I'll go up north and find some deep snowy woods and stand in the middle of them and listen to the silence.